#you are so brave for taking a debate course

[luveline]

Pls reader who’s always wanted a baby but is too scared to ask hotch to have one with her — he’s his usual understanding self and also whipped and nearly cries cos he gets all emotional?

—you and Aaron misunderstand one another. fem, 2k

You debate yourself for weeks, on and off, alone or with company, and aided by the internet. 

Is it okay to want a baby when you have a step kid? Does really wanting a baby mean I don’t like the first one? Your search engine spits out forums and web articles alike that say the same things —of course it’s okay. Wanting another kid doesn’t mean you don’t love your first; craving to be a mom to a baby doesn’t mean you don’t love Jack, even though he had his own mom when he was a youngster. 

You read a little about it. Books recommended by the articles, and stories from women who became step-moms to children with mothers who had heartbreakingly passed away. It’s a guilty thing to be the mom or stepmom to a child who’s natural mom has died. You might always feel cruel for stealing her moments, for loving her ex husband, and raising her baby. But Jack isn't just someone’s baby, he’s Jack, and you don’t think you could’ve helped yourself. You would’ve loved him no matter what. 

Once you’ve worked past two different types of guilt, you’re crushed by your reality. Jack is nearly nine years old. Your husband isn’t exactly spry. Like, there’s nothing wrong with him (besides a stomach full of scar tissue and partial deafness in one ear), but he’s not a spring chicken, either, and he seems content with your life. In what world would he want to change diapers again? 

The same world where he gets to kiss a little cheek, you think hopefully. Where you get to make it together. Maybe… he loves you enough to try, even if it’s not something he’s pictured. 

You settle, and you decide to be brave. You’ll ask Aaron to have a baby with you, and you won’t feel guilty. 

You realise you can’t face the answer, is all. If he says no it’s gonna break your heart. If you never ask you’ll never get one, unless it’s an accident, and that’s not a good idea, either, you’d never purposefully want a baby to find out later on that the dad doesn’t want them, even if you’d be enough. You know you’d be a good mom, and that you could deal with things alone. There’s an avenue you could take where you have your baby no matter what, it’s your life. 

If only you didn’t love Aaron as much as you do. The idea of being without him is a horror you don’t want to contend with. 

Aaron can sense your constant mental back-and-forth, though he hasn’t guessed what it’s about yet. If you give him time he might get there on his own. He watches you thinking and he wraps a hand around your leg. Weird thing to do, but he’s not normal. He’s a gentleman mostly. Rare moments like this betray his character, how he loves you, pulling your leg toward him and hugging it to his chest despite a strange angle.

“Honey,” he begins softly. 

“Not tonight, I have a headache.” 

“That’s not funny,” he says, smiling, “you know you don’t have to say anything else besides no.” 

“Can’t imagine being with someone who needs a reason,” you say, softly as he had as you lay back against a minky cushion, “‘m lucky my love’s such a gentleman.” 

“You can’t deflect all night.” 

“I was only kidding. Take my pants off and we’ll–” You gasp a laugh as he squeezes your thigh. “Shit, don’t do that!” 

“You don’t have to be so crass about everything,” he says, joking. And people would tell you he has no sense of humour. “I’m trying to ask if you’re okay. I know you’re dodging the question, but I was gonna persuade you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, letting your knees tip apart, punished by another awful squeeze. 

“Honey.” He kisses your knee. Your heart is pressed on from all sides. “I just want to know what’s upsetting you lately. I can tell it’s important, but I can’t work out what it is.” 

“It’s not. Not important, I mean.” 

“I’ve been putting my mind to it. There aren’t many things that could take up this much of your attention. I worried you might’ve been chafing with Jack, but you’re as sweet on him as usual. I worried you might be having second thoughts about us, but you’re not. You’re too careful with your wedding ring to have me think you don’t love me, and–” He rubs at your leg. “You’re as tactile as ever. You aren’t drawing away from us. I don’t want to think about it, but I’m worried you’re sick or something similar and you aren’t telling me.” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you say, startling you both, “please don’t worry, I’m not sick.“ 

“You’re alright?” he asks. 

“I’m about as healthy as I usually am.” 

“But?” 

You can’t not tell him. You’re married. He loves you. While you’ve driven yourself crazy wondering how much, he’s been worrying you’re poorly. It’s unfair, and you can’t do it much longer. 

“I have been thinking about something for a while,” you confess. 

“And a lot.” 

“Yeah. I think about it every day.” 

Aaron turns your face to his. You’d have to change positions to kiss, your leg firmly locked in his grasp. He doesn’t lean in, holding your eye with a seriousness rarely given at home. He looks as though he’s had a long day. “I can’t think of anything you could say to me that I wouldn’t still love you by the end,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not about love.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Because there are things we won’t agree on.” 

“I can’t agree if you don’t tell me what you’re thinking,” he says. 

“I know. I’m not not telling you because you aren’t allowed to disagree with me, I’m just scared.” 

“Scared?” he asks, frowning now, that square wrinkle at his brow deeply carved. 

You have to build yourself up for a long time before you can say what you want to say out loud. He waits in the quiet, his expression impossible to read. 

“You know how much I love Jack.” 

Aaron’s hands are still on your leg. “Of course.”

“And how much I love you.” 

His lips part, but he doesn’t speak. There’s a dawning understanding on his face as he stops touching you, his hands falling to his lap resoundingly. “What’s going on?” he asks. 

You aren’t encouraged by his response. 

He doesn’t want a baby. Saying it is admitting to a difference between you both, one that might make him angry. You’ve never had him angry with you.

Usually, if he noticed your flicker of fear, he’d have rushed to correct it, but Aaron does nothing now. He simply waits. 

“I wanted to ask you to have a baby with me,” you say quietly, watching him for an emotion and finding him with a blankness he’s practised over years. You’ve no hope of discerning him. “But I don’t think you’ll say yes. I’m sorry. I just want it.” 

He swallows roughly. “Oh.” 

“I know it’s not something we’ve talked about much.” 

His hands return. His fingers slip up your calf until it’s trapped in the hinge of your knee, pulling your thigh to his chest. Hip to hip as you are, you’d think it would be uncomfortable, but he’s gentle. He leans down to rest his cheek against your knee. For a moment, you’re his to look at, squirming with nerves and depressed to have disappointed him. You fight the urge to run. 

“For a second I thought you were about to tell me you’d cheated on me,” he says under his breath. 

You startle. “What?” 

“You looked so sorry, my mind went straight to the worst. You looked like you knew you were about to hurt me.” 

His sincerity is aching. 

“I could never do that.”

“I know, I’m sorry for entertaining it…” He picks up his head. “I never thought you’d be scared to talk to me about anything. It was the only thing I could think of that you might’ve done wrong.” 

“I thought you were angry about the baby.” 

“Is there… a baby?” he asks tentatively. 

“No.” You rub the painful throb between your eyes. “No, there isn’t a baby. I just meant you’d be angry at me for asking. Disrupting our life.” 

“You think you’re disrupting us by expressing what you want?” 

“It’s a big thing.” 

“Can I put you out of your misery?” He turns to take your face into his hand. “I would never be angry with you for wanting something, especially a baby. And I can tell how much this has worried you, so while I can’t promise the answer is uncomplicated, I’m happy to say yes to you. If you want a baby and you want that with me, of course I’ll say yes.” 

“Jack–”

“Honey, you’re thinking too much about Jack. Children have siblings. It doesn’t mean you don’t love them. Is that why you brought him up first?” 

You look away, ashamed to be read. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t know everything.” 

“Honey, I don’t.” 

Your smile is unbidden and somehow deeply felt at the same time, chancing a happy look at him. He’s smiling too. “You’re serious? You’d have a baby with me?” 

He turns into you even more, raising his remaining hand to your opposite cheek, holding you sweetly, putting you nose to nose. “I wish you’d asked me before you worried yourself sick. I would love to have a baby with you, sweetheart. I didn’t realise it was something you wanted already.” 

“I want it with you,” you say, matching his low tone. 

“And I want it with you. How couldn’t I?” 

You fight the sudden heat of tears, your heart pounding in your ears. ”I figured Jack is growing up, you’re so busy, and things have only now calmed down–” 

“Who cares?” he asks, laughing. 

“I thought you might.” 

“I’m sure I will, but not right now. You want a baby?” He gives your head the gentlest squeeze between his hands. “Sweetheart. You want to have a baby?” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“Then let’s have a baby.” Aaron’s shaking his head, pulling you in, his lips glancing off of your cheek as he hugs you tighter than he ever has. You lose all the breath in your lungs. 

“Don’t hurt me,” you tease, relaxing for the first time in weeks in his arms, “or I won’t be able to have one.” 

“I could never hurt you like that,” he says easily. “Oh, sweetheart.” He says your name. He says it again. 

All that fuss for nothing. You confess on a high, “I want one so bad I don’t know what to do with myself half the time, I– I went to the mall a few days ago to look at the baby stuff, just to look, and I wanted to ask you when I got home but I lost my nerve.” 

“You did?” 

“Yeah, I even picked up this little babygrow with flowers on the feet but–” You fluster at the memory. “Sorry, that’s so weird.” 

“It’s not weird.” He encourages you away with another rough swallow and scares you half to death —if he cries, you’re gonna sob. His eyes are definitely glassy. “We should go, you can show me.” 

“Really?” 

“We have to start preparing at some point, right?” 

You climb onto your knees and vault on top of him, arms around his neck, no chance he can get away. He takes it like a champ, returning your ecstatic laughter with a more content chuckle, a big hand spreading out protectively over your shoulder.

