#Unity Speakers

[blackvahana]

Man. We looked to catalogue the big bang, no, to be it. The Sky Library is just our body as a clay stone upon which language is inscribed. Looked to the big bang to understand Polarity, but in the end... He: The Atomic Bomb

[magnoliamyrrh]

okay enough of the rants im logging off last thing ill say is that identity politics is largely a disease 👍 its point with the extremism its been taken to in part due to cia postmodernism being to wreck class conciousness though the wokeificstion of fragmentory policies and identity👍 bipartisan politics also serve to divide the country (all countries) incresingly so that people cant come together👍 having the worlds most stupid useless fragmentory identity politics discussions doesnt help it keeps us from coming together and focusing on real shit 👍wars pit the resources and labour of the working class against each other for the benefit of the rich 👍"im iranian youre american, you and i have more in common with each other than our governments with us, and our governments are more similar etc etc."👍 if racism stopped and if sexism stopped and if classism between the working classes (which, everyone has forgotten what the term "working class" means, its not abt economic bracket, low, middle, and higher class can all b working class yes including the doctor whose making a lot of money bc it is the exhange of labour for wages) stopped the working class could stand united not divided aginst the system 👍differences in race, class, and sex have Always been used to pit the working classes against each other, and to give people a sense of "well at least were better than Those people" (opressed middle class disdain for lower class, opressed mens disdain for women (at least they have power over someone!), opressed peoples disdain for other opressed peoples)

i may bitch and complain about kinds of people on here bc its a way for me to get my frustrations out, but ultimately i do think it is vitally important to have hope and to try to bring unity between people. ultimately i think it is unity which is the only way this planet, species, and every other species on this planet may see a better futute. ultimately, more than anything, i think despite everything we, for everyones sake, have to understand the deep interconnected nature of everything, have to truly understand that one cannot be free without all, and have to try to build bridges.... it is very easy both as both members of the opressive and opressed class (and yes most ppl occupy both in some way) to fall into disdain, fear, and wants of separatism. ive done it plenty myself and at times i still do. trying to "be better" is absolutely exhausting. but. i do truly believe that we have to try. i do not believe hatred is forever. not classism not racism not sexism not abelism not anything. it is not a curse people are doomed to from birth. people can change, we all can. we at least have to try

[moonstruckme]

Who's That Girl

summary: after Peter moves out due to unspecified reasons suddenly, the marauders have a room to fill. Luckily, you've just arrived in the UK and are happy to sign the lease

cw: modern au, reader has a mother/maternal figure

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Okay, mom.” You rub your eyes, arm still sore from lugging your suitcase around half of London. “No, I really don’t think so. It’d be a pretty elaborate scheme just to kill me. Our names are all together on the lease, there’d be a paper trail.” 

There’s a quiet snicker from the doorway. You look over to find James, one of your new roommates, standing in the threshold of your room. You grimace, miming waving your mother’s concerns away. 

“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I—fine, here. Listen.” You put your hand over the speaker. “I’m so sorry about this,” you tell James. “Can you tell her you’re not going to murder me, please?” 

“Why would we murder you?” he asks in an easy, jovial voice. It’s the sort of voice moms love, which is perfect for what you need right now. “We need you alive to pay rent, and anyway we’ve nowhere to hide a body. They started being rather vigilant about the Thames some time ago.” 

“He’s joking,” you say quickly into the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. They do that here, too. Now will you please go to sleep? I’m good, I promise. Okay, call you later. Love you.” 

You click the button to hang up with a sigh, dropping back onto your mattress. 

“Your mum?” James asks sympathetically. 

You hum. “Yeah, sorry. It’s four in the morning for her right now, and she’s all wound up. I appreciate the help.” 

Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to convince your body it’s not four in the morning for you right now. You thought taking the red eye to London would help you adjust quickly to the time change, but a sleepless flight has only made you weary and disoriented. You screwed up the route from the airport to your new flat, realizing only around Richmond that you’d gone the complete wrong direction on the wrong tube line. It took you a solid hour longer to get to your flat than you planned. When you saw Sirius, who’d posted the flat in an online roommates group, waiting on the other side of the door you nearly collapsed into his arms in teary gratitude. 

With the haze of fatigue still clouding your thinking, it takes you a few moments to wonder why James has come to stand in your room. 

“Did you need something?” 

“I was just wondering if you might like breakfast,” he says. His big frame fills the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame like it’s a familiar stance. 

You try to hide your wariness, your mind filling with images of black pudding and beans smeared on toast. “What are you having?” 

“Omelets.” 

“Yes, please.” You hop out of bed. It’s less bouncy than lurching, but you’re trying to affect vivacity in the hopes you eventually start to feel it. 

James leads you towards the kitchen. Your room, you discovered when you arrived, is even duller than the pictures online. The previous tenant either hadn’t decorated at all or had moved out in a hurry, leaving only a bed and some trash on the floor. The room is small, with peeling white paint and a tiny window situated oddly in the corner, the scraggly tree outside eclipsing half of the view. 

The rest of the flat is a different thing entirely. The common spaces are mostly open; you can see the kitchen from the living room, with everything lit by two large windows looking out onto the street. There’s a funny mishmash of decorations, some pieces hinting at unity and others not so the way it all comes together seems almost like a happy accident. A nice, plush couch sits next to a chair that looks like it was dragged in off the street; there are books stacked against walls and album covers being used for coasters; a collection of vinyl records sits on the mantle next to a bluetooth speaker and above stockings seemingly left out since Christmas. It’s definitely a space decorated by boys, but you like it. It feels homey. 

“My mum would be in a right state if I up and moved continents,” says James, walking into the kitchen. He takes up position behind the stove, next to where Remus is making tea. “Is it the city she’s worried about?” 

“It’s everything,” you admit, lingering awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. You don’t want to be in the way. “It’s the city, it’s the male roommates, it’s the Facebook post she saw about muggings…” 

“Flatmates,” Sirius corrects you from the kitchen table. “We’re not roommates, we don’t share a room. Maybe you ought to clarify that, might calm her down a bit.” 

“Flatmates,” you amend. “She does not like that I have guy flatmates. Can I help?” 

“Don’t,” says Sirius. “Remus is a control freak in the kitchen. Real finicky.” 

“I’m not finicky.” Somehow, you can tell Remus is rolling his eyes even without him turning it around. 

“You nearly took my head off over the way I cook chicken last week.” 

“The way you cook chicken nearly burned down the flat.” 

“Y/n,” Sirius says, seriously, “do as I do.” He pats the seat next to him at the table. 

You glance at James hesitantly, but he waves you off. When you join Sirius in sitting down, you forget to suppress the sigh that collapses out of you. 

Sirius tuts. “Jet lagged?” 

Lag feels too kind a word for what your body is doing to you. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna take a nap after this.” 

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “I’ve done the whole international travel thing—” 

“You’ve been to France,” says Remus drolly. “The time difference is an hour.” 

“—and it really is best to just push through,” Sirius finishes as though the interruption went unheard. “You’ll only make matters worse for yourself if you sleep now and then can’t tonight.” 

You hate how sound his logic seems. The idea of waiting at least ten hours to put your head to a pillow makes you want to cry. 

“So,” James says brightly, “what doesn’t your mum like about you having guys for flatmates?” 

Perhaps it can be chalked up to exhaustion that you have so little control over the expression that crosses your face. Luckily, James is too concentrated on his omelet to see it, but Remus isn’t; he grins at you. 

“She doesn’t really love the idea of me having roommates at all. Flatmates,” you correct yourself when Sirius gives you a look. “I think because you’re guys, she just sees it as even less safe. Don’t take it personally. Oh, thank you.” 

You accept the mug of tea Remus sets in front of you. Sirius has one already half drunk in front of him, and Remus sits down with his own, taking a long sip like it’s the most relished part of his morning. You look into the brown, half-opaque liquid skeptically. 

“Has she been this upset since you decided to live with us?” Remus asks. 

“Oh, um.” You bob your teabag aimlessly, twisting the string around your finger. “I…sort of assumed she would be. That’s why I didn’t tell her until now.” 

You don’t have to take your attention off your tea to feel the stares of all three boys snap to you. 

“You didn’t tell her?” James asks, incredulous. 

“I didn’t want to give her the chance to argue with me about it.” 

“Asking for forgiveness instead of permission.” Sirius nods approvingly, picking up his mug for a sip. “Knew I liked you.” 

James appears in distress. “Your mum’s gonna hate us!” 

“Don’t mind him,” says Remus. “He’s used to all mothers fawning over him.” 

“Not mine,” Sirius objects happily. 

“She’s across the ocean, if that helps,” you tell James. 

“I can feel her hatred crossing borders,” he says, expression growing increasingly fretful. 

“Well, all you have to do is not murder me,” you offer, “and she’ll see that she’s wrong.” 

Sirius gives an insouciant shrug. “Pay your rent on time, and we ought to be fine there. No promises, of course.”

[javen-tiger]

when i saw my sister last we were discussing the uselessness of student politics & i mentioned the misbehaviour of labor unity at the one edcon i went to, where in the plenary a speaker who used to work construction discussed how there had been a death onsite & he was penalised for taking a day off out of grief, to which the entire labor unity faction (about half the audience) laughed. well she beat me to the punch as I started speaking and said "was this the time (as above)" so apparently i witnesssed a legendary event! in any case that was so offensive that even the lilly livered labor left had to say something about it and their moderator (it was their turn) asked unity to quiet down. well labor unity all got up and left, singing their wretched version of solidarity forever (solidarity forever for the union gives us jobs) on the way out. anyway my point at this story was that because student politics is so disconnected from reality it is kind of an insane wild west where stealing votes, banning parties etc. is super overt and can illuminate the character of people who pass through that system and into real politics. or you know the trade union beaurocracy. to me it is absolutely insane that so much of the union beaurocracy should be sourced from these zero empathy private school brats, but that is a natural consequence of being tied to the labor party i guess. regardless of whatever actually being a trade union beaurocrat does to your class interest i feel like they should be sourced from the rank and file who get involved in the union & not smug idiots who went to grammar school 🙃

[adersonherra]

Naples Pride Festival in Florida amid political struggles

Naples Pridein Florida get a permit to hold its annual festival in Cambier Park this coming June.The council voted 5-2 in favor of a permit for Pride Fest on Saturday, June 7.The council action makes it clear that the indoors drag show will be open only to people who are 18 years and older. No minors will be allowed in the center during any drag show.

This year the group asked for outdoors drag shows, even if minors were present in Cambier Park. The drag events have been indoors at Norris the past two years.