A baby, you think, unaware that Aaron’s thinking the exact same thing, with the same reverent warmth growing in his chest. A baby. 

[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.

[jadeshifting]

★⋆. — HOGWARTS ELECTIVE CLASSES TO SCRIPT

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED ARTIFACTS

ever wanted to know how cursed rings, bewitched mirrors, and sentient diaries work? this course teaches you how to identify, dismantle, and (if you’re brave) create magical relics—you never know when you’ll need an enchanted necklace or a vanishing cabinet, i suppose

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FASHION HISTORY

from the enchanted silks of the 1500s to robes that literally spark joy (or flames) in the 1900s, this elective dives into the who, what, and why tho of wizarding couture. you’ll learn how clothing reflected magical politics (hello, anti-Muggle fabrics), the most popular clothing charms over the centuries, and why Merlin’s pointy hat was such a massive deal at the time

𓆩♡𓆪 — CURSE REVERSAL

sometimes, magic backfires—this class teaches you how to undo everything from jinxed cauldrons to full-on blood curses. it’s half science, half art, and fully life-saving

𓆩♡𓆪 — HEALING

for the bleeding hearts (and bloody injuries). this elective teaches advanced healing charms, restorative potions, and how to fix the most catastrophic accidents without having to Floo to St. Mungo’s. class is split 50/50 between the healers of the next generation, and mischief makers that are so unhinged they have to heal themselves. this class sees all the good, the bad and the ugly

𓆩♡𓆪 — DRAGON STUDIES

learn all about the physicality, variety, and history of these dynamically unique creatures, and perhaps learn how to not get torched while studying them along the way. the course includes field trips (waivers from home and insurance spells VERY much required)

𓆩♡𓆪 — CHARMED CULINARY ARTS

enchanted cooking utensils will be your best friend as you navigate this course, learning to do everything in the kitchen from baking bread that sings to brewing drinks that bubble with magic. (house elves are assistants in this class, and you can always convince them to slip you an extra treat or two)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ADVANCED DIVINATION

tea leaves and crystal balls don’t even begin to scratch the surface of everything divination has to offer—if you’re a believer, and grounded enough to put up with the kooky professor. this course dives into obscure methods of divining the future: dream walking, cloud reading, rune casting, and much more. perfect for the more spiritually inclined students (or those who just enjoy the professor’s cryptic drama)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL FORESICS

got a Sherlock streak, or always wondered how the aurors do it? learn how to dissect magical crime scenes, trace hex signatures, and untangle the threads of a cursed crime

𓆩♡𓆪 — MINISTRY POLITICS & MAGICAL LAW

in this course that’s absolutely not for the academically faint, you’ll find yourself taking part in debates more than any other course. debate the ethics of using Veritaserum in court, or why house-elf labor laws are a mess. these students are likely future members of the Wizengamot

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED HOMEKEEPING

from self-sweeping brooms to magical security systems, think Martha Stewart meets The Standard Book of Spells. this course covers everything you need to know about using magic to run the most efficient household ever (you get a headache when you think about how Muggles do all of this without magic)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ALCHEMY: THE ART OF TRANSFORMARION

arguably the ultimate nerdy class—i’ve yet to meet a single person who wanted to handle the theories and coursework of this class. learn the secrets of transmutation, potion refinement, and (the whole thing’s pretty mysterious) all about the quest for immortality

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL CREATION THEORY

an elective created as the direct remedy for students making overeager and academically misguided attempts to make their own spells (some spells don’t exist for a reason, Fred and George.) learn the theory of how to craft spells from scratch and fine-tune them to your exact needs—perfect for the creatively chaotic. though, of course, you don’t actually make spells in class (that’s a direct ticket to St. Mungo’s)

𓆩♡𓆪 — THEORY & ETHICS OF NECROMANCY

strictly theoretical, of course (for legal reasons), this class dives into the magical theory of spirits’ existence, resurrection spells, and the history of necromancy. it also manages to cram most of one of the longest-standing debates in magical history into a year-long course (we can raise the dead, but should we? HM, i wonder)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLESS MAGIC

if you’re someone who thinks ‘why bother with a wand when you are the magic?’ this course is for you—it trains you in wandless spellcasting, so you can cast even when you’ve “misplaced” your primary weapon

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FOLKLORE

from ghostly greenhouses to the allegedly haunted halls of Hogwarts, from ancient fairy tales to horror stories that keep even the bravest wizards awake at night, this course covers all of the folklore and tall tales from centuries of wizarding history and storytelling

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED CARTOGRAPHY

i’m sure you already know that making an enchanted map is a skill that never goes out of style (cough, Marauder’s.) in this course, learn to create enchanted maps that move, update themselves, and accurately portray secret rooms and passageways (though they might not cover the more mischievous aspects in the course, i’m sure you can figure those out on your own time)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL ETHICS & PHILOSOPHY

all the way from time turners and truth serums to love potions and dementors, this course holds a magnifying glass to all the moral dilemmas of using magic in gray areas—just because you can hex someone doesn’t mean you should, and if you need a love potion, maybe you should reexamine some things first

𓆩♡𓆪 — QUIDDITCH ANALYTICS

a course all about the stats, spells, and tactics behind the wizarding worlds’ favorite sport. think of it as sabermetrics, but with broomsticks. students are an even split of quidditch players, and those who love quidditch without wanting to zoom hundreds of feet above the ground (understandable)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLORE & CRAFTING

take your first step towards becoming the next Ollivander by studying wand woods, cores, and how to match them with their perfect witch or wizard. careful, your own wand might be open to more scrutiny than you’re accustomed to. warning: NOT a class for people with butterfingers

𓆩♡𓆪 — MOVING PHOTOGRAPHY

learn how to properly snap a good photo and develop moving pictures, charm them with special effects, and create photo albums that are magically cohesive enough to tell their own stories. with moving photos holding entire memories, someone always needs a good magical photographer

𓆩♡𓆪 — GRIMOIRE WRITING & SPELL JOURNALING

every great wizard of the past and present had a grimoire to keep track of their endless magical escapades. learn how to create your own spellbooks, safely document your findings, and make them impossible for dark wizards (or just nosy siblings) to read

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL LINGUISTICS

communication is key, whether it’s haggling with goblins, charming house-elves, or negotiating with dragons. this course helps you break through the language barrier—literally—to the entire wizarding world and all its species

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL JOURNALISM

for aspiring Rita Skeeters (hopefully no one, let’s make it ethical), this course covers investigative reporting, spell-resistant quills, following the honor code of interviewing and writing, and even some tips on how to charm the Daily Prophet editors with your work and score a job in the journalism field. NO Quick-Quotes Quills allowed, ever !!

𓆩♡𓆪 — TIME MANIPULATION THEORY

absolutely no time-turners allowed, despite learning all about them. learn the ethical and practical implications of bending time, including nearly every historical horror story of witches and wizards who got a little spin-happy with the power. (does the course only exist as a big fat warning for the students who are granted use of a time turner? we’ll never know—but yes, probably)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUSIC & ENCHANTED COMPOSITION

a course taken by many of the choir members, which allows you to delve deep into the magic behind musical spells, how to ethically enchant instruments for killer performances, and both writing and performing magical compositions. don’t mind the frogs in class, they’re brushing up on their technique, too

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL COMBAT TACTICS

this course covers a mix of strategic dueling with battlefield planning, as it covers pretty much every notable magical duel and battle in history. perfect for those angling to join the Aurors, or those who are just looking to win every wizarding duel

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING THEATER

this course involves combining drama with charms to bring stories literally to life on stage. props are enchanted and can interact with the actors, the weather matches each set, and actors might just float mid-scene. students can sharpen their acting and set enchantment skills to hopefully be on one of the great wizarding stages one day (or working behind the scenes of one)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUGGLE STUDIES: ADVANCED INTEGRATION

forget the “what’s a toaster?” training-wheels shit—this course is about truly blending wizarding ingenuity with Muggle innovation. a popular course among muggleborn students, who have the opportunity to actually use their heritage in their favor to explore a whole world of social and magical possibilities

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[iamgonnagetyouback]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀────۶ৎ fever check

synopsis: remus keeps failing to hold your hand, and peter’s had enough. with a little scheming (and a fake fever check), you finally end up hand-in-hand with a very flustered remus content warnings: lots of fluff, meddling marauders (classic scheming), excessive pining, peter being the ultimate wingman, slight hand-holding-induced cardiac arrest (from remus, obviously) author's note: and the award for the best wingman goes to.....

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 515

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?”

© iamgonnagetyouback ⋆.˚ please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work.

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

the first kiss - jamie tartt x kent!reader

summary; your first kiss with jamie tartt + some light angst at the beginning

a/n: takes place in the worlds worst brother universe - i'm kind of obsessed with tartt x kent!reader

"C'mon love," Jamie said, leaning against the doorframe of Roy's office, eyes on you like nothing else has ever mattered to him. "One little date never hurt anyone."

You laugh. "Oh yeah? You sure? If Roy found out I'm sure someone would end up hurt."

Jamie sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, bobbing his head softly from side to side as if he was debating his chances. "Seems worth the risk."

"You've asked me out everytime I've seen you for months, and I give you the same answer every time." Your arms are crossed in front of you, holding your jacket close to you, and Jamie still has that twinkle in his eye, undeterred by your rejection. "What makes you so persistent, hmm?"

"I just feel this charge between us, don't you?" He pushed off the doorframe, coming closer to you, smirking when he hears your breath hitch slightly, catching in your throat. You did feel it, of course you did, you weren't mad. You could see how fit Jamie was, how charming and boyish he was. And the way he looked at you made you feel so weak, you knew your resolve could only hold out for so long. When you look away, Jamie braves the space, and pushes a small piece of hair behind your ear, smile softly when a pink tint flushes across your cheeks. "There's something here, love, I just can't get you out of my head."

"If things were different..." you whispered, eye downcast, unable to keep your eye on Jamie now that he was closer. So close that it wouldn't be hard to close the distance and be in his arms. "If things were different I'd already be yours," your voice was sad, distant.

Jamie's smile dropped, eyebrows scrunched together. He wanted to reach out. To promise you the world, to take all your insecurity away. But before he had the chance, a grunt from the door grabbed both your attention.

"Fuck's this?" Roy asked, looking between the two of you quickly. "Why's she upset? Fuck did you do!?"

"I didn't do anything!"

"Roy, stop it. It's just been a rough day, okay? Jamie was trying to help."

Roy grunts again, stepping between the two of you with ease, and puts both his hands on your arms, as if trying to find the problem. "I've got it then, we'll go to lunch, all right? C'mon," Roy said, grabbing your jacket out of your hands and helping you into it.

You follow Roy out of the office without looking back.

But Jamie just can't seem to let it roll off his back this time. It didn't feel like playful flirting anymore. You felt it too. You wanted him too, you were just scared. He took a seat on the bench by his locker, putting his head in his hands, deep in thought.

He had two choices really, he had to either make something happen, he had to fight for you properly and make you see there was a way to try. Or he had to let you go, because this wasn't fun for you, it was hurting you. And he couldn't do that to you.

Both choices were fucking terrifying.

"You've lost your mind," a familiar voice said, and when Jamie looked up, Keeley was there, hand on her hip with a finger pointed at him. "You can't really be thinking about chasing Roy's little sister."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"She's my friend," Keeley said, "and whenever you're brought up she gets all wistful and forlorn."

"Wistful and forlorn? What kinda books you been readin' lately?"

"Don't change the subject," Keeley kept her stance firm, arms crossing over her chest. "She's a good girl, she's kind, she's not the kind of girl you can just mess around with and expect her to be find if you leave."

"It's not, ugh!" Jaime runs his hand through his hair, messing up his headband, he throws it to the ground. "It's not like tha'! It's like, she's all I can think about, ever. When she comes into the room it's like nothing else in there even fucking matters anymore, and then when she leaves the room it's like, it's like the room ain't even worth being in anymore."

"Oh shit," she muses, half grinning. "Okay, that's a side of you I've never seen."

"If she wasn't Roy's sister she'd already be mine, that's what she said."

"Listen, if I tell you something, you can never tell her or Roy that I let this slip to you, okay?" Jamie nodded eagerly, quiet as a mouse. Keeley sighed, "She thinks it's a game to you. Thinks you want her because it would piss off Roy, that's why she won't go out with you. That girl is as hopeless as you are." Keeley smiles softly, and says, "so you just gotta tell her that it's not about that." She ruffles his hair, and whispers, "but if this is a game and you hurt that girl I will fuckin' ruin you."

Jamie was parked a couple houses down from yours.

He wasn't even totally sure how he got here. He was just being selfish. There was no way he could let you go. So he had to find a way for you to let him in.

Just one chance, and he would do everything under the sun to prove himself worthy of you. You'd been the only thing on his mind for months now, he hasn't given anyone else a second look, even though they'd tried.

He knocked a couple times, then hid his hands in the pocket on his hoodie, rocking back on the balls of his feet uncomfortably. It had been a while since he felt this nervous approaching a girl, usually he was confident about it, but something about this time felt final. Like it was his last chance or something.

When you opened the door, it took his breath away. You were in a matching pyjama set, hair damp from the shower, falling around your shoulders, and there was a light flush on your cheeks. Fuck, you were so beautiful.

"Jamie?" you asked, eyebrows scrunched up, "what're you doing here?"

"I just came to, uh," he stuttered, cursing himself for not thinking about what he wanted to say. "I came to ask you on a date."

"You already asked me on a date today, isn't there some kind of limit on that?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed.

He smiled shyly, looking at the cement step below him, trying to pull it together. "I know," he sighs, "I know I did but this time it's uh, it's different. This time I'm trying to be serious," he thinks for a second, "I don't want you because I can't have you, does that make sense? Not because I want to piss Roy off, or because you're some forbidden fruit or something. I want you because you're funny, and you're the smartest person I know, and jesus, you are so beautiful, it's all I can think about when you're in the room. And that one time you had to wear my jersey at our match because you spilled something on your shirt and Keeley happened to have it in her car? You remember? My brain like shorted out or something, and that image is just, it's burned in there and if you could just give me a chance I'll prove I'm not just chasing you for fun, it's because -"

You'd yanked him by the collar of his hoodie, pulling him into you, shutting him up by placing your mouth on his.

"Talking too much," you mumbled against him.

And he had nothing else to say after that. Your hands stayed clutched at his clothes, and his moved to get on you anyway they could. One hand on your hip and the other threading into wet hair as he pushed you back into your house, kicking the door shut behind him, mouths never parting.

It was desperate. Mouths moulding together like it was what they were meant to do. You were pressed against him, and your hands moved to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him even closer to you. You moaned, and it seemed to spark some memory in him.

"Wait," he mumbled, struggling to force himself back, groaning as you chased his lips and kissed him again. It was torture trying to stop a kiss he's been fucking dying for. "Wait, a date."

"What?" you asked, finally pulling away, looking up at him with glossy eyes and swollen, kissed out lips. Fuck, he was an idiot, he should keep kissing you.

"I want to take you out," he said, moving your arms from around him so he can holding both your hands, he brought them both up to his face, laying a line of kisses across all your knuckles. You looked up at him with a pouty lip, and he groaned, "fuck, stop looking at me like that, I'm tryna be good here."

He looks at you for a second, and kissed you again, like two magnets being pulled together. This one was shorter, languid, like he was trying to memorize a fleeting moment.

"A date," he repeats, pulling away. "Tomorrow, at seven."

"Okay," you whisper, "if you mean it."

"I mean it," he promises, "it's gunna go so well, and we can kiss after, okay?"

"We could kiss more now," you say, running a hand up Jamie's arm, pleased smile on your face as a shiver trails up his back. "I could show you my room?"

"Fuck," he sighs, eyes squeezing shut to try and block out your temptations, "Proper date, tomorrow. I'll pick you up." He reaches for the door handle blindly, not wanting to take his eyes off your face. You relent, pulling away from him and holding the door as he finally gets it open.

He gets one step out the door before he turns, cocking his head like a puppy to look at you. "But maybe just a quick goodbye kiss?"

You smile, tilting your head up as your only answer, and he slides his hands across your cheeks, holding your face gingerly as he lays a slow, romantic kiss on you. He sighs into the kiss, and pulls away, laying a kiss on your nose and then your forehead, thumbs sweeping against your cheeks affectionately.

"Thank you for the chance," he says, pulling away and taking a step back, "I'm not gunna let you down."

"I know you won't," you say, "goodnight, Jamie."

"Goodnight."

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 7!

in which i handed in a thesis proposal, caught a cold, and read some lovely fics... it's been a wild week lol

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

baby that's why i fell into you | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 1.7k | GA

Eddie has amnesia, Buck struggles. genuinely one of the best love confessions i've read in ages <3 this had me smiling so much!!

call me what you will | ameliahart | 5.9k | E

A  continuation of 8x06 where Buck pouts, Eddie feels joy, and they fuck about it. genuinely i will eat up any and all post-8x06 fics and this is no exception... love the eddie characterisation here!!

faded from the winter | Daisies_and_Briars/@cal-daisies-and-briars | 9.9k | T

Eddie struggles to bounce back after the shooting. Buck starts leaving him with his service dog, Cranberry. cranberry fic!! i love this series so so much <3 especially love the eddiemaddie friendship in this one!

golden morning sunbeams | Buddiesmutslut/@buddiesmutslut | 10.3k | GA

As Eddie is debating his move to Texas, a few texts from his son in the middle of the day set him on a course to getting everything he's been wanting. such a fascinating look at the whole chris in texas/helena and ramon doing whatever the fuck it is that they're doing plot! so good!! and buck here is just <3

hopeless, breathless, burning slow | mostardent/@laracrofted | 14.9k | M

After the coma, Buck struggles to feel real and unofficially moves in with Eddie. there's some gorgeous gorgeous imagery in this one <3 one of the best post-coma fics ever!!

let me give you my life | paleredheadinascifi | 6.4k | T

another take on what happened after the couch scene. Eddie *wants*. They're both brave about it. they're so brave about it <3 wonderful fic!!

slaughterhouse | kithmet/@kithmet | 21.3k | E

Eddie announces he’s leaving. Buck, naturally, begins a slow descent to madness. such a stunning fic it genuinely left me speechless... the most beautiful codependent freak4freak buddie <3 an immediate bookmark for sure!!

take two falls out of three | doitgently/@doitbuckley | 16.3k | M

Eddie tries to go to Texas. What do you get when you cross a man and an eighteen-wheeler truck? such a fantastic look at chris and eddie's relationship <3 beautiful writing!!