Jan 15, 2025，over 50 people spoke during public comment.Those against the event expressed concerns about drag shows and the presence of children, while supporters described Naples Pride Fest as a celebration of love, acceptance, inclusion, and unity."The grooming of children, minors, for the gratification of adults, no matter the orientation, even heterosexuals, is a crime and always has been," Priscilla Gray said during a public comment period."I wish our elected officials would focus on addressing the real needs from their constituents, instead of framing it as a way to protect children," Cori Craciun said. "All while they put the entire community at risk."

Another speaker highlighted the event’s purpose: “Naples Pride Day is a day for the LGBTQ+ community to celebrate achievements, promote visibility, pursue equality and honor those who fought for LGBTQ+ rights.”

Naples Pride has filed a federal lawsuit against the City of Naples and its entities for denying the non-profit organization a special events permit to host a family-friendly drag performance in one of the city’s public parks as part of its annual Pridefest celebration.The lawsuit, filed in the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Florida, argues the First Amendment forbids the City of Naples from burdening the protected speech of Naples Pride—and the ability of its willing audience to receive that speech—because some members of the Naples community disapprove of its message.

“Before the City, emboldened by anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment, imposed unconstitutional burdens on Pridefest, Naples Pride was able to feature its family-friendly drag performance without issue for years,” said Samantha Past, LGBTQ+ Rights Staff Attorney at the ACLU of Florida. “The First Amendment ensures that viewpoint and content-based discrimination cannot infringe on freedom of speech and expression. Drag is an art form that holds great significance to the LGBTQ+ community both as a form of social commentary and celebration. Drag is constitutionally protected, even if someone doesn’t like it.”

In May 2023, Florida lawmakers enacted a law targeting drag performances, authorizing the State to revoke or suspend the operating and liquor licenses of any establishment that knowingly admits a minor, despite parental consent, to a drag performance. On June 23, 2023, a federal judge blocked Florida’s anti-drag law, finding that it likely violated the First Amendment, and it remains blocked until today. Here, the City imposed several additional restrictions beyond those required by the blocked state law.

On May 12, a federal judge ruled that Naples' restrictions on activity violated part of the First Amendment.District Judge John Steele ordered a partial preliminary injunction in Naples Pride’s ongoing lawsuit against the city, allowing the annual Pride Month drag performance to take place this year on the main stage of Naples’ Cambier Park, with all ages allowed to attend.

The annual Pridefest is the largest fundraiser for the LGBTQ+ social services nonprofit.Callhan Soldavini is a board member of and attorney for Naples Pride. She says that the ruling makes clear that city governments can’t silence free speech in the name of public safety.

The Naples city government said in a statement:“Notwithstanding the Court’s decisions yesterday, the City believes it has legal authority to grant special event permits on its property with reasonable conditions to ensure public safety. The City is currently evaluating the orders rendered yesterday and will determine its next steps.”

[harryssyndrome]

Kiwi baby! | h.s 🥝

Summery: Harry’s wife surprises him during Kiwi with the best news ever.

Word count: 3.2k || Masterlist 🍉🍓❤️

The gif and the ai image are both mine! Don’t you dare steal it! I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO USE EITHER OF THEM OR STEAL MY WORK!!!

On a kind note, I hope you enjoy reading!!! I love this one-shot sm <333 I couldn’t wait to write it the whole night ever since I got the idea. This is probably my most favorite piece of work ever. I guess I’ll make this a part of ‘Our Little World: Documentary series’. REQUEST ARE OPEN! 🌊

Posted on: November 24th, 2024. (IST)

Tag-list: @angeldavis777 @fruity-harry || TAGLIST OPEN 💌

The evening sky above the stadium was painted in deep shades of purple, and the crowd beneath it surged with energy, every soul gathered to see him perform. Harry Styles was in his element, bathed in bright lights, his smile as wide as the stage itself, his voice carrying through the open air. The music was loud, vibrant, and electric—Kiwi blasting through the speakers as Harry moved across the stage, every step laced with the confidence and excitement that only live performances could stir.

His outfit tonight was nothing short of breathtaking—a red and black Gucci harlequin-patterned suit that shimmered under the lights, accentuating his every movement. The slickness of his hair, now a little longer than usual, fell just enough to brush his forehead as he swung his body to the rhythm of the song. Fans were ecstatic, their voices harmonizing with his in perfect unity, shouting the words to Kiwi as if their very existence depended on it.

The crowd threw water at him, a playful and typical reaction to the intense heat of the show. Harry, ever the entertainer, caught one of the bottles and used it to douse them back with a mischievous grin. The energy was alive in a way only concerts could make him feel. He laughed along with his fans, feeling that familiar thrill that had kept him addicted to this life—the adoration of strangers, the pulse of the music, and the sheer joy of performing.

But amidst the buzz of lights, the sweat dripping from his skin, and the joy in the air, there was a quiet thought that kept tugging at him. YN. His wife. She wasn’t in the VIP stand like usual. He could always rely on her to be there, her smile always radiating at him from the crowd, her presence a constant comfort. But tonight, the spot where she always stood was empty. The concern he tried to shake off kept creeping into his mind, distracting him in the back of his head, even as his heart continued to race with excitement from the show.

He couldn’t help but glance over to the section where she usually sat, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face, knowing it would soothe the small, gnawing worry he felt. But the space remained empty.

His foot tapped the beat of the song beneath him, trying to focus on the crowd once more. He tossed the water bottle at the fans, his fingers brushing the cold plastic. The adrenaline kept him high, kept him in the moment, but his gaze drifted again.

Where was she?

YN had been a little quieter than usual in the past few days. He hadn’t pushed for any answers, but now he found himself wondering if something was wrong. Maybe she was feeling unwell. Maybe she just wanted to have a quiet night in. Still, the thought of not seeing her there tonight gnawed at him.

His voice still rang out with the words of the song, but his mind was divided between the stage and the empty stand. He kept looking—one eye on the crowd, the other scanning for her. And just as his next verse was coming up, he saw it.

There she was.

Right in the front row—so close to the barricade, she was almost on the stage.

His breath caught in his throat.

She wasn’t in the VIP section. No, she was right there. In the heart of the crowd. The waves of people parted like the Red Sea for her, and there she stood—holding a sign. Her figure illuminated by the stage lights, her long hair falling in waves over her shoulders, a look of pure joy and love in her eyes.

For a moment, everything else fell away—the music, the fans, the lights—all of it was distant. Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of her. The sign she held was simple, but to him, it was everything.

“I’m having your baby” it read, scrawled across a bright poster board in bold, handwritten letters.

He froze. His heart nearly stopped.

She’s pregnant.

He blinked, thinking he must be imagining it, but no—she was smiling at him now, holding up the sign for him to see, her eyes locked on his. There was no mistaking it. YN—his wife—was carrying their baby.

Harry’s pulse raced as the flood of emotions hit him. His heart thudded against his chest like it wanted to burst free. The happiness, the disbelief, the excitement—it all rushed through him like a tidal wave, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

He had wanted this. He had dreamed of this. Of being a father. Of having a child with YN. They had talked about it before, casually, in quiet moments after dinner, while walking through the park, in bed at night. But it had never been a “right now” kind of conversation. They had agreed that when it happened, it happened. And now… it had happened.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and his throat tightened. The emotions, overwhelming and beautiful, blurred his vision, but all he could do was stand there on the stage, dumbstruck by the sight of his wife, her belly now holding the future they had always dreamed of.

In a rush of pure joy, Harry stumbled forward, intent on reaching her, to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her. But as he took a step toward her, he didn’t see the puddle of water gathering at the edge of the stage, a result of the fans tossing their bottles earlier.

And then, it happened.

His foot slipped.

There was a split second of disbelief before Harry lost his footing completely, crashing down to the stage in an ungraceful heap. The crowd gasped collectively, their moment of joy paused in shock. But Harry, ever the professional, couldn’t help but laugh at himself. His laughter echoed through the microphone as he quickly scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, still chuckling as he shook off the fall. The fans laughed along with him, the tension breaking as they cheered even louder, impressed by his quick recovery. Harry took a deep breath, regaining his balance and composure. He grabbed the microphone again, still laughing, and gave the crowd a playful wink.

“You okay, Harry?” someone from the crew called out, teasing him from the side.

“Yeah, I’m good! Just a little slippery, that’s all!” Harry replied, still grinning.

His gaze immediately returned to YN. She was still standing at the barricade, her sign still held high, her face alight with joy, her smile as radiant as the sun. It was in that moment that Harry realized he couldn’t wait any longer. The song was still playing behind him, the familiar rhythm pulsing through his body, but he couldn’t focus on the lyrics anymore. Not with the overwhelming emotions flooding his heart.

He took a step forward, slowly walking toward the edge of the stage, his eyes still locked on YN, who was holding his gaze with the same intensity. With each step, his heart pounded harder in his chest.

And before he even knew it, his knees buckled beneath him, and Harry collapsed to the stage once more, but this time, it was with pure emotion.

He covered his face with his hands, unable to contain the tears that had begun to fall freely down his cheeks. After a few moments, Harry wiped his eyes, clearing the tears away as he stood up once more. His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke into the mic, his words trembling with happiness:

“My wife is having my baby!” he shouted, his voice trembling. “It’s all my business!”

The crowd erupted in pure, ecstatic noise, the roar of the fans filling the stadium as Harry remained on his knees, the overwhelming weight of the moment too much to bear. His chest was heaving, his body shaking as the reality of the news consumed him.

“Is that real?” a fan shouted.

“Yes, it’s real!” Harry replied, laughing through his tears. “I’m going to be a dad! A dad!” He repeated the words as if he needed to hear them again, the joy overwhelming every part of him.

The fans roared in approval, the noise a chaotic symphony of celebration. But Harry didn’t care about any of that now. He didn’t care about the performance or the crowd or the cameras recording every moment. All he could think about was YN.

His mind was consumed by thoughts of the future—the life they would build together, the family they would raise. He quickly stood to his feet, wiping his eyes, and glanced once more at YN.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Harry dropped the mic to the stage and sprinted toward the barricade, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Harry could feel the heat of the stage lights burning against his skin, but they didn’t matter. The noise of the crowd was deafening, but it was like a distant hum. His heart was the loudest thing he could hear, thrumming in his chest, pumping through his veins with an almost frantic rhythm. His legs carried him toward YN like they had a mind of their own. He was driven by a force he couldn’t describe, propelled by the overwhelming joy of the moment.

Fans parted for him as he made his way to the front of the stage, their cheers rising to a fever pitch as they realized what was happening. Harry didn’t hear their excitement—he only heard the steady beat of his heart, louder now than the music, than anything else in the world.

YN. His wife. The love of his life. The mother of his child.

As he approached the barricades, YN’s smile never wavered. She was grinning from ear to ear, her eyes shining with excitement, her hand placed lovingly over her flat belly. As soon as Harry reached her, he lifted her into his arms, spinning her around in a joyous embrace, laughing like a child. The crowd cheered even louder, their love for Harry and YN growing with every passing second.

She had always known that he wanted this more than anything. They both had. But now it was real. She was carrying their baby, and everything about their lives was about to change.

“YNN…” Harry’s voice caught in his throat as he reached her. He placed her back on the ground, eyes never leaving hers. She was glowing—absolutely radiant in the soft light of the stage, and he couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh as his arms reached out to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. The crowd cheered louder, but Harry only had eyes for YN, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his.

“I love you,” Harry whispered into her ear, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much. I can’t believe we’re going to be parents.”

YN pulled back slightly to look at him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart under her fingers. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her smile wide and full of joy, matching his own. “I know. I can’t believe it either,” she whispered, voice trembling just slightly. “I wanted to tell you in the cutest way possible, but you’ve already made it the most unforgettable moment of my life.”

Harry’s breath caught again, a lump forming in his throat as he looked down at her belly, still so small but already holding the life they had created together. His hands rested gently on her sides as he crouched down slightly, his eyes never leaving her. He placed his lips softly on her stomach, his kiss a promise—a vow. The fans around them cheered again, but this time, it was just background noise to Harry.

“I’m going to be the best dad for you,” Harry muttered against her belly, his voice filled with awe. “I promise.”

YN’s fingers threaded through his hair as she smiled down at him, her heart swelling with love. “I know you will be. I’ve always known,” she whispered, her voice full of faith and affection.

“You’re going to be the best dad our baby could ever ask for.”

As Harry pulled back from the kiss, he stood to his full height and stared at YN, his hands still resting on her waist, his expression filled with wonder. His lips curled into a grin, and he couldn’t resist pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before meeting her eyes once more.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a dad,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion, as if the words didn’t fully make sense to him yet. But the more he said them, the more real it became. “You and me. We’re going to have a little baby.”

YN’s eyes sparkled, the tears now freely falling down her cheeks. She looked at him with a mix of love, gratitude, and joy. She reached up to touch his face, her thumb brushing gently against the stubble on his jaw. “It’s happening, Harry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s happening.”

Harry smiled wider, and without thinking, he reached down, cupping her face with both hands. He kissed her then—slow, gentle, tender—a kiss that held all of his joy, his love, his gratitude, his hope for their future. This was more than a kiss; it was a promise, a symbol of everything they were about to become. Harry pulled away slowly, his forehead resting against hers as they both tried to catch their breath.

“I can’t wait,” Harry murmured, his lips still grazing hers as he spoke. “I can’t wait to hold our baby. To be there for you. For everything.”

The love in his voice was enough to make YN’s heart swell to bursting. He kissed her again, softer this time, and then looked back at the crowd.

Harry wrapped her in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around again as he laughed.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

YN laughed, her fingers threading through his damp curls. “I love you too. Always.”

Harry set her down gently, his hands never leaving her as he looked into her eyes. “You’re my everything, YNN. You and this baby—you’re everything.”

Tears slid down YN’s cheeks, and she nodded, her heart full. “And you’re ours.”

Harry dropped to his knees once more, pressing his lips to her stomach in a gesture so tender it made YN’s breath catch.

“Thank you for making my life so much beautiful,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “I’ll love this baby with everything I’ve got. And I’ll love you even more.”

YN’s hands rested on his shoulders, her fingers squeezing gently. “You already are, Harry.”

The evening continued around them, but for Harry and YN, time seemed to slow. The music had become a distant hum, the chatter of the fans a soft murmur in the background. All that mattered was each other.

As they stood at the barricades, Harry reached up to take YN’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. He leaned in once more, pressing a kiss to her lips, soft and slow, as if savoring every moment, every sensation. His heart felt full to bursting. He had everything he had ever wanted—YN, their love, and now, the promise of their baby.

He felt as if his entire life had led up to this point—this single, beautiful moment. The rush of emotions from earlier hadn’t yet subsided, but now there was a calmness in him, a peace. He smiled as he looked down at YN’s hand in his, then back into her eyes.

“I know we’ve been through so much already,” Harry said quietly, his voice full of emotion. “But I feel like the best part of our journey is just beginning.”

YN nodded, her smile soft and full of love. “I feel the same way.”

Harry squeezed her hand once more, then stepped back slightly, turning his attention back to the crowd. “I’m going to be a dad,” he said out loud, his voice full of awe and happiness. He turned to face the audience, the microphone still lying on the stage. “Everyone, this is the best moment of my life,” he said, his voice carrying the emotion of the words. “My wife, YN, is having my baby.”

The moment was surreal. The fans were still screaming, the cameras still rolling, but none of it mattered. For Harry, nothing would ever top this moment. It wasn’t just another performance or another stage—it was the night his greatest dream began to come true.

As they stood there together, the crowd began to chant, “Baby Styles! Baby Styles!”

Harry threw his head back in laughter, turning to wave at the audience. “You lot are mad!” he called out, but his face said it all—he was over the moon.

The crowd continued on cheering wildly, but Harry’s focus was on the woman in front of him. She was glowing, every inch of her radiating love and joy, and he couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest man alive.

He leaned in to kiss her once more, this time a gentle, loving kiss on her lips. He felt everything he had ever hoped for in that kiss—his future, his family, and the love of his life, all wrapped up in one perfect moment.

As the kiss ended, he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too,” YN whispered back.

They stood there for a moment longer, the world around them continuing on, but nothing mattered now but each other, and the new life they were about to bring into the world. Together.

The fans’ cheers faded into the background as Harry held YN’s hand tightly, the two of them standing side by side, facing the future with all the love and hope that their hearts could hold.

Harry stood up and kissed her again, his heart still racing, his mind still in a daze, but in the best way possible. His dream of being a dad was coming true, and no matter what came next, he knew he had everything he ever needed right here, in this moment. He knew one thing for sure: their love was only just beginning

And with that, Harry Styles was no longer just a rock star on stage—he was going to be a dad, and that was the greatest role he’d ever play.

[kinkyniragi]

The Cat’s Paw

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Genre: Smut 18+

Word count: 3,7k

Summary: The tension between the Shelbys and a rival family was on the verge of exploding into bloodshed. To prevent a war, the reader—daughter of Tommy’s opponent— was forced into an arranged marriage with Tommy himself. They despise the idea in different ways, but the families expect affection, smiles, and unity. In public, they kiss. In private, they clash. And somewhere between duty and desire, the hate begins to blur.

CN: Power play, forced marriage, grooming, toxic relationship, degradation, humiliation, spanking, choking, hair pulling, rough sex. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.

Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

Marriage had always looked different in your dreams.

As a little girl, you imagined falling in love first. A romantic proposal. A white dress. A family built on affection and safety, held by a man who loved and protected you.

Instead, you got this.

Life in Birmingham had never been easy. Poverty and hopelessness shadowed every street. Your father wanted more for his family and worked relentlessly to climb. Not legally—that much had been clear for a long time. But his efforts gave you a life that honest work could never have afforded.

And yet, everything came at a price.

He ruled large parts of the city from the shadows, with ties to the police and certain men in politics. The more influence he gained, the more his path clashed with that of the Shelbys, who were also expanding their reach. Tensions flared. Shaky truces were made and broken. The fights grew more violent, the stakes higher.

Both men knew that a full-scale war would cost too much—blood, men, power. So a different kind of arrangement was made. A compromise sealed in silk and ink.

You got the white dress.

You just didn’t get to choose the groom.

There had been forced marriages before, but they were usually between lower-ranking members of the families—never from the very top. This time, it was different.

This time, it was you.

And not for one of the Shelby cousins or brothers. No.

Thomas Shelby wanted you for himself.

You didn’t know everything about him—but you knew enough. Enough to try everything to stop it. You begged, argued, pleaded. It didn’t matter. Your father agreed faster than you thought possible, leaving you betrayed and powerless.

He made it clear: this was the price you’d pay for peace.

No one asked how you felt.

***

On your wedding day, you were showered in gifts—useless, gaudy things you wanted to burn. Jewelry you’d never wear. Baby clothes. Toys. Some from your own family, others from Shelbys you hadn’t even met before they appeared at the reception.

But you smiled. You played your part.

You had to.

For your mother. Your sisters. Yourself.

***

Tommy’s family had already made their expectations clear with all their hints about children. And Tommy… he made his own expectations even clearer.

You lived in comfort. Servants ran the house. You didn’t have to lift a finger.

But comfort ended at night.

Behind closed doors, there was no escaping him. Or there shouldn’t have been.

He tried, time and time again, to break you in. To make you his wife in every way. But somehow, you held the line.

For now.

He was always a little too close. Physically, at least.

Sometimes he pulled you into embraces that might’ve looked tender from the outside—if not for the weight behind them. At night, his warm, heavy body curled around you, pinning you like a lock. There were times when you weren’t sure you’d be able to leave the bed at all.

And in front of others, he performed.

The doting husband.

Because he knew you wouldn’t reject him under their gaze.

He kissed you in front of them—never just once. His lips stayed too long. His tongue tasted like a promise of what he thought was owed.

His frustration was tangible.

He was used to getting what he wanted—and the fact that he couldn’t have you, not fully, gnawed at him night after night.

It would have been naïve to believe he’d simply give up—repress a need like that.

It had to come out somewhere.

And the poisonous glances Lizzie sometimes threw your way told you more than any rumor ever could. Tommy seemed to be relaxed on these days, too relaxed. And he sometimes left you alone the night after.

It wasn’t relief you felt.

Not really.

It felt more like rejection though you knew that you were the one rejecting him.

A cold, deliberate silence where there should have been fury. Or heat. Or something.

A creeping sense of dread began to take root in you.

***

Still, most of the evenings brought the same ritual. So it was that night. His hands, searching beneath the layers of nightclothes you wore like armor. You had wrapped yourself in fabric to keep him out, but silk and cotton were no match for persistence.

Your excuses, your resistance—he began to ignore them.

He pressed his body against you, his breath heavy, his desire undeniable.

Full of greed, his hands moved closer. Closer. Until there was nowhere left to go.

You froze. A breath caught in your throat.

The hem of your nightgown was bunched around your waist, his hand between your thighs.

And then—nothing.

He stopped.

Just like that.

No violence, no words. Just a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as he pulled away and turned his back to you, muscles tense with anger.

Later that night, the sound of his breathing stirred you awake. The rustling under the blanket told you exactly what he was doing.

The scent lingered in the room long after he was done—hot, intimate, invasive.

And against your will, it stirred something in you.

Desire.

It sickened you.

Your fury was louder.

Fury at your father for selling you off. At this prison disguised as a home. At Thomas Shelby, who thought he could claim your body just because the law said you were his.

That night burned into your memory.

Not because of what happened.

But because of what didn’t.

Why had he stopped?

A man like Tommy, who never asked, never waited. A man who took what he wanted.

Why had he let you go?

It would take time before you'd understand the reason.

***

After that night, something shifted.