the moon like a spotlight | dykeries/@buddiesbian | 4.7k | E

Three months after Eddie moves to El Paso, Buck comes to visit. this is sappy and soft and also funny (the starnaming!!) and just so very perfect <3

the rainbows we chase | timeshareindestin/@timeshareindestin | 5.8k | M

buck accidentally makes an appointment for their first kiss. the proposals!! i love the proposals!! love is stored in the calendar indeed <3 so so good!

too far from the sun | idiotsinkdaisies/@idiotsinkdaisies | 9k | M

Where Eddie Diaz spends time in El Paso, and handles it fine. Buck is back in Los Angeles, and Eddie does not feel the hundreds of miles between them like a physical ache. (He might be lying to himself.) blanket rec for an author whose work i've been LOVING this week!! this one has the most stunning writting and eddie characterisation and i love it so much <3

u/fuckley's reddit post history. | dylaesthetics | 7.9k | M

the emotional rollercoaster of Buck’s Reddit posts throughout the history of knowing Eddie. this is such a brilliantly formatted fic!! i read this on a cold dark bus back home and it was exactly what i needed <3

what if all i need is you | serenelystrange/@serenelystrange | 3k | GA

“Eddie doesn’t even like men,” Buck says with a frown. “I asked.” “Of course you did,” Chim says, dropping his head into his hand with a murmured whisper of *Jesus Christ*. another blanket rec for an author who's been posting some truly brilliant works <3 this one is soft and fun and has such lovely firefam interactions!!

with a little water and a little bit of sunlight | teaspoonmoon/@young-waverer | 4.7k | T

The one where it's not Homes.com but it's also not porn on the iPad. such a lovely alternate ipad-scene <3 so sweet!! i love the dialogue here especially!

[littlxpxtal]

rafe notices your ticks and quirks, but always makes you feel better about them

“you know you do this thing” rafes words interrupts my swarming thoughts. I look down to my fingers and see a piece of skin on the edge of falling off my index finger. just one more pick.

“when you’re over thinking” his hand reaches across the armrest on top my hands, collapsing them from their original position to lay on my thigh under his heavy palm.

I glance up at him and he has a stern look on his face. his eyes flicker over towards me, just for a second, before he focuses back on the road.

“what’s got you thinkin this hard pretty girl?” he whispers softly. my eyes trail from his eyes down his face to his jaw, his collarbones peaking out of his unbuttoned shirt. then they trail off to his other hand on the wheel.

“did they” I stutter on my words and feel the urge to pick again. he gives a soft squeeze on my hands and they release their tension.

“did they like you?” he asks. my eyes dart towards the front window of the car, watching the street lights pass. I silently nod my head and hold my breath. he lets out a small chuckle.

“they loved you, baby” his hand lifts off my hands to hold my chin, his thumb grazing against my jawline.

“are you sure? I said that stupid thing about airplanes and then there was a whole commotion and I feel like I shouldn’t have even said anything”

he keeps his hand on my jaw, turning my head to face towards him.

“so what, you made a comment and it started conversation. that happens, right?”

“but it was negative conversation”

“it caused an intellectual debate. if anything, I think it was brave of you to bring up recent events . shows that you have a mind outside of this stupid bubble”

“I don’t know if I would say brave” I quip back. his hand releases from my jaw, and land back on top of my hands. he gives them another squeeze and shakes his head.

“well, I think the contrary. and so did everyone else. like I said, they loved you” he smiles at me and then looks back at the road.

I step into rafe’s car, and smile at the smell, leather, sandalwood, and aftershave. he holds my bag as I slide in, taking my drink from my hand and placing it in the cup holder.

“you sure you got everything?” he asks, giving a quick peck on my cheek.

I nod and smile into the kiss.

“I got you something” he mumbles against my cheek. I quickly turn, anticipation running through my veins immediately.

“wait is there a special day I forgot about?” he leans in and gives me another kiss while reaching into the back seat and pulling out a small gift bag.

“go ahead” he whispers. I jump up a bit on the passenger seat, and turn my body to face him. when I pull the object out, it’s still in the packaging before I realize what it is.

“no fucking way”

he smiles big but doesn’t say a word.

it’s a calico critter blind bag.

“Rafe you didn’t, I thought u hated these little things”

“I don’t hate em, sometimes they give me the creeps, but you like them so” he sweeps his tongue over his bottom lips his eyes flickering down at the package.

“which one do you want it to be?” and I ask, turning the package to the back to see the options.

“I was hoping for the lobster” he says. I gush internally over the thought of him at the store, checking out the bags and looking at all the creatures, picking out a favorite one.

“I kind like the one with the seashell purse” he smiles brightly at me, and I tear open the pack.

“okay, three, two, one!” I pull out the critter and to my surprise, races eyes light up and he lets out an excited laugh

“let’s fucking gooo!” he cheers out, holding my hand that now holds a lobster calico critter.

I look up and lean towards his face, we share a slow and soft kiss. his hand reaches up to brush hair behind my ear. our lips disconnect and he whispers,

“I thought you could, keep it in here. like how you do in your car?”

I smile against his mouth, giving him and hard kiss, brushing my tongue over his bottom lip.

“of course”

when we finally pull away, I put the package in the gift bag and place it near my feet. I prop the critter up on his dashboard, proud at the sight of Rafe’s new collection.

“what should we name him!” I ask, breaking the comforting silence.

“whatever you want princess” he responds, turning the car back on.

[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.

[spiderfunkz]

MISERY LOVES COMPANY

cho hyun-ju x f!reader

cw: gender dysphoria, struggles with identity, fluff, the use of 'y/n' like once. inspired by young-mi's "you're beautiful, unnie".

it was finally time to rest. this has been more stressful than you imagined, the blue badge by your chest representing the opposite of your thoughts. you wanted to continue, ignoring all the mean quips given when voting. you knew the risks, but it meant more than anything to pay off all of your debts. to finally live life with no more worries.

but of course it is with struggle. the games were so difficult, but you didn't want to die because of a children's game. that's just so pathetic, is what you think. truly, you wanted to go home, to your tiny cramped apartment. to be able to sleep on the thin mattress you took take for granted.

you couldn't sleep like this. so you got up to go to the restroom, after some debating with the guard, you were let in. you remembered when you were younger, people seemed to think nobody could beat you in a debate, you still believe that is true.

your skin was tainted in blood, your hair was so messy, and you felt so extremely tired. you stood in front of the sink, trying your best to scratch away all the blood that seemed engraved in your skin.

that's when you noticed someone beside you.

she was beautiful. so, so, so beautiful. her hair was tied back in a ponytail, her nails were painted— you've seen her earlier.

player 120. you noticed her earlier during the games, how she seemed so brave and fearless. you wished you had that sort of bravery, maybe then, it would've been easier for you.

but in this light, she seemed rather sad.

"are you okay?" you ask, your voice was shaky. were you nervous?

she looks at you, nodding. this was your chance to open a topic. find a friend, that's something you've been struggling to do this entire time. you've gone through many different players throughout all the games so far, you realized forming allies wasn't your best suit.

"i'm y/n," you give her your best smile,

"hyun-ju." she replies, you think you could listen to her voice for hours. "that's pretty," you hummed, "your name is very pretty."

you see her cheer up slightly, "thank you."

"i have been saying, you know— people who have really pretty names are the prettiest themselves." the blood on your skin seemed to have gone away. as if your worries went with it.

"you don't mean that."

"i do."

you observe her, oh how she was gorgeous. "you are very beautiful, hyun-ju." you smile again, she smiles in return. "would you like to be friends? i've had very little luck with finding friends here,"

she nods, profusely. "i would love to."

"okay then, nice to meet you, hyun-ju." she shakes your hand. from here and on, you've got a feeling this game would go by much easier.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

THE HEART CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH...

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my arms burning as I lifted another suitcase onto my bed. The fabric of my t-shirt clung uncomfortably to my skin, a reminder of just how long I’d been doing this—sorting, folding, debating. Two hours. Two hours of meticulously going through my closet, trying to piece together the perfect outfits.

Not for myself.

No, I had long stopped dressing for myself when it came to them.

Every decision, every folded shirt and carefully picked-out dress, was to avoid their subtly cruel remarks, their judging glances, the way they could dismantle my confidence with a single passive-aggressive comment. I wasn’t in the mood for it. Not this time. Not for this.

Because the alternative—their loud, heated arguments, their voices sharpened into weapons when we were alone—was worse.

So I folded. Like I always did.

I had picked out what I knew they would prefer, stiff blouses and skirts that didn't fit me, but fit the image they wanted me to present. And now, the only shred of control I had left was figuring out which of these lifeless pieces of fabric was at least comfortable enough for me to wear without feeling like I was suffocating.

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face as I turned toward the mirror.

The third dress I had tried on.

It clung to me in a way that made me feel exposed. The color was muted, lifeless, something my mother would nod in approval at but felt wrong against my skin.

I didn’t look pretty.

I didn’t feel comfortable.

I didn’t feel like me.

I swallowed against the knot forming in my throat, pushing down the wave of frustration bubbling in my chest. This wasn’t about me. It never was.

I turned away from the mirror, shaking my head.

Just pick something. It doesn’t matter.

But even as I told myself that, my hands balled into fists at my sides.

None of this mattered.

I was dressing for a funeral.

The thought hit me all at once, the realization heavy, suffocating. I felt my body go rigid, my breath suddenly too short, the walls of my bedroom too close—

My phone rang.

The sharp sound shattered the silence, yanking me out of my downward spiral.

I exhaled, forcing myself to move, to grab my phone off the nightstand.