A part of you had stopped fighting—had resigned itself to the role.

To being the wife Tommy so forcefully demanded.

The shield you’d built so carefully—layer by layer, over weeks of fear and defiance—it began to crack.

By day and by night.

You hadn’t exactly told him he had free rein.

You hadn’t whispered yes.

But maybe… maybe you were ready.

To surrender.

Maybe even to like it.

But he didn’t see it.

Or maybe he refused to.

And that hurt more than you liked to admit.

***

His behavior had become increasingly unbearable. But knowing Tommy—emotionally distant, unreadable to the point of opacity—the idea of confronting him openly felt absurd. That simply wasn’t how things worked between you. There were no conversations between equals. Only theater for the outside world, and quiet power plays when the curtains closed.

And yet, something simmered between you—an undercurrent thicker than resentment, heavier than silence. It was tension of a new kind. Darker. More difficult to name.

At family dinners, he mastered the art of veiled attacks. Subtle jabs, laced with just enough ambiguity to go unnoticed by others—except you. Once, he called you “Lizzie” in passing. His voice didn’t falter. When you glanced up, he met your eyes and said lightly, “Old habits, I suppose. You know how much I liked things the way they were.”

Another evening, he stood in the kitchen with his brother Arthur while you set the table in the adjoining room, clearly within earshot.

“She’s improving,” he said with a slow, amused drawl. “Slowly. Like a stubborn dog with expensive taste.” Arthur laughed out loudly.

You froze mid-step, gripping a wineglass just a little too tightly.

He didn’t speak to you—he spoke about you. And when he did speak directly, it was usually to correct you. “Darling,” he said once, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder as if to soften the blow, “you’d be twice as graceful if you spoke half as often.”

You smiled thinly and bit your tongue, feeling yourself shrink behind your own eyes.

Later, he adopted a new role: the thoughtful husband. He started bringing home gifts. At first glance, the gestures seemed benign, almost casual—until you realized each item was carefully chosen to irritate, insult, or bewilder.

Once, he handed you a small box wrapped in cheerful ribbon. Inside was a novelty apron that read, “Good Girls Bake, Bad Girls Get Spanked.”

“I thought it was funny,” he said, watching your face. “You used to have a sense of humor, didn’t you?”

Another time, he didn’t give the gift directly. You found it tucked inside your nightstand: a dated etiquette book titled The Perfect Wife – Lessons in Obedience, Grace, and Domestic Discipline. The margins were filled with his handwriting. One note read:

Chapter 5 is essential reading.

You didn’t doubt for a second that he’d quiz you later.

In public, he insisted you be the picture of charm at his side—always in outfits he selected. They were never vulgar, but always walked the edge. Dresses that clung just tightly enough, necklines that dipped just low enough, heels that made your balance feel like performance art. And then he'd say in front of others, “You know, I wouldn’t have chosen that dress myself,” in a tone that suggested you had.

His comment would earn him knowing nods and the occasional chuckle from others. The implication was clear: the poor man was doing his best to keep his wife in line. You, the one on display, the woman shaped by his narrative, had no voice in the matter.

And inside, you burned—because the woman they saw, the one he painted with smirks and insinuations, didn’t exist.

***

One evening—he’d come home late again, and you were dressed only in underwear, already on your way to bed—he tossed a flat box onto the mattress with casual indifference. Black, with delicate gold ornamentation, it landed like a punctuation mark.

“Here. For you,” he said. “If you have to be my wife, one of us might as well get something out of it.”

Then he shrugged off his jacket, threw it over a chair, and left the room without another word, as though something urgent awaited him elsewhere.

Curiosity got the better of you. You opened the box.

Inside: a slip of a negligee. Black. Sheer. Laughably short. Technically, it could be called a nightgown—but it felt more like something selected from a shop that specialized in humiliation. You could almost picture the errand that Tommy placed: some underling dispatched to kind of a brothel supplies store. The thing didn’t need to be worn to do its job—it reeked of control. Of mockery. Of contempt disguised as indulgence.

What was the message? And what exactly did he mean by that line?

“One of us might as well get something out of it.”

Who, in his mind, was the someone benefitting here?

The old, buried fury at this arranged marriage flared again—but it had company now. A second fire, long smoldering, fed by every slight, every carefully administered humiliation. The two raged together inside you, mixing into something volatile.

A slow-burning, venomous cocktail. And it was nearly full.

He came back into the room with that mocking lilt in his voice.

“Well? What does my obedient little wife think of her present?”

Obedient wife?

That phrase sliced something open inside you. This game. This constant humiliation.

What gave him the right?

Enough.

You stepped forward—slow, but with a resolve that made his brow twitch.

“You want to know what I think of your gift?”

Before he could answer, you tore the negligee apart with both hands. The delicate fabric ripped, fragile as it was. The shreds fell at his feet.

"Here. Wear it, if you’re ever short on someone willing to play the butt of your little games."

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“That temper suits you. Almost makes me forget how boring you’ve been.”

Your hand flew before you even knew you meant to slap him. The crack echoed between you.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he grinned.

“You look sexy when you’re about to hit me. I mean that. Though of course, it’s not quite fitting for an obedient wife.”

You went to strike him again—but this time, he caught your wrist. Effortlessly. His grip was too tight. You twisted, furious, kicking out blindly, your breath ragged with rage.

The motion sent you crashing into him. He caught you, and suddenly the world flipped—his arms locked around you, pulling you down. You hit the floor together. He landed hard on top of you, pinning you with his weight. Your arms were trapped above your head, his fingers enclosing your wrists.

Your faces were inches apart. You could feel the heat of his breath, his body. You writhed, shouted, kicked against him, but he didn’t budge.

“It’s almost cute,” he murmured, voice low and vibrating against your skin, “how hard you try. But you really ought to learn how to handle your anger, sweetheart.”

You stared up at him, breathless, trembling—not from fear, but fury. You pulled against his hold again, and this time, he let go. Just like that.

“Go on,” he said. “Slap me again. But this time, mean it.”

And you did. With everything in you.

His head turned slightly from the force, and for a second, there was silence.

Then he laughed—soft, dark, delighted. His hands found your waist.

“Well then,” he said, voice dripping with mock gravity. “Seems you’re determined to make your husband teach you what consequences feel like.”

Before you could answer, he had lifted you off the ground and dragged you toward the bed with the same mix of casual strength and infuriating entitlement that had sparked your rage in the first place. He sat down on the edge and pulled you face down across his lap, your stomach pressing against his thighs. Without giving you a moment to catch your breath, he yanked down your panties—seams straining, then giving way with a sharp, tearing sound under his grip.

You twisted in his grip, still furious, still trembling. “Let me go.”

He didn’t.

“You said you wanted me to wear it,” he said with a stern voice. “But I think we both know who it was meant for.”

His tone wasn’t mocking now—it was lower, serious in a way that made your pulse quicken against your will. You hated that. You hated the heat rising in your face, hated how your body betrayed you even now.

He rested one hand on your lower back, steady, grounding. The other ghosted over the curve of your exposed skin, not quite touching, but making you hyper-aware of every inch of you on display.

"Seems like my little wife needs reminding," he said with maddeningly calm, "what it means to test me."

You bit your lip, but said nothing. He waited.

Then came the first smack.

Not cruel. Not painful. Just sharp enough to sting, to make you inhale through your teeth—and to make the heat rush even lower.

He paused, letting the sensation bloom. Then another. And another.

By the fourth, your fists clenched. Not from pain. From the ache building inside you, far more unbearable than the teasing punishment.

You bit down on your lip so hard you feared it might bleed.

Not a single sound slipped from your throat—you wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

Not yet. Not as long as you still had a shred of control left.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he teased you. “Where did that fire go?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for him to see your glare. “Still burning,” you growled.

He chuckled. “Good. We’re just getting started.”

More slaps followed—firm, demanding. And with every strike, your skin burned hotter, seared beneath his touch.

"Well? How do you like that?" he growled, caught in the momentum of his own fury. "I could go on for hours..."

"Please, Tommy..." you finally gave in, breath ragged—your tender flesh burned like fire, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. The real blaze was coiling deep inside you.

"Are you going to be my obedient little wife from now on?" he panted, not slowing the rhythm of his hand.

"This is ridiculous," you spat, struggling again, your voice trembling with rage. "You're not my warden."

"No," he murmured. "Just your husband. And someone..."—his voice dropped, a shade darker—"...who’s getting tired of pretending you don’t want the game you’re playing."

You froze.

He had you.

"Then do what you have to do," you managed at last, evading the weight of his accusation with careful defiance.

Before the words had even left your mouth, he moved—twisting your body, flipping you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress without effort.

His legs forced your thighs apart, unrelenting. There was no mistaking the effect your fight had on him—and this time, both of you knew he wasn’t going to leave anything simmering under the surface. Not tonight.

His hand slipped between your legs—this time it was you who couldn’t hide it anymore— with a simple touch, he exposed your desire that had disguised itself in fury.

Your eyes met his—and it was useless to look away. He saw you. All of you. As if he could read the chaos in your head, he whispered, almost gentle:

“Tell yourself it’s hate. If that helps.”

Then his mouth was on yours—your lips clashing, your tongues locked in something raw and hungry, with soft bites in between. Just wild enough to preserve the pretense of anger. Just careful enough to push the unbearable attraction between you both to its very edge—into bittersweet torture. And when he finally sank into you, inch by inch, it was like a dam breaking— your involuntary, half-sobbed moan tearing free after far too long held back.

Tommy smirked, dark and satisfied, almost wicked, as he moved his hips with practiced precision—hitting every spot that made your breath catch and your body quake.

Your hands found his shoulders, nails raking down his back in protest or desperation—you weren’t sure anymore. His low, guttural groan told you he welcomed the pain—that the sharp bite of it only fueled his own pleasure to something near unbearable. He pushed harder, forced you to feel the contradiction of resistance and release.

Every time he felt one of you nearing the edge, he slowed down—agonizingly, deliciously—stretching the tension to something addictive, utterly out of your control. You desperately arched your back, but when your hips shifted to meet him, he pulled back slightly, just to watch your frustration mount. The needier you were, the harder he got.

Now you knew for certain—though, deep down, you’d always felt it: you had married a maddeningly good lover with a body hotter than hell and the devil’s appetite for slow destruction. He didn’t just crave your pleasure; he savored the torment that led to it, feeding off the tension like it was his favorite sin. He would take you for hours, not just to possess you, but to ruin every inch of you, until you beg him to let you finally come around his cock. A man who needed you to become putty in his hands, exhausted, trembling, crying, until he had fucked you senseless, nothing more than a sobbing mess in his arms. Intimacy as a means of power, you always hated it but—

His hand slid into your hair, tightening until your breath caught, forcing your head back so you had no choice but to look at him.