I didn’t even check the caller ID before swiping to answer.

"Hello?" My voice came out quieter than I meant it to.

"God, finally! Took you long enough to pick up."

I immediately stiffened.

Jack.

"What, are you busy or something?" he continued, his tone light, casual, but irritated in the way only a brother could be.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, adjusting my grip on the phone. "I was—sorting some stuff out. What do you want?"

"I need to vent. Because I swear to God, if I hear one more person talk about Ghost like they’re some kind of racing god, I’m gonna lose my mind."

My stomach dropped.

Of course. Of course, this is what he called about.

"Oh?" I said, forcing myself to sit down on the edge of my bed, pressing the phone tighter against my ear. "What happened?"

"What happened is that everyone suddenly thinks he’s a damn hero for finishing that race last weekend," Jack scoffed, the frustration thick in his voice. "Like, am I the only one seeing how stupid that was? It wasn’t brave. It wasn’t impressive. It was reckless. I don’t care how many fans want to paint them as some unstoppable force or whatever—there’s a difference between being tough and just being a complete dumbass."

I swallowed.

I could still feel the ache in my body, the remnants of that race sitting heavy in my bones. The heat exhaustion, the collapse in Parc Fermé, the way my body had shut down the second I had stopped forcing it to keep going.

Jack didn’t know.

He didn’t know that his own sister had been the one sitting in that car, the one his anger was directed toward.

And right now?

Right now, I couldn’t tell him.

So instead, I just sat there, gripping my phone, listening to my brother rip me apart without even realizing it.

"And you know what else?" Jack’s voice carried through the phone, sharp and filled with frustration. "Everyone’s acting like Ghost is gonna be some kind of legend, like they were proving something awesome during the race. Proving what? That they’re too stubborn to retire when it’s the smart thing to do? That they’d rather collapse in Parc Fermé than admit they aren’t invincible? It’s pathetic. It’s not even impressive—it’s just stupid. And the fact that the media is eating it up is even worse. They’re just encouraging it."

I clenched my jaw, my grip on my phone tightening.

"And don’t even get me started on the way people compare me to them," he continued, letting out a bitter laugh. "Like, I made the responsible decision. I knew when to stop. But apparently, that makes me weak. Makes me less of a driver. It’s bullshit."

I inhaled slowly through my nose, trying to keep my expression neutral even though I was alone in my room.

He doesn’t know.

He didn’t know that the person he was calling stupid was me.

That I was the one who had pushed my body to its absolute limit.

That I was the one who had barely made it out of the car, who had been carried away while my body gave up on me.

That I was the one he was tearing apart right now.

And yet, somehow, that wasn’t even what was making me the most upset.

It was how entitled he sounded.

Like he thought he understood everything about Ghost. Like he had the right to sit there and judge someone else’s choices, someone else’s pain, like he had any idea what was going on behind the scenes.

Like he had any idea what it was like to live that life.

I felt my chest tighten. My eyes burned, my breath coming out just a little more unsteady.

I squeezed my phone so hard my knuckles turned white, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

"Jack." My voice was quieter now, controlled, but he didn’t notice.

"And the worst part is—"

"Jack."

He finally stopped talking.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes.

"I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m gonna say it anyway."

I could practically hear him roll his eyes, but for once, he didn’t interrupt.

"You have no idea what this guy’s life is like outside of the paddock," I said, keeping my voice calm, steady. "He may have a valid reason for the way he acts. He might be struggling with something, something you don’t know about, and that might be why he comes off as… whatever it is you think he is. And maybe he sees you in the same light. Maybe to him, you’re the one who’s rude and entitled."

Jack scoffed. "That’s bullshit, I’ve never—"

"Jack," I said again, firmer this time. "From what I know, he’s never done anything to you that actually warrants this much anger from you. And yet, you’re constantly rude to him, constantly tearing him down. Why?"

"Because he acts like he’s better than everyone else!" Jack snapped, his frustration boiling over. "He walks around like he owns the place, like no one else matters, like he’s some kind of legend who can do no wrong—"

"Or maybe that’s just how you see him," I cut in, my voice still level.

Jack fell silent again.

"Maybe it’s easier for you to paint him as some arrogant asshole instead of realizing that he’s just another driver, just another person trying to make it. Maybe it’s easier to hate him than to accept that he might not be the villain you’ve made him out to be."

"That’s not—"

"And maybe it’s easier to act like he was stupid for finishing that race instead of admitting that you’re mad because people think he’s stronger than you, has he ever even agreed with the media on that? Has he ever stated that he thinks he’s better than you? I watched the interview last weekend even after you walked out. Ghost agreed with you on everything you said, even when you attacked his character." I said, my voice softer now.

Jack’s breath hitched.

I didn’t mean to hit a nerve, but I wasn’t going to take it back.

Because it was true.

"I’m not arguing with someone who isn’t ready to listen," I said, my grip on my phone loosening just slightly.

Jack made a noise of protest. "Wait, I—"

I hung up.

The call ended with a sharp beep, the silence in my room suddenly too loud.

I stared at my phone, my fingers still curled around it, my whole body tense.

And then, finally, I let out a shaky breath.

—

The moment my phone screen lit up with an incoming group call from Ollie and Kimi, I hesitated. My mind was still tangled up in my conversation with Jack, frustration and hurt lingering like an ache in my chest. But I knew if I ignored them, they'd only call again—and the last thing I wanted was for them to worry.

So I took a deep breath, shook off the heaviness weighing me down, and answered.

Immediately, the screen was filled with the grinning faces of two of my favorite people.

"y/n!" Ollie cheered, dragging out my nickname dramatically like a sports commentator announcing a champion. "There you are, the legend, the icon, the most mysterious human being on the grid—"

"Who looks like absolute shit right now," Kimi cut in, squinting at me through the screen.

"Oi!" I huffed, rolling my eyes, but I didn’t even try to hide the small smile pulling at my lips.

"No no, seriously, you okay?" Ollie asked, his teasing fading just slightly.

Kimi leaned in closer, scrutinizing me like I was a math problem he was trying to solve. "Yeah, something’s off. What happened?"

I sighed, adjusting the phone in my hand. "I’m fine. Just… stressed, I guess."

Neither of them looked convinced.

"y/n," Kimi deadpanned.

"Stressed about what?" Ollie prodded, tilting his head.

I ran a hand through my hair, hesitating for only a moment before deciding to tell them. They already knew about my family situation—it wasn’t exactly a secret between us.

"I leave for Australia in a few hours," I muttered, sighing again. "Family funeral. Which means… family drama."

Understanding instantly clicked in their expressions.

"Ohh." Ollie winced. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense."

"Your parents still being their usual delightful selves?" Kimi asked dryly.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Always."

"That sucks, mate," Ollie said sympathetically. "But hey, at least you’ll look good while dealing with their bullshit, yeah?"

"Speaking of," Kimi smirked, leaning in again. "Show us what you’re bringing. Let’s see what absolute monstrosities they’re forcing you to wear this time."

"Oh my god." I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help laughing. "They’re not that bad."

"Uh-huh," Ollie hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Come on, then. Let’s see the damage."

I huffed dramatically but stood up, propping my phone against a stack of books on my dresser so they could see as I grabbed the first dress. It was a sleek black number, simple but elegant.

"Alright, this one," I said, holding it up.

There was a pause.

"Hmm." Kimi narrowed his eyes at it.

"Alright, I’ll say it—y/n, it’s giving ‘rich widow at her third husband’s funeral,’" Ollie declared.

I nearly choked on my own laugh. "What?!

"No, no, he’s right," Kimi nodded, stroking his chin like a critic at a gallery. "You look like you just cashed in on a life insurance policy."

"Oh my god, shut up." I tossed the dress to the side, still laughing.

"Alright, next one, next one," Ollie grinned, clapping his hands.

I grabbed another dress—this one was softer, flowy but still formal.

"Okay, this one?"

Both boys squinted at the screen.

"I like it," Kimi admitted.

"Yeah, yeah, this one’s solid," Ollie agreed. "If I were some posh rich guy at the funeral, I’d definitely ask for your number."

"Ollie."

"What? I’m just saying."

I rolled my eyes again but felt something warm settle in my chest at their easy teasing. They had no idea how much I needed this right now.

I went through a few more outfits, each one getting increasingly ridiculous reactions from them.

"y/n, please tell me that’s not velvet."

"Why does this one make you look like a royal attendant from the 1800s?"

"I dunno, I think this one’s kinda hot—"

"Ollie."

By the time I finished, my mood had lifted significantly.

"Alright, alright, final decision?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Ollie and Kimi hummed in thought before pointing at the second dress.

"That one," Kimi said.

"Yeah, agreed," Ollie nodded. "You look like a total heartbreaker in that one."

"I’m going to a funeral, Ollie."

"And? Doesn’t mean you can’t look good."

Kimi smirked. "Yeah, y/n. Just because it’s a funeral doesn’t mean people won’t be staring."

I groaned, flopping onto my bed. "You two are ridiculous."

"Yeah, yeah," Ollie grinned. "But seriously—if any of those fancy rich boys try anything, just call us. We’ll swoop in like your knights in shining armor."

"Oh yeah, absolutely," Kimi agreed, nodding. "We’ll be on the first flight out."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You two are idiots."

"Your idiots," Ollie corrected, shooting me a wink.

And as I sat there, watching the two of them bicker about who would win in a duel if they actually had to fight for my honor, I realized something.

For the first time in hours, I wasn’t thinking about Jack.