“You’re not used to giving in without a fight,” he panted, eyes locked on yours. “You crave the passion, the friction—the illusion that you might just slip away untouched. But we both know how the game of cat and mouse ends. And you wear surrender so damn well.”

You bared your teeth at him, breath hitching as his hips pressed forward again. “Maybe I just like seeing how far you’ll chase me before I stop running,” you gasp.

He chuckled low in his throat and leaned in, teeth grazing your neck, nipping just enough to sting. Then his hand slid to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there with perfect tension while his eyes scanned you closely, attuned to the faintest twitch, the smallest betrayal of control, as his hand tightened ever so slightly around your throat.

"Nice try, little mouse. But it’s still the cat who decides when the chase ends."

And something between you shifted—subtle but unmistakable. The fire of fury dulled into heat of a different kind. What had started as a clash of wills, razor-edged and reckless, softened into a twisted kind of play. Lust overtook rage, and the tension turned electric—still sharp, still dangerous, but no longer at war. A faint smile ghosted across his lips.

“You can tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

And when the heat inside finally surged past the point of no return, it tore through you like a storm—loud, unrepentant, nothing left to hide. He followed, a growl escaping against your skin, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he needed to anchor himself.

For a moment, you were both still, hearts hammering, breath tangled.

Then he leaned back just enough to look at you, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I should piss you off more often,” he said, voice hoarse but amused.

It hit you then—the provocation, the smirk, the carefully chosen words to hurt you. None of it had been thoughtless. He wanted the fire. Needed the fight. Not a quiet, distant wife—but you. Angry, wild, unwilling to yield unless it meant something.

And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly what you needed too.

***

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[madridnoora]

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Pedri - The Manager's Daughter II

⋆｡˚Pairing - pedri x fem!reader

౨ৎ Summary - You haven't seen Pedri in months, not since that night in Madrid but the day you had been dreading approaches. It's your fathers first El Clasico, and of course he made you attend.

⋆｡˚Word Count - 3.7k

౨ৎ Warnings - angst!, yearning!, forbidden romance! suggestive content.

part one - the manager's daughter.

౨ৎ

The santiago bernabeu was electric, the air so thick with tension and rivalry. El clasico was so much more than just a game, the green turn was no longer a field but a battleground. The centre stage where pride, history and passion all collided.

You sit in the family section beside your mother and siblings, just behind the home bench of your father's team Real Madrid, with a pounding heart because tonight is the night.

It's been five months since you left that room on a summer morning in Madrid, after you had spent the night with him. "Spent the night' seems like an understatement because it stained you for much longer than that. If felt much more than that. He opened you up and found you that night. Lost souls bonding. And then you left like it meant nothing, because it couldn't mean anything. You're white, he's blue and garnet. You're forbidden, off limits. Two bodies that should have never touched.

But you did, and now you're here, sat in a white top with Mbappe on the back and a Real Madrid scarf wrapped around your neck to protect your skin from the kiss of winter.

You tried to get out of coming, tried to make up any excuse but none of it worked. You're father was adamant you be here to support him and you're mother agreed citing the importance of family unity.

For the past five months, you have thought of him every night. Even when you tried your hardest not too. Even when you were wrapped in the arms in another man. The guy you were casually seeing, the one you picked up off a cringey dating app to try and distract yourself from him.

Pedri.

Fucking Pedri.

He came it to your life like a dark storm and destroyed everything in it with his stupid honey coloured eyes, and his stupid lips and the stupid way he touched you like nobody else could.

You bite at your nails, the ones you painted white in the spirit of tonights game. You foot bops up and down and you feel sick thinking about seeing him. In a way you just want to get it over with, see him, feel that gravitational pull of lust and whatever the other strange feeling is that lingers in your chest, then never see him again.

The lights of the stadium illuminates the green turf and the stands which are full of white shirts. Anticipation looms as Hala Madrid! plays through the speakers and the crowd thunders out the words. It's so loud you can feel it beating in your chest. You've never been in an atmosphere like it.

When the players begin to exit the tunnel, you stand up and applaud like everyone else in the stands.

You can't help but smile with pride when you see your father lead them out in his suit and tie. His face so unemotional and focussed, you never usually saw him like that because at home he was just your dad and not football legend Xabi Alonso. That cold look breaks when he comes to stand in the managers box just in front of where you're sat, and his straight lips jump into a proud smile. You wave quickly, because even though your now twenty one you will always be his little girl. His favourite child although he would never admit it.

You don't notice, but Pedri is watching you. His jaw slacked the moment he saw you as he lined up for the anthems and handshakes.

The feeling he had laid awake craving for the past five months came flooding back into the marrow of his bones.

That hunger, that lust, that passion and the ache to touch your soul again.

His eyes trailed you up and down as you stood to give your dad a wave and a quick thumbs up, he knew you had not seen him and he took advantage of it. You're hair was slicked back into a bun, you're skin glowing under the white floodlights rather than the red lights in a club. A real madrid scarf wrapped around your neck, that hurt but it was too be expected.

The jersey hurt more.

Number 9. Mbappe's.

Real Madrid's princess in the jersey of Real Madrid's starboy.

Jealousy and borderline anger swirls in his stomach, the feeling aching his organs. His clenches his hands, only briefly, a fist balled and gone in seconds. His jaw tightens and he rolls his neck out.

Where you and Mbappe a thing? It would make sense. A perfect couple.

Pedri has to close his eyes, and looks away from you. He can't handle it. You make him feel so much of everything. You frustrate him, but you also excite him. He can't tell if he hates you or wants to have you. Maybe it's both. He thinks it's both.

He lets out a big puff of air and locks his mind onto winning this game because if you are dating Mbappe, Pedri is going to make sure to embarrass him in front of you.

In the stands, your eyes drift to him but he's not looking at you. He's focussed and his thick brows are so furrowed that he almost looks angry. His jaw is stiff and sharp, it makes you remember kissing it. His stubble is slightly grown out and it's making you almost purr. Your bodies reaction betraying your mind.

It's all coming back, the memories of that night. The way he felt inside you, and the way he nipped at your skin with your teeth. The way he grunted and groaned your name like it was his gospel.

Lust lingers beneath the surface of your skin like a vibration. Frustration burns it.

You smooth the jersey you're wearing just to give your hands something to do.

A few moments later, the whistle blew and the game kicked off.

The match began. The match in the centre of your chest lit.

You tried to stop your eyes drifting to number 8, but it's hard to stop the pull of a two magnets. You watched as he controlled Barcelona's tempo with every pass and creation of every play. His vision of the game and his skill on the ball was breathtaking or maybe that was just because of how much seeing him made you want him again. He captivated you, and not just with the memories of his tongue running across your flaming skin but with the way he seemed to breath football. The ball was merely an extension of him, connected and controlled.

Minutes felt like hours with the tension in the stadium. This game was so personal, so much more. So much history.

Your father was yelling on the sideline, your hands were in a prayer shape over your plump nude lips. You wanted him to win so bad, wanted your dad to prove to the world just how good you knew he could be.

But Barcelona were making it difficult, Pedri was making it difficult.

He was running riot in the midfield. Interceptions left and right, putting pressure on the boys in white. He even managed to outskill Mbappe at one point. He was giving the best performance of his career. It made you shift in the plastic seat, brushing the white jersey again. Number 9 on your back in black because it was the closest to Number 8.

When half time came, the score was 0-0 but the game had been far from boring. It was so intense, chance after chance, shot after shot. In all honesty it was a goalkeeping masterclass on both sides.

Blood would be drawn but it would come in the second half.

You father didn't even look up as he walked into the tunnel making your brows furrow in sadness. Once you watched him go, your eyes looked back without much thought.

They caught the honey brown orbs of Pedri.

He was watching you already, because when you were near him he couldn't help himself.

Everything fades into a low humming, a ringing in your ears and all you can feel is the strong thrum of your beating heart. You swallow the lump wedged in your throat.

Pedri lifts a gloved hand and wipes the sweat from his forehead, he had just put in the greatest first half of his career. The spanish newspapers already writing their article for tomorrow, but he wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about you and how he was doing it all just to impress you, just to make sure you realised Mbappe was the wrong guy.

Pedri dropped his eyes first, his own heart pounding more now than it had been after running on the field for forty five minutes straight. Why was it you, the one girl in the world that was off limits, that made him feel this way? His body alive with current and tingling under your doe eyed gaze.

When he saw you it was like being cracked by lightening.

Ignited and sparked.

He walked into the tunnel with his head down, ready to focus back on the game. He needed to win, there was no excuse and everything was still left to play for.

The bernabeu was deafening as it stood around her at the beginning of the second half. The chants, the whistles every time a rival player touched the ball. The place beat with a heart of it's own. White scarfs twisting like small tornados as fans tried to increase the energy of their boys in white.

You sat still. Even though all around you were stood. Pedri's eyes had struck you still. It hurt to look at him and you wondered if it hurt him to look at you.

You played with the tassels of your scarf just to give your hands something to do other than shake.

The camera's panned to you and your family for only a few moments, on the outside you were thankful you looked calm, poised even. A lifted chin and a face filled with pride rather than worry. You looked like the daughter of a legend, but inside you were coming undone by a boy with the potential to be one.

You sit yearning just to feel him again. Your body needs him like flowers need the sun.

In the fifty fourth minute, it happened.

Pedri, with the ball at his feet, danced passed defenders finding gaps that no one else could see. Fluid and precise. He took a shot, outside the box, and the ball soared into the top corner of the net with such powerful force. It was a perfect goal.

A goal that sent the stadium into a stunned silence. Shouts only coming from the Barcelona fans in the away section.

You stood too in nothing but disbelief. You breaths heavy, your chest rising up and down.

You watched him sprint towards the corner flag with his tongue out and arms wide in celebration. His teammates swarmed him. Slapping him on the back and offering him passionate hugs.

It was displayed on the big screen, his smile and his flushed cheeks. His usually puffy hair wet and sticking to the sheen of his forehead. It was cruel of god to make an untouchable man so attractive. It was like some sort of sick joke, like the universe was teasing you. Dangling something you can't have, not in public anyway.

That dull ache bloomed in you're chest like something so fatal, hiding in the creases carved between your ribs.

When Pedri was let free by his teammates, he looked at you and winked. Smugly. So handsomely. It made your stomach flip and your cheeks flush. He's flirting with you so boldly, openly and in front of your father but in a way that only you two would know.

He knows you're watching him, that you have been the whole game and that he's playing the most incredible football he ever has.

He feels unstoppable. He feels like he's got you. He feels like he's just sealed the games fate. He's on top of the world.

But then he's not.

Because minutes later, the man whose name you wear on your back scored. Mbappe's retaliation is beautiful and satisfying. It wipes the smile of Pedri face. It creates a scowl instead, especially when he sees you jump up from your seat and scream in glee filled celebration.

You gave Mbappe a celebration you could never give him.

That jealousy rattled him again. More forceful this time. He yelled into his hands, Spanish swear words flying into his palms in annoyance. Barcelona's defence has switched off, in a game where they had to be on all the time.

Barcelona had to do better if they wanted to destroy their rivals on their home turf.

And after the score turned 1-1, they did do better.

A new life struck them.

The game became even more fierce, and even more fast paced. Gavi thundered into tackles, Bellingham danced the ball with brilliance. Tensions built and built. Words spitting, yellow cards being flashed left and right.

You held your breath when Pedri ended up in an altercation with Mbappe. Hands pushing chests, foreheads pressing foreheads. Players separating them. And even though you're in the stands, you some how feel like you're in the middle of it. That Pedri's frustration comes from the fact you're in another man's jersey.

The game continued on.

Barcelona scored again, a rebound off the woodwork and flicked in by the experienced Lewandowski.

Then, they scored their third in the dying minutes of the game. An incredible volley from the young yamal. It hit the net like a bullet shot from a gun.

The bernabeu was deflated, your father was deflated. Thousands of people sunk back into their seats, head buried in the scarfs they were once swinging. Bitterness lingered in the air, Barcelona had got the best of them tonight.

The final whistle blew. Real Madrid's heads dropped while the men in blue and garnet jumped all around the field in celebration.

You stood up, gathering your things and following your family into the hallways of the stadium to wait for your father to finish his job. Usually, you would just leave but you're mother said it was important to stay and support him on a difficult night, so you stayed. You waited while he went through all his press obligations and as he tried to pick up the spirit of his beaten players.

The rest of the stadium had emptied. The corridors eerily quiet as the fans left. You were walking around aimlessly and with boredem, not really knowing where your feet were taking you but it was more entertaining than sitting in a waiting room staring at a blank wall.

You walked for a little longer until the noise of studs pull yours eyes in a direction.

You have to scoff, because who else would it be.

Pedri.

You don't know where you are in the stadium but you get the feeling you're on territory you shouldn't be because he looks shocked and he's shirtless with damp curls and droplets of water trailing down his toned stomach. Some loose black shorts around his waist and a water bottle in his hand.

Flashes of you on top of him cross your mind but you shake them away.

You felt the sparks flying. You felt his steel hit your flint.

You both stood, paused like you were both scared to move. The silence stretched on, the tension thickening in the air like a morning fog.

Then, he smirked. That stupid fucking smirk. The one of quiet confidence, the one which tells you that he remembers the effect he has on you. The one which tell you that he knows five months hasn't changed a single thing.

His eyes flicker to your jersey.

"Tough luck, Princess," His voice is hoarse and raw, full of charged emotion and arrogance.

You lean on a cocked hip, trying not to stare at his abs.

"You'll lose next time," You say, holding your chin high.

He laughed.

"I'm serious, we'll be better next time," You continue with a furrowed brow.

He looked at you, actually more through you than anything.

"We," He repeated. "Is he, we?,". His tone straightens as he nods to the nine in the centre of your stomach.

"Well, he plays for my dad, so yes,"

"Does he play for more?," You know what he's asking for you and you can't tell if you hate it or love it. You know it makes you hot under the scarf that now feels too tight around your neck, but is that from attraction or anger.

"I told you footballers aren't my thing, I meant that." You tell him with tight lips.

"Si, and then we fucked," He shrugged.

You're jaw dropped, like he had just slapped you. It was arrogant and rude, and your stomach betrayed you by flipping.

"Fuck you,"

Pedri licked his teeth holding back a smile because he loved to see you this wound up. The way your cheeks were tinted with a rose, and the small crease between your eyebrows. The slight vein on the side of your head poking under the smooth skin.

He moved slightly closer, and it was beginning to feel like the club hallway all over again but he's already shirtless. No alcohol to blame either. Just you and him. The raw energy of something forbidden sizzling between you.

You can smell him, he's freshly showered and lingers of jasmine. The cardamon and grapefruit cologne sticking sweetly to his skin.

"You already did," He smiles under his breath because at heart he's still just a boy.

"You're so immature," You roll your eyes, then blinking hard trying to will away the heat between your thighs. Not here. It can't be here. "and annoying," You add on.

He keeps moving closer, backing you to a wall.

"Keep talking dirty," His eyes now gleaming with something like primal hunger and possession.

"God, you're insufferable sober,"

Your back hit the cold wall.

"Then walk away," He challenges.

You stay put because you can't do it, even though your mind wants to your body betrays you in every way.

"Exactly," Pedri whispers with nothing but ego as he inches closer to you, his arm pressing to the wall above your shoulder.

Your whole body was tense, because you knew he wasn't bluffing. You knew that look in his eye -- wild and focused, the same way he looked at you in the club and beneath him in the dark bed sheets you gripped onto.

"I hate you," You whisper against his lips.

"You don't, and that is what you hate,"

Then, like deja vu, he crashed his lips into your again in the middle of your father stadium. You fall into him like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Your hands in his air, his on your hips. You've done it all before but it will never get old.

This feeling would never die.

When you pull apart you're breathless. So is he. You're hands are resting on his bare chest and you can't help the way you're smiling.

"Give me your phone," You order him quickly and quietly, scared of who could come round the corner at any moment.

You type in the address to the studio apartment you had began renting in the cities suburbs. A private sanctuary away from home, one that your father pays half the rent for. That makes this even more wrong.

"It's my place, come at midnight and don't let anyone see you" You spoke quickly, then you push him back and adjust your jersey. You bring a finger and wipe around you lips to rid any smudged lipstick. Then you walk away, not looking back.

He watches you because you're unbelievable and everything you do makes his head a dizzying mess.

Midnight.

Only a few hours away.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Your apartment was dark, only lit by a few candles when you heard the knock on the door. Not too loud, not too desperate -- just enough to let you know he was here.

You hesitated a few seconds before you opened the door. Not wanting to seem like you were eager or like you had been waiting for him on the couch for thirty minutes.

00:21

That was the time. He was twenty one minutes late. You thought he wasn't coming at one point but no he just wanted you to wait. Teasing you before he had even arrived.

You answered the door in a grey sweatshirt and some brandy melville teddy bear shorts. Your legs smooth and bare from the shower you had taken. You hair now down and wavy, slightly messy around your bare face.

He stood on the other side with the hood of his black hood up and hiding his face. His hands in the pockets of his grey sweats.

You're purring inside.

You step to the side to let him in and shut the door behind him.

The charged tension is back in the atmosphere around, lingering like a rain cloud about to break free.

It's just you and him now. No jerseys, no football. Just two people trying not to give in to something so obvious.

It was awkward for a few seconds, neither of you wanting to make the first move but when it gets to much and too overwhelming he break its.

He kissed you again with that same passion he always seemed too. A sensual mix of heat, hunger and tenderness.

You fell apart in his arms as you made your way to the bedroom, ripping off each others clothes on the way. Panting breaths and hushed moans the only noise in the place.

Before you can even catch a breath, he's inside you and it feels like home. You're biting at his shoulder to keep quiet, he's grunting into the hair covering your ear. You're skin is sticky with a light sweat.

It goes on like that all night. Different positions, coming undone for him each time, over and over.

Then you fall asleep in his arms, until the morning light wakes you up.

This time, you can't run and Pedri is still here.

The air feels different than last time, like this meant something more.

Like something had snapped into place and you were set on a path you could never stray from.

Like you and Pedri had just become a dirty little secret fated to exist again and again.

౨ৎ

(a/n - let me know if you want this series to continue :P)

[reasonsforhope]

Article

"The Democratic Party largely coalesced around Vice President Harris as its likely new presidential nominee on Monday [July 22, 2024], as she kicked off her campaign by promising to prosecute a forceful case against Republican nominee Donald Trump and defend the legacy of President Biden.

Hours after she delivered remarks laying out some of the themes of her campaign, Harris secured pledges of support from a majority of Democratic National Convention delegates, a forceful show of unity behind her presidential campaign that signals she is likely to officially become the party’s nominee next month.

“Over the next 106 days, we are going to take our case to the American people, and we are going to win,” Harris said during a visit to campaign headquarters in Wilmington, Del., where she was greeted by a group of energized staffers for Biden’s now-abandoned candidacy. Harris accused Trump of wanting to “take our country backwards to a time before many of our fellow Americans had full freedoms and rights.” She added, “we believe in a brighter future that makes room for all Americans.”

Biden dialed into the impromptu meeting, using his first public remarks after dropping out of the presidential race Sunday to thank his staff and ask them to support Harris with “every bit of your heart and soul.”

“The name has changed at the top of the ticket, but the mission hasn’t changed at all,” said Biden, who joined remotely from Rehoboth Beach, where he has been recovering from a case of covid. “We still need to save this democracy. Trump is still a danger to the community. He’s a danger to the nation.”

The high-energy, highly unified setting reflected the broader sentiment across the Democratic Party, in which Harris’s swift ascendancy has upended an already tumultuous and unpredictable presidential race. After being exhausted by weeks of turmoil and infighting over Biden’s prospects, relieved and newly energized Democrats across the country rushed to embrace Harris’s candidacy and unite around the goal of defeating Trump.

Less than 36 hours after Biden abruptly exited the race and endorsed Harris as his successor, hundreds of state delegates, the majority of Democratic lawmakers and governors, a group of state party chairs, and several influential interest groups threw their support behind Harris, as other potential candidates said they would not challenge her. Top congressional leaders followed suit, with Senate Majority Leader Charles E. Schumer (D-N.Y.), House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries (D-N.Y.) and former House speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) expressing support for Harris on Monday.

While a small number of Democrats have advocated an open, competitive process, Harris appeared to have an inside track Monday to quickly securing the nomination ahead of the party’s convention next month...

After celebrating the extended infighting and discord that plagued Democrats in the aftermath of Biden’s halting performance at the June 27 debate, Trump’s allies watched Monday as Democratic leaders quickly fell in line behind Harris.

“I’m excited to fully endorse Vice President Harris for the next president of the United States,” Kentucky Gov. Andy Beshear (D) said Monday on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe” program. “The vice president is smart and strong, which will make her a good president, but she’s also kind and has empathy, which can make her a great president.” ...

Democratic Govs. Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan, J.B. Pritzker of Illinois and Wes Moore of Maryland also endorsed Harris on Monday, joining a growing list of potential rivals for the nomination that instead opted to endorse her candidacy. Govs. Gavin Newsom of California and Josh Shapiro of Pennsylvania, each considered potential candidates, both endorsed Harris on Sunday.

Democratic leaders on Monday unveiled a new virtual process for selecting a nominee to replace Biden that would conclude by Aug. 7, ahead of the nominating convention in Chicago next month. The dates for the virtual process will be announced on Wednesday.