For the first time in hours, I actually felt okay.

—

Landing in Australia, the weight settled back onto my shoulders like a heavy cloak. No matter how much I had prepared myself for this moment, no matter how many deep breaths I had taken on the plane or how much I had distracted myself with mindless airport small talk, I knew that coming home would bring back all the same pressures I had been trying so desperately to avoid.

I was driving myself to my hotel, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly, when my phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed across the screen, and I sighed. Jack.

I hesitated for half a second before answering.

"What do you want, Jack?" I asked, my tone already tired.

A scoff came from the other end. "Wow. London really has changed you, huh? Too good for your own family now?"

I rolled my eyes. There it was.

"I just wanted to call and ask," he continued, his tone deceptively casual, "why the hell you’re staying at a hotel instead of coming home this time?"

There it was again—the classic, pointed question that wasn’t actually a question at all. It was a demand, wrapped up in feigned curiosity. It wasn’t hard to guess where this was coming from. Our parents had twisted my words, spun some version of the truth that would rile Jack up enough to call me, to pressure me into changing my mind.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Not this time.

I took a slow breath, steadying myself. I needed to be firm, not defensive. I needed to be better—for myself, and for my uncle, who I knew would be proud of how I was handling this.

"Jack," I started, keeping my voice calm but unwavering. "I'm going to be honest with you. While I am upset with you and how you've been acting lately, my choice to stay away from the house has nothing to do with that."

There was a pause, like he hadn't expected me to cut right to the truth.

I pressed on. "If you still see me as your little sister—if you still love me—then I’m asking you to drop this topic for now. We can talk about it in person, where there’s no room for anyone to misinterpret what I say."

Another silence. A longer one.

I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to process the fact that I wasn’t taking the bait. That I wasn’t lashing out or folding under pressure, like I used to be.

Finally, his voice was quieter, less combative. "Fine."

I nodded to myself, exhaling slowly. "If that's all, I need to go. I just got to the hotel, and I still need to unpack, prep a few things for tomorrow, and try to get some sleep."

Jack let out a breath, like he wanted to argue but knew better than to push. "Yeah. Alright. Just… I’ll see you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Jack."

The call ended with a soft click, and I lowered my phone into my lap, staring at the screen for a moment.

It felt relieving to handle it that way—to stand my ground without losing my temper, to set a boundary without guilt.

But at the same time, a new kind of exhaustion settled over me. If Jack had backed off this easily, it only meant one thing: My parents wouldn’t.

—

Walking into the church where most of the funeral procession would be held felt like stepping through the gates of hell.

Everything about it—the hushed murmurs, the heavy scent of lilies, the suffocating air of forced grief—felt wrong. This wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye. This wasn’t how I wanted to mourn the loss of my favorite person in the whole world. But I knew I wouldn’t get the chance to mourn, not properly.

Not when my parents were here.

This funeral, this entire week, wasn’t about honoring my uncle. It was about appearances. About ensuring our family looked just the right amount of broken, just the right amount of poised, just the right amount of put-together in the eyes of the people who mattered.

And me?

I was expected to play my role perfectly. To be the grieving but elegant daughter, to sit through these endless introductions to men I didn’t want to meet, to smile when I wanted to cry and nod when I wanted to scream.

At least one of my dates would be here today. If not all three. The thought made my stomach twist.

I had three hours of this. Three long, painful hours of pretending.

So I feigned strength, plastered on the same mask I always did, and walked deeper into the church.

By the time the initial service had ended and the gathering had moved into the adjoining hall for food and quiet conversation, I felt drained. My dress was suffocating, my shoes pinched my toes, and my head ached from holding back every single emotion I actually felt.

I needed a moment to myself.

I slipped away from the sea of guests, weaving between familiar and unfamiliar faces, and found a small corner table. The food spread was extravagant—of course it was, my parents would accept nothing less—but none of it appealed to me.

Still, I grabbed a plate of something delicate and expensive-looking, if only to keep my hands occupied. I picked at it absentmindedly, barely registering the taste.

A familiar presence settled beside me, and I glanced up to see Jack.

For once, his expression wasn’t filled with the usual cocky smugness or exasperation he saved just for me. He looked… softer. Tired.

"I owe you an apology," he said quietly.

I blinked, caught off guard. "...For what?"

Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "For how I’ve been acting. For not really listening to you." He leaned against the table, his voice lower now. "I’ve been so caught up in my own stress, with racing and the media and all this bullshit, that I didn’t stop to think that maybe you were going through just as much. And now that I see it—seeing you here, like this—I get it."

I swallowed, eyes dropping to my untouched plate.

"You’ve been helping handle the funeral arrangements, packing up his things, flying back and forth, and still dealing with your job on top of it," Jack continued. "I should have realized sooner how much that was for you."

Something in my chest ached at his words. At the fact that, after everything, he was finally seeing me.

But then—of course—he said, "I mean, you should have just told me you were overwhelmed instead of getting all defensive."

My grip on my fork tightened.

Of course.

Of course Jack could only recognize some of my struggles, the ones that made sense to him. But the ones that didn’t—the arranged dates, the expectations, the way I was being forced into something I did not want—those didn’t register.

Because why would they?

I set my fork down with a quiet clink. "Jack," I said carefully, forcing patience into my voice, "do you even realize what our parents are putting me through? Or do you just choose to ignore it?"

His brow furrowed, like he genuinely didn’t know what I meant. "What are you talking about?"

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to stay calm. "The dates, Jack. The ones they’re forcing me into. The fact that they aren’t just trying to set me up with someone—they’re forcing the idea of marriage on me."

Jack frowned, looking unconvinced. "It’s just dates. It’s not like they’re shoving you into a wedding dress tomorrow."

I laughed, but it was hollow, humorless. "You really don’t get it."

"It’s not like you have to say yes to any of them," he argued.

"Jack," I said, my voice sharper now, "do you really think they’ll let me say no?"

His mouth opened, but before he could argue, a voice cut through the tension.

"Darling," my mother’s voice rang out, smooth and saccharine, "there’s someone I’d love for you to meet."

Jack and I both turned at the same time.

And there he was.

My first date of the week.

A man—because calling him a boy would have been laughable—stood beside her, at least ten years older than me, with a practiced smile and a handshake that looked too eager.

I felt my stomach drop.

Slowly, I turned my gaze to Jack, watching the slow, dawning realization settle into his expression. I didn’t have to say anything. The look I gave him said it all. I told you so.

—

Returning to my hotel room that night was the only good thing to come out of the day.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heels hit the floor with a dull thud as I kicked them off carelessly, barely making it past the edge of the bed before collapsing onto the mattress.

The exhaustion didn’t just sit in my bones—it weighed on me, pressing down on my chest until it felt impossible to breathe.

I stared at the ceiling, my eyes unfocused, my thoughts racing.

The funeral. The whispers. The suffocating expectations.

My uncle was gone, and I hadn’t even been able to grieve properly. Instead, I had been paraded around, displayed like some pristine little doll, forced into conversations with people I didn’t care for. And worst of all, I had met him.

One of the men my parents had chosen for me.

A man who was at least ten years my senior. A man who looked at me like I was some fresh-faced investment rather than a human being.

I felt sick just thinking about it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deeply through my nose. The dread in my stomach curdled, threatening to rise into full-blown panic, but I forced it down. I couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.

Instead, I reached for my phone.

I needed an escape.

My fingers hovered over my contact list, scrolling through familiar names. There were only a handful of people who could help me right now—people who wouldn’t say the wrong thing, who wouldn’t tell me to “just go along with it” or “give him a chance.”

Then, I saw his name.

Franco.

I hesitated.

Would he even pick up?

Would he even understand?

With a single deep breath for courage, I tapped the call button.

It barely rang twice before his voice came through, slightly muffled like he had answered in a rush.

"Yes? Y/n, what’s up?"

I exhaled shakily, my grip tightening on the phone. "Hey, Franco. Just needed a distraction right now. I just got back from the funeral. I met one of my dates there. I am… not excited, to say the least."

There was silence.

Then, his voice, lower now. “Wait. You met one? Already?”

I hummed in confirmation, rolling onto my side and curling into myself. "Yeah. First one out of the three. And Franco, I swear to God, he’s at least ten years older than me."

Silence again.

But this time, it was different.

This time, I could hear the slow inhale through his nose. The quiet but sharp exhale.

"Ten?"

I could practically see the way his jaw would clench, the way his brows would furrow.

"Minimum," I murmured, rubbing a hand over my face. "Honestly, he might be older."

"Oh, that’s just fucking—" He cut himself off, muttering something in Spanish under his breath that I was sure was not polite.

Despite myself, I felt a small, tired smile tug at my lips. "You’re mad."

"Of course I’m mad, Y/n!" Franco huffed, his frustration bleeding through the speaker. "That’s disgusting! What, they couldn’t find someone your actual age to auction you off to?"

I winced. Auction. That was exactly what this felt like.

"Apparently not," I muttered.

"Jesus Christ." I heard the sound of movement, like he had started pacing. "That’s not okay. That’s—God, that’s so messed up. What did he even say to you?"

I let out a humorless laugh. "Tried to be charming. Called me stunning. Told me he’d heard a lot about me and that he was honored to be considered. Like this was some kind of prestigious opportunity instead of—" I cut myself off, throat tightening. "You get the point."

Franco made a noise of pure irritation. "I swear, if I ever meet this guy, I’m going to—"

"Franco," I interrupted gently, despite the warmth settling in my chest at his anger on my behalf.