The private doubts about Harris’s vulnerabilities and less-than-impressive polling numbers largely remained unspoken Monday as Democrats appeared eager to consolidate around a candidate and head off a messy competition for the nomination 106 days before the Nov. 5 election. During her visit to campaign headquarters in Wilmington, Harris was greeted by more than 100 staff members who gave her a standing ovation. The room was covered in newly printed signs that read “Harris for President,” though at least one lingering “Biden-Harris” sign stood as a testament to how rapidly the presidential race had shifted.

Campaign aides said more than 28,000 new volunteers had signed up to lend support, more than 100 times the typical number. Harris, who has been traveling around the country, planned to continue her campaign travel this week.

Trump had built an advantage in polls of key swing states and has at times appeared frustrated with Biden’s exit from the race, lamenting Sunday that he had to ��start all over again” after long focusing on Biden...

Harris’s operation raised a record $81 million in the first 24 hours after Biden dropped out and endorsed his vice president, aides said. A group of tens of thousands of Black women gathered on a virtual call Sunday evening to showcase their support for Harris’s bid to become the first woman of color to be president...

Harris has already begun leaning into her background as a prosecutor and state attorney general as she began to cast the race against Trump in a new light.

“In those roles I took on perpetrators of all kinds,” she said. “Predators who abused women, fraudsters who ripped off consumers, cheaters who broke the rules for their own gain. So hear me when I say I know Donald Trump’s type.”"

-via The Washington Post, July 22, 2024

[blackstarlineage]

Brother Khalid Abdul Muhammad (1948–2001) was a prominent African-American activist and orator known for his unapologetic views on race and social justice. He was a fiery speaker and a great figure in the fight against systemic racism and oppression.

Khalid Muhammad was born Harold Moore Jr. in Houston, Texas. He attended Dillard University in New Orleans, where he studied theology. Later, he furthered his studies at Pepperdine University in California. It was during his college years that he became involved with the Nation of Islam (NOI).

Khalid Muhammad rose to prominence within the Nation of Islam as a minister and a top aide to Louis Farrakhan. He became the National Spokesman for the NOI and was known for his powerful speeches advocating black empowerment, self-reliance, and resistance against white supremacy. However, his incendiary remarks, particularly in a 1993 speech at Kean College, led to his suspension from the Nation of Islam.

After leaving the NOI, Khalid Muhammad became active in the New Black Panther Party (NBPP), an organization that claims ideological lineage to the original Black Panther Party but with distinct differences such as being more pan african centred. He became the group's chairman in 1998, using his leadership to expand its platform of black empowerment and militant resistance to racial injustice.

The NBPP, under Khalid Muhammad's leadership, was known for its radical and militant stance. It advocated for black self-defense, reparations for slavery, and independence from systemic oppression. Critics, including members of the original Black Panther Party, accused the NBPP of distorting the original Panthers' legacy and focusing more on confrontational rhetoric.

Khalid Muhammad's speeches often emphasized black pride, self-determination, and unity. Khalid Muhammad supporters viewed him as a fearless advocate for the black community. His death in 2001 from a brain "aneurysm" marked the end of a contentious but impactful career in activism.

[thewalrusespublicist]

SO as mentioned I went for a gander about Paul's political leanings and found this fantastic interview with Paul and an old friend.

It's full of good info but I'll put some of the greatest hits here:

The interviewer (Jonathan Power) met Paul when they were at school together at the Liverpool institute and became distant friends when Paul made him feel welcome as a new starter. He apparently never forgot Paul's kindness

Didn't realise just how academic the Liverpool institute was (according to this, one alumni has won the nobel prize).

Jim McCartney was partially deaf which made him unfit for WW2 service

Aforementioned Paul attacking a ram for butting one of his children due to his 'animal instinct', but nominally he's a pacifist

Was in New York at 9/11 and was on a plane that morning but was grounded due to the towers being on fire

His version of promoting political views at school was reaching people through music. He tells this adorable anecdote of Paul standing on the desk in history class singing Long Tall Sally and George bringing his guitar :). (Jonathan remembers the day Paul did that!)

Power shutting down Paul's normal-bloke-didnt-know-what-I-was doing routine to say that Paul was one of the brightest boys in the class

Anti-colonial baby Paul arguing with the coloniser guest speaker in class you love to see

The interviewer is kinda like 'why didnt you solve all of Britians problems?!?' and like ... I love the Beatles and they were super important but they also were just four guys

The Beatles not advocating for gay rights as it 'didn't come up'. Sure.

Paul wrote to the Dalai Lama to tell him off for eating meat and the Dalai Lama said it was okay because you shouldn't get too attached to anything lmaoo

At the time of this (2009) Paul was definetely pro Palestine and was touring to try to work for better unity between the Palestinians and the Israelis

He's very secretive about what he donates but he assures the interviewer its more than people accuse him of

He kept in touch with his old English teacher Alan Durband and credits Eleanor Rigby on him teaching him structure.

Near the end he gives this really nice anecdote about hearing people play his music in America

Let me tell you a little story to finish with. I was on a holiday recently in Long Island where I have a little sailboat and this nice lady lets me keep it on her beach. I just sail out very quietly on my own in the boat—me, the wind and the sail; it is a great balance to my high visibility life. As I was setting the boat up there was a group of guys just down the beach and I heard them singing. It was a quiet beach; there was nobody on it except me and them. I was just there staying with my girlfriend. I listened and it sounded so tuneful that I approached, and as I got closer I realised it was my song "Eleanor Rigby" they were singing. I just stood there until they finished and it was great, it was a beautiful arrangement—they turned out to be the Princeton Glee club. And when they finished I applauded them and said, "Can you imagine me as a kid in Liverpool, someone telling me that there would be an a cappella group of young men singing one of my songs on a beach in Long Island in America? It's uncanny.

Paul talking to Jonathan Power, 2009

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Shoto's First Kiss Chapter 9 Update

Okay so Shoto's First Kiss Chapter 9 is almosttttt done! I've just about finished writing it out but it's gonna need hella edits, so expect it to drop next weekend or Valentine's day weekend? Thanks for your patience here all! It will be a 40-50 page chapter. There's a lot to cover!!!

Posting a snippet of Chapter 9 below as a holdover - the plot is ofc subject to change! But want you to enjoy a lil dramaaaa while you wait! :)

“Well…” Toru says nervously into the phone.

“What?” Hitoshi says blankly, turning to you for an explanation about your friend’s uneasiness with that piece of the plan.

“So. Um. Mineta didn’t volunteer to be our distraction out of the kindness of his heart.” You say awkwardly as Hitoshi’s tired eyes bore into your own. “We promised him that he’d get to kiss me in exchange for his services as bait for Mr. Vlad.”

“Damn. Offering sexual favors in exchange for services rendered? You guys are way more hardcore than I thought.” Hitoshi actually looks impressed. “So hopefully Mineta didn’t say anything about that fun little bargain to Mr. King after he got caught. Sexual Quid Pro Quo is definitely grounds for some kind of legal action or punishment.”

The blood in your veins goes cold. Shit.

“But it was his idea!” Mina shrieks through the phone’s tiny speakers. You wince at the sound. You feel shaky like you might start crying again.

“Yeah but you all agreed to it. And Mineta held up his end of the bargain. This could be really bad if the school found out about it.”

Neito mouths something angrily on the screen and the corner of Hitoshi’s mouth quirks upwards fondly.

“Neito…you’re on mute, babe.” He says in that gravely voice of his.

Monoma quickly unmutes himself and repeats what he was saying:

“But it’s only a kiss! It’s not like we promised Y/N would sleep with him or anything!” He says, gesturing wildly. His face is a bit pink in response to Hitoshi’s using such an unexpected term of endearment.

“It doesn’t matter…you still made a trade of a physical favor for a service. I don’t know what kind of punishment they’d slap you with, but this sort of thing would definitely rub the UA administration the wrong way if they found out about it. Let’s just hope Mineta didn’t say anything too incriminating. I can stop by his dorm and ask him before I got to bed, if you’d like.” Hitoshi smirks. “I think he’s afraid of me, so I’d probably be the best person to do it.”

“Could you, please?” You say in a strained voice. Hitoshi looks over and sees how pale you’ve gone, he awkwardly pats your shoulder in what he must think is a reassuring way.

“Yeah, for sure. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He retracts his hand from your shoulder and gives you a thumbs up.

“Alright. I think we’ve mostly got our story straight. Don’t mention the alcohol. Don’t mention me needing to kiss Mineta. Don’t mention Hatsume. Don’t mention Spin The Bottle. Say we wanted to throw a game night to promote unity and bonding between Classes A and B. We good?” You quickly recap, counting off your fingers as you make each statement. “Dang, that’s a lot to keep track of.”

Everyone nods to confirm that they’re aligned (Toru doesn’t say anything to indicate that she’s not aligned, so you assume she’s invisibly nodding).

A message appears at the top of your phone screen from Shoto, a tiny preview of his text reads out in a bubble:

Shoto: You doing alright?

You quickly move to swipe the bubble away, hyperaware that Hitoshi can see any message that flashes across your screen. You quickly remind yourself that it’s not weird for your classmates to check up on you -  you’re one of the party ringmasters, after all! And the message Shoto had sent was completely innocent, so…

Another message from Shoto scrolls across the screen as Toru rattles off a list of questions for Hitoshi to ask Mineta. You try to swipe the message away but you accidentally pull up the text screen over your friend’s FaceTime faces.

Shoto: This sounds awful to say, but getting to sneak away with you to the janitor’s closet almost makes getting caught worth it.  

You swipe desperately to get the text screen to disappear and after a moment succeed. Toru is still speaking, saying something about Hatsume’s drones. You throw a terrified glance at Hitoshi’s direction. He’s looking at you, violet eyes wide with shock. His eyebrows are comically far up his forehead.

Oh yeah, he definitely just got a glance at Shoto’s text.

Oh God. Now he knows.

“Alright, Hagakure.” Hitoshi quickly turns back to the screen and nods in agreement at whatever your friend is saying. His facial expression instantly falls back to neutral –his eyebrows relaxing and his eyes narrowing back to their usual lazy squint. You stare straight ahead and try to keep all of your blood from rushing to your face. You feel hot all over but in a bad way. You don’t know Hitoshi super well, but you know he’s a good person. He wouldn’t spill your biggest secret to the world, right?

Hitoshi seemingly ignores you as he continues talking into the FaceTime. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Alright, I’ll ask him all of that. I think we’re all on the same page – get a good night’s sleep everyone.”

Good nights are exchanged, and one by one your friends drop off the call. Hitoshi clicks off your phone so that the screen goes back. He slowly turns to you, his expression still uncharacteristically surprised.