He exhaled sharply. "Right. Distraction. You need a distraction."

I hummed, shutting my eyes and sinking deeper into the bed. "Yes, please."

There was a pause. Then, his voice shifted—lighter now, teasing. "Alright, let’s see. What’s something completely ridiculous we can talk about? Oh! How about this—do you want to hear about the absolute disaster that was my attempt at cooking last night?"

A small smile formed. "I always want to hear about your cooking failures."

"Okay, so get this—" Franco launched into the story, animated and exaggerated, telling me how he had somehow set off his smoke alarm making pasta and had to call Kimi for help, only for Kimi to be zero help and just laugh at him instead.

It was stupid. It was meaningless.

But it helped. Some what.

The next morning, I woke up to the shrill chime of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. Sunlight streamed through the thin hotel curtains, but the warmth it carried did nothing to ease the sinking feeling in my stomach as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for my phone.

Mom—that was all it said at the top of the screen.

I swallowed, already knowing whatever she had to say wouldn’t be good. With a deep breath, I opened the message.

Be at the house by 2 PM. He’ll be here to pick you up at 3. Your father and I will be showing you the portfolios of the other two men before then. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.

I clenched my jaw, reading between the lines easily.

Don’t embarrass us. Don’t ruin this. Don’t make a scene.

The tightness in my chest returned full force, a sharp contrast to the brief peace I had felt talking to Franco last night.

I sat up, tossing my phone onto the bed with more force than necessary before dragging my hands down my face.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t want this. It didn’t matter that my uncle—my biggest supporter, the only one who truly understood me—would have hated every single second of this circus act my parents were forcing me through.

All that mattered was that they saw this as an opportunity. As something good for the family.

And I was expected to play along.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my emotions down. Crying wouldn’t help. Screaming wouldn’t change anything.

All I could do now was get through the day without losing my mind.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stood up, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs before trudging toward the bathroom. If I had to endure another day of this, I might as well look the part.

Perfect. Composed. A doll on fucking display.

—

The room was suffocating. The air thick with the scent of expensive candles, floral arrangements, and the heavy weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders like an anvil.

I sat stiffly on the pristine leather couch, hands folded in my lap, pretending to be the perfect, attentive daughter while my parents spoke in that calculated, business-like tone they always adopted when discussing things far more important than my own wants or needs. I stared blankly at the glossy portfolios they had placed in front of me, filled with neatly typed credentials and photos of the two other men they were now presenting as my future.

Neither of them were old—at least, not like the first man they had forced me to meet at the funeral, and I would soon be on some stupid date with. That was the one thing I could acknowledge as a small mercy. But that relief was short-lived when my father’s voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.

“Between the two of them, they make more than your mother and I combined,” he said, his words laced with pride, as if that single fact was supposed to make me leap for joy. “We’re talking legacy money, sweetheart. This isn’t just about you—it’s about securing something bigger than yourself.”

Legacy money. As if that was the only thing that should matter to me. As if my entire future should be determined by someone’s net worth and the business opportunities they could bring to our family.

I clenched my hands tighter in my lap, nails digging into my palm, but I didn’t react. I just nodded, because that was what they wanted from me.

“We’ve done everything for you,” my mother added smoothly, leaning forward slightly, her carefully manicured fingers adjusting the already-perfect bracelet on her wrist. Her voice was sweet, warm—practiced. “And now, all we ask is that you consider your responsibility as our daughter.”

Responsibility. Duty. Family.

The words were wrapped up in silk, but underneath, I could hear the ironclad expectations they carried.

This wasn’t a discussion.

This was an order.

I could feel my heartbeat thudding against my ribs, my breath slow and measured as I fought to keep my expression neutral. It wasn’t new, this conversation. I had been raised to know that this moment would come eventually. But knowing it was inevitable didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

I felt trapped.

Like a bird locked in a gilded cage, surrounded by wealth and comfort but never allowed to spread its wings.I wanted to tell them that this wasn’t what I wanted. That I didn’t care about money or status or whatever fucking “legacy” they were trying to secure.

Then the long awaited and most dreaded knocked came to the door. Two smiles and a frown following the hollowed sound.

Masterlist

Taglist: @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp @thatsnotaddy @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @littlesimps-world

[snail-day]

I should be writing my dissertation but....

Nanami is the kind to just speak of his plans for the future while he is fucking his darling,

to debate his favourite baby names aloud as he spreads her legs. To talk about the countryside house with a garden big enough for a vegetable plot and a little pond as his fingers draw out another orgasam over and over. That this current apartment is just temporary until you two finally have a child who needs all the extra room, planning out what colour lecreuset's will decorate the kitchen drawers and which kitchen aid appliances she will get the most use of as he rails into her.

Kissing her afterwards with a sigh as he fixes the gag muffling her swears and cries, he just needs to train more before she's perfect and domesticated

🪻

Sayyyyy less more anon

Tw: Overstimulation, Kidnapped reader, Mentions of breeding

This fits too well for both Nanami and Geto. Except their both delusional in their own way <3 silly guys.

Geto who whispers threats like he's reading his vows to you. Tells you what’ll happen if you run again, all while stroking your tear stricken cheek, slow and soft. “You think I’d ever let you leave?” he laughs against your lips, pressing into you, as his cock brushes against your cervix one more time. Ensuring you can still feel the sting from the thirty to fifty spankings you received earlier.

Nanami is something else entirely. (Wouldn't be my second or first choice to end up with)

Nanami fucks you like he’s securing your future together. Like every harsh, mean thrust is a nail in the home he's building for you in the country side. Spreads your legs wide, gaze narrowed onto the gag (wishes he could take it off without you biting him so harshly), and talks, so calmly, about the future he’s already decided on.

“You’ll need to stop this attitude once the first one comes,” he says, voice even as his cock presses cruelly into your cervix. “I’ll plant your favorite along the fence line. You'd like that wouldn't you?”

You sob something incoherent, but it doesn’t matter. He presses a hand over your belly, possessive. Not much reassuring. “You’ll love it there. Quiet. Isolated. Perfect for raising children. Perfect for keeping you safe.”

And when he makes you come - again, and again - he keeps going. His tone doesn't falter as he discusses baby names, house layouts, and how many drawers he’ll need for your favorite Le Creuset pieces. You’re crying, overstimulated, wrists bound and gag soaked through. But he just hums softly, kisses your temple. “You're so emotional these days. Must be the hormones.”

(And oh, of course he wants home births. In the master bedroom, sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. He’ll hold your hand through the contractions, murmur encouragement between contractions, wipe sweat from your brow and tell you how beautiful you look. So brave. So obedient.)

Afterward, he wipes you down carefully. Fixes the gag, brushing a kiss to your forehead as if you weren’t begging for mercy just moments ago. “You’ll learn,” he promises softly. “You’re not quite ready yet. But you’re mine. And I’ll train you until you are.”

Nanami Kento is one patient bastard. He’s waited this long for you. He’ll wait a little longer for the version of you he’s cultivating, his quiet, pregnant housewife, docile and full of love and his children. Even if he has to break you apart to make it happen.

[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!

——————————————————————————————

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

——————————————————————————————

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!

——————————————————————————————

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?

[trickster-archangel]

Look, I'm not done yet. Not by a mile.

Apart from the Sam slander which was totally uncalled for, totally gratuitous, totally malicious, and which could've been totally avoided by making Sam appear in that pcs with the TB saluting their captain and awaiting for orders…as his new recruits for HIS New Avengers….instead of willingly making him appear like a dumb evil angered black man who's shitting on their precious white boyz team….without a serious motivation for neither of the two parts’ actions’....

(but of course this couldn't be allowed right? God forbid a black man gets the respect and the recognition he deserves and is totally due, as EVEN FICTIONAL PEOPLE IN HIS UNIVERSE CAN DO, because next what will be?? A black woman for President, huh??? O TEMPORA, O MORES! Without even considering all the white cishet women who drools so badly to be in the white boy's pants and can't allow a black man to get to his ass first….).

It'll be a long post plus spoilers, so the rest under the cut. Please bear with me because I'm DISGUSTED. 

There's another thing that's nagging at me, more specifical, and which makes Bucky’s actions even more OOC and indefensible and unwarranted. And it’s the presence, in that ragtag team, of Alexei and John. And not only because they are assholes pieces of shit. But because they're supersoldiers. Follow me, please.

We know specifically from Bucky’s words in CABNW, and also from Steve’s whole attitude towards Sam, that Sam Wilson has been chosen as Captain America because of his moral and ethical qualities, because of his heart, because of his mind. Having or not having the serum, as pointed out multiple times also in TFATWS, is irrelevant. The serum doesn't make the hero, if the hero isn't already there. Captain America doesn't need to be superpowered to do what he does, because sure, he must fight, but mostly he needs to make the right calls, take the right decisions, the hard decisions nobody can make because they aren't super partes, talk to people instead of fighting, and never killing, not even when justified. 

Even more, Captain America has his own code and doesn't answer to any governments beck and call, but only to justice and compassion. As proved many times by Steve Rogers, White Boy Extraordinaire, when going rogue and even when abandoning the Captain America name for the Nomad identity. Right? And that's exactly why Steve chose Sam Wilson. Sam is brave, is strong, is compassionate, is fair, is human, but most of all, he's intelligent, he's brilliant, he's charismatic, he's a strategist and a tactician. He has the brawn but most of all, he has the brain.

And this is dangerous. To every government, to every established power, to every organization, people who can think and decide on their own, especially if these people are adored and worshipped by folks and masses, ARE DANGEROUS. They can't be controlled. They can't be lured. They can't be coaxed. They can't be threatened. They can't be bought. They can't be manipulated. They are a threat to any government because they don't answer to the Government's rules, which have all to do with law and nothing to justice.

Dike VS Themis. It's an ooooold debate.

Sam Wilson doesn't have the serum, so he must be super smart and super intelligent to compensate for his disadvantage in battle, and we see it multiple times during the Celestial Island battle and the Red Hulk fight (thank you @staying-elive !). The amount of synapses needed to coordinate body, wings, weapons, shield, Redwing, and to fight to disarm and defuse instead of blowing up and killing, is insane.

This alone makes him a threat. They know they can ask Captain America to cooperate and help, but he'll never bend his neck and he'll never wear a sanctioned collar, and he'll never act against justice only because The American Government, God Save The President, says so. They all know it.

Back to the AvengerZ (sorry but that's the only appropriate name to this bad copy). I only really thought about it recently, I couldn't quite pinpoint it, until I read @imomnba-x07 and @thevibraniumveterans posts. There are two lines of thought that really scare me, here, and that's because I've worked as a government's little cog my whole life and I notice the clues.

Even leaving the whole Valentina’s issue aside, even ignoring the (dangerous) fact that her stunt saved her ass and brought a part of the government on her side, even ignoring the fact that the TB could've easily exposed her and handed her to justice but they chose not to (wow….that's a lot to ignore!), let's stick to the fact that the Government now has its own “Superhero Department” with people on payroll they can send around to do its dirty, dangerous job, per its request, every time someone or something is deemed a threat to Earth's safety, no questions asked, no doubts raised, no objections made.

I'm choosing to leave the Bucky issue aside because we agree he's so OOC and his actions and choices are so indefensible (unless he's working undercover for Sam, but even like this, he should've acted differently in that last scene, even if he's very bad at lying), that it doesn't make sense that he might yearn for freedom then chain himself to a Government's beck and call, and that he worked months to expose Valentina (HE SPECIFICALLY, not Yelena nor the other mercenaries), and right when he had his chance….he went puff….

The problem here is the presence of Alexei and John. 

First. An ethical reason.

Antonia was introduced only to kill her senslessly right at the beginning. Shock value and cruelty, sure. Bad, cheap writing, indeed. But! By choosing to keep John, White Male Extraordinaire, and killing Antonia, they made another choice: they killed a victim, a trauma survivor, an abused woman, who surely had superpowers but which powers she never could choose to have, never asked to have, and were forced onto her by harming her. She has made bad calls in life, but just as Bucky, as Yelena, as Ava, she didn't have much of a choice or a saying in the matter. Abused, manipulated, traumatized. I bet her mind rooms wouldn't have been very nice. 

She died, though, and John survived. This is extremely worrying and dangerous, as a concept, because John ISN'T A VICTIM. Let me phrase it better. 

JOHN WALKER HAS NEVER BEEN A VICTIM, HAS NEVER BEEN A TRAUMA SURVIVOR, HAS NEVER BEEN ABUSED, HAS NEVER BEEN EXPERIMENTED UPON, HE WILLINGLY CHOSE TO TAKE THE SERUM BECAUSE HE WANTED TO BE MORE.

In fact, and this is horrifying in a movie which claims to be about mental illness and depression and how to magically heal by the powers of hugs and friendship, we only see one mind room about John. Oh yes. What is his trauma? Thank you for the question.

JOHN FUCKING WALKER'S SO-CALLED TRAUMA is that he's been an abusive asshole to his family because he was so obsessed about the fame and glory and respect he had lost (because, you know, he murdered a surrendering man in broad daylight because he couldn't control himself), that he couldn't even rein his emotions in and care about what should've really mattered to him. A selfish, self centered, violent, abusive piece of shit, who apparently considers himself a victim because his wife didn't wait to be beaten to death during one of his rage fits and run away to save herself and her baby.

You see why this is dangerous? A true victim gets killed, an abuser gets saved and praised and rewarded. And the audience should empathize with him and feel sorry because that stupid woman left his sorry ass and made him a sad little meow meow?! Rewriting history is always a danger. You know what I'm talking about. Victims being depicted as culprits, and abusers being portrayed as victims. 

Another thing is dangerous. And this is reconnecting to Sam Wilson. Alexei and John are supersoldiers, even more, they've always and only been Government employed supersoldiers. The other TB? Not so much. They have been rogue and mercenaries, Yelena surely has worked for her government too, but mainly they are wild cards. Not these two.

These are enhanced individuals (the same ones we still see a part of the government is still wary about, right during the process against Valentina) who have always worked as some sort of elite forces for their Government's black ops. They don't need finesse. They don't need strategy. They don't need intelligence. They don't need tactics. They don't need synapses. Why should they, when they can simply hammer down and shoot and maim until no opponent stands? Why should they plan things ahead and control damage, when they can simply shoot first and ask questions later?

THEY DON'T NEED TO BE INTELLIGENT AND ABLE TO THINK AND MAKE AUTONOMOUS DECISIONS BECAUSE THAT'S NOT PART OF THEIR CONTRACT.

Never has been. The orders arrive. They obey. They kill. The government doesn’t need to worry they'll object and go rogue. You know that thing so many TB apologists say about “oh but they didn't choose to form the team, they didn't know about each other, they just found themselves together and were forced to collaborate to save their asses and in the end they were put into a team!”

Yes. That's what I'm saying. They cannot think. They cannot decide. They cannot collaborate as a single unit if not to survive. Fuck!! The only time they had one fucking chance to act intelligently and take their own decisions, THEY DID NOTHING! They could've fucked Valentina sideways IN FRONT OF ALL WORLD but they didn't. Because they can only obey orders, not plan in advance, not take the right decisions on their own. They are servants, not heroes. And Bucky chose to be a servant, too.

You see why this team, Valentina’s team, and not Sam’s, is convenient to a Government? Do you think a Navy SEAL would restrain himself from killing a bunch of unharmed sheep herders in Afghanistan, if he thought they could be a potential threat? Read some books (I did), and learn about what the US Government really asks of their elite forces.

Sam Wilson would never comply.

But Alexei and John?! Fuck. That's all they've done for their whole adult life. Hell! Alexei would trade his daughters for a minute under the spotlights! That's why we couldn't see any mind room for him, he hadn't any! He too, like Walker, is the abuser, not the victim. The manipulator, not the victim. He, too, only seeks public cheering at any cost, a picture onto cereal boxes (HAVE WE EVER SEEN STEVE ROGER'S OR TONY STARK’S FACES ON CEREAL BOXES?! SINCE WE WANT TO TALK ABOUT WHITE BOYS), and would obey any order if it means he can get his reward. Like Walker sacrificed his family, too.

Do the trick, get the treat. You know, the way I trained my dog out of bad habits like shitting inside. 

Last thing. There's A HUGE DIFFERENCE between the way the TB save people in New York and then accept to become Valentina’s tools instead of exposing her, out of necessity and/or because they want to be praised, and the way Sam Wilson saves people because it's the only way he knows how to live.

For my aesthetics exam, more than twenty years ago, I had to study a bunch of Freud texts. Sure, the man had issues. But one thing I remember, albeit not in full details: it's a metaphor of sorts. He makes the example of two different men reacting to the same situation: a child falls into a river and is in drowning danger. Both men throw themselves in the cold waters and drag the child to safety, but then die in their place. Apparently, the situations are identical, except for the intent and the motivation: one man did it selflessly, instinctively, because he valued life, every life, worth the risk of losing his own. Even if nobody ever knew his name, ever saw him, ever remembered him, he would've done it anyway, because only the child mattered. The other man, though, did it because he hoped to be seen, to be noticed, to be remembered, to be talked in high praise, so that the child's life mattered nothing to him because his own life didn't, in face of potential glory even after his death. The difference is, Freud said, that the second man wouldn't even have hesitated to throw the child into the water himself, if it made it possible for him to pull his glorious act.

You spot the difference between Alexei saving the girl on the street, and Sam talking down Ross, right?

That's all. Sorry for the verbosity. But I'm horrified by the implications, and what they might mean for Doomsday, but mostly, about the social, sociological, and ethical implications of choosing Walker over Antonia, and choosing Walker and Alexei (specifically) over Sam.

[uhhlifeig]

Brave - June 1 - word count: 202 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius crept over to Remus’s bed, where he was curled into his blankets and shaking almost imperceptibly. “Are you alright, Moony?”

There was a beat of silence, in which Sirius debated going back to his own bed. Maybe Remus didn’t want him around?

“...no,” a small voice said, emanating from the bundle of pillows and covers. “Stay, please.”

Relieved, Sirius sat down on the edge of the bed, taking care to not accidentally bother his friend. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Well,” Remus said. “I just… I dunno, Sirius. Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m brave enough to be a Gryffindor. I don’t like confrontation, and I’m scared of so many things…”

“That’s okay,” Sirius murmured. “Being brave isn’t about being fearless- that’s idiocy, not bravery. Being brave means that you face your fears, even if you’re scared. And Remus, you’re one of the bravest people I know.”

“I- Thank you, Sirius,” Remus said, poking his head out from under his collection of pillows and blankets and sweaters. “D’you maybe wanna… stay here?” he asked meekly.

“Of course, Moons. Whatever you need.”

And if James and Peter found them snuggling together the next morning? Well, that didn’t happen at all. 

Definitely.

[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.”