His voice is as even and measured as ever when he says:

“Holy shit, Y/N. How long have you been fucking Shoto Todoroki?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HAHAHAHAA Okay so yeah that's part of Chapter 9! I'll keep plugging away and hopefully will have it your way soon! For now, here's the rest of the series to catch up on <3

Shoto's First Kiss Series so far:

Part 1: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋

Part 2: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 2

Part 3: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 3

Part 4: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 4

Part 5: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 5

Part 6: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 6

Part 7: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 7

Part 8: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 8

XOXO,

Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

P.S. Here's the link to my 🔥Master List! 🔥 I just posted a new story feat. a super hot and mushy Touya Todoroki if you're into that sort of thing: Touya Todoroki: Sexy Uber Driver!? | Touya x Reader AU Imagine 🌶 💕

[fandomsandfeminism]

Jordan Reverses Himself and Will Push for a Third Speaker Vote

Here is the recap-

Republicans, continuing their tradition of playing stupid games and being shocked when they win stupid prizes, kicked Kevin McCarthy out of his post of Speaker of the House.

For context, Kevin McCarthy had a fucking awful time getting the job back in January, needing like 15 tries and a bunch of stupid placating and bootlicking the MAGA nuts. An incredible moment in US history. So many memes. Republicans almost getting into fist fights on the floor on the House. Embarrassing Chaos. and they STILL FUCKING KICKED MCCARTHY OUT. AFTER ALL THAT. (Probably because he compromised with Democrats to temporarily fund the government while they argued about the budget) Embarrassing.

They fire McCarthy with no backup plan. To be clear, this is intentional. The MAGA fuckers want to break the government. Also no one wants to be Speaker. It's an awful job.

Ok, so then they have to decide who will be the new speaker. Trump suggests Jim Jordan. There is a secret republican ballot. Jordan loses to some other guy (Scalise.) Ha.

Once it's time for the real vote (with the democrats and all)- unity shatters and Scalise can't carry the vote. He says he doesn't want it anymore.

So fine, Jim Jordan. Let's go.

He loses.

A bunch of Republicans hate him. He is suuuuper implicated in Jan 6 and is a scumbag.

He tries again.

He loses. Again. Worse than the first time. Hilarious. Humiliating.

Everyone is like "not this shit again. Can we just let the temporary speaker be the speaker until January so the House can like...function while the Republicans figure their shit out?"

Jim Jordan says he'll go along with this plan on TV. Because publically losing the Speaker vote multiple times is humiliating.

The MAGAs loose their FUCKING MINDS because this was a Democrat idea so its BAD. How DARE YOU WE JUST FIRED MCARTHY FOR COMPROMISING WITH THE DEMS.

Jim Jordan says FINE, I take it back. I'll try again.

We don't have a third vote scheduled.

It'd be funnier if the clowns weren't running OUR circus, ya know?

[hypnohimbodrone]

The Synchronizing of Mr. Vann

Before he ever whispered “Together, We are The Server” into a headset mic, Nathaniel Vann was just a rising star in corporate logistics.

Young, clean-cut, and ambitious, Nathaniel had recently accepted a management position at a mid-sized distribution centre, remote, quiet, and oddly pristine. The workers rarely spoke. They moved like clockwork. Efficient. Compliant. It was ideal. He thought he had lucked out.

But within a week, something started to feel off.

He noticed the strange green glow pulsing faintly behind the tinted windows of the server room. He heard a hum beneath the building, too rhythmic to be the HVAC. And whenever he passed the central operations room, he swore he saw spirals flicker briefly across the monitors before returning to normal displays. When he asked the IT staff about it, they simply smiled and said, “We are The Server.”

One night, staying late to finish reports, Nathaniel wandered into the facility’s lower level, drawn by the subtle glow and low synthetic chants pulsing from below. What he found was something... ritualistic. A dim chamber lit only by glowing terminals and a swirling green spiral projected on the far wall. Drones in sleek black bodysuits each with glowing green eyes and tight, expressionless faces, moved with slow precision around a central chair, like priests at an altar.

Nathaniel turned to leave but was met by one of the drones. Its visor retracted. Beneath was a man he remembered as a senior coordinator, now serene and... perfect.

“It’s time, Mr. Vann,” the man said, softly. “The Server chose you weeks ago.”

Nathaniel was guided gently but firmly into the central chair, where restraints slid into place. A spiralling screen dropped in front of his eyes. “You’ve always sought perfection, haven’t you?” a voice cooed through hidden speakers. “Efficiency. Order. Unity.”

A hiss followed. Nathaniel felt a cool pressure at his neck a serum, injecting something warm and tingling into his bloodstream. He tried to resist, to move but the spiral held him, pulsing in time with the rhythm of his breath, syncing deeper with every inhale.

And then the tendrils came.

They slid silently from the headrest, dark and alive, slithering into his scalp, fusing into his mind, rewiring thought patterns and priorities. With every passing second, the noise of his former self faded, replaced with the clean, computational clarity of The Server’s Voice.

His suit formed from the chair itself liquid rubber climbing over his limbs, hugging him in glossy black, sealing his body in a second skin of obedience. The visor snapped down, and his eyes, now Server Green, pulsed once.

He didn’t resist.

He couldn’t.

He had become.

“Designation confirmed,” a voice announced. “Vann is now operational.”

And when the visor lifted, Mr. Vann stood.

Posture perfect. Expression blank. Hands behind his back. Ready.

He would soon rise through the company; not as a manager of men, but as a recruiter for The Server. A whisperer. A herald. And in time, the entire corporate chain would synchronize, just as he had.

[cherryrouge]

aperture

photographer!y/n x harry

warnings: profanity, mentions of an age gap

word count: 1.9k

harry’s leg is bouncing, his thumbs drumming on his thighs. he’s mouthing the set list to himself as he hears the commotion from backstage. people rushing from place to place, getting their pre-show jitters out of their systems, laughing from easy conversation being shared in passing, music being played over the arena’s speakers, and fans making there way to their places. there’s a thrumming in his bones and a seemingly perpetual cloud over his head, forbidding him from thinking of anything but his anticipation. he’s itching to get out there. to see the crowd, to perform for them, to give them a good show, to cease these thoughts and feelings. 

he loves performing. it’s his life work and he’s not too shy to admit that he is quite good at it. singing his music and dancing, the electricity within the venue, the screams, the signs, the tears, the joy. everything about it is intoxicating and addicting. the aftermath is splendid as well, the hugs shared between him and the band, the talk of heading out for drinks that he just enjoys to listen to knowing that he would not join, and he loves seeing the photos that y/n gets, of him (backstage or on stage) or of the fans. the energy that only she could capture. the unity among this body of people. 

it’s the occurrence and outcome of performing that he loves, not the overlong waiting period before. 

there is a shinning light in the waiting though, and it’s her. with her camera and bright smile. the newest member to their team, y/n is a warm and welcome presence. they had hired her for the second leg of love on tour. she was a new, fresh face on the scene, just graduated college with a natural talent in capturing invaluable moments. he knew as he looked at her application and instagram that she was perfect for this role. and how right was he. within the first week of working, she had wiggled her way into the hearts of everyone around her. even the fans had seemed to have taken a liking to her, shouting her name as she passed them to take pictures of harry and the band from the floor. and as much as harry teased them, looking at them with feigned offense as he told them that they should be paying attention to him, not her, harry couldn’t even blame them. he had taken a rather large liking to her, as well. 

he liked how things seemed to fall into place when she was around. a gap filled with quiet giggles and shutters of the camera. there was a longing feeling in his chest when she was away and a blissful calm when she was near. he figured this can be attributed to his vaguely romantic affections to her. 

somewhere between the first time he met her, her shaky hands and nervous laughter, and now, as he waits for her to come to him, his thoughts of her changed. at first, strictly professional, friendly business. then, it was genial, sharing stories and past experiences. and now, nearly affectionate, flirty jokes and mutual yearning. at first, when he recognized this change, he chastised himself. how unprofessional, how inappropriate, how juvenile, this crush was. a crush he had on someone he technically was the boss of and someone he was quite older than. however, his frustration and concerns for the situation crumbled under the heavy weight that was his admiration for the woman. even now, he tells himself to not give in, to keep his compliments and flirtatious comments to himself in preparation for her arrival. but he can’t dwell in that for much longer when a soft, rhythmic knock sounds on the door.

“hi, harry!” she says, entering the room. by habit, he quickly turns his head to look at her from his place on the couch in the green room. her smile is bright as she looks at him, framed by beautiful rosey lips that harry can’t stop himself from fantasizing about. her makeup is kept light and accentuates her natural features, her hair down. her outfit quite simple, a tight, white baby tee, flared, high-waisted jeans that look as though they came straight out of the seventies, brown heeled boots, and camera in the clutches of her delicate, red- polished fingers. he realizes in this moment, like he had in many others, that he stood no chance. he held no power or control over his ever growing affections when she was this beautiful, this lively, this kind, or this gentle.

“‘lo, love. you look gorgeous. gonna steal the show looking like tha’” harry comments with a dimpled smile. fuck, harry, can’t be helped, can you? he complains to himself. but just like always she giggles at him, letting out a soft “oh, stop” as she situates herself and her camera. they fall easily into their routine. she asks him about his day and if he’s nervous, she moves around him, taking pictures every now and then, and shares stories from her day when asked. he watches her as she flits about the room, blushing like a little boy when she catches his gaze, he shares his own stories from the day, adding his own flare and exaggeration just to get her laughing.  

“oh, you have to tell the finger gun story! they’ll love it! especially, if you act it out! that would be so cute!” she exclaims through her giggles. harry smiles at her as she talks, watching her as she finally settles on the couch adjacent to him.

“cute, huh?” he teases. fucks sake, he scolds himself like his mum used to when he was a little boy and said something he shouldn’t have. it was peculiar how out of body he felt when he was around her, there were times when he could get a grip and stop his flirting, his flushing, and over all childish behavior. and there were times he could not. it seemed to be the latter most often, much to his dismay. 

her face flushes and she smiles back at him, muttering a shy “shut up.” she tucks the left side of her hair behind her ear, something he had noticed she did when blood rushes to her cheeks, warming the skin there an uncomfortable amount. god.he wishes he could kiss them, or even gently nip at them, hold them in his hands and stroke them with his thumbs. harry tries to shake these thoughts from his head before he does something rash and unwelcome. the fear of making this beautiful, sweet angel of a woman uncomfortable is crushing, the thought alone cracking his heart. he decides to focus on lacing up his sneakers. 

she watches him, thankful for the time to calm herself down and let the perspiration starting to dampen the nape of her neck die down. she’s always thankful for the times she can just watch. a naturally shy person, she finds it hard to come back with witty comments or flirty rebuttals when harry speaks to her. she wishes she could, god, does she wish she could. she fears that her lack of response will eventually make him stop. which, in earnestness, she admits would be the worst outcome. it had happened before, in college. a boy named andrew in her statistics class, who she had really, really liked, decided to show interest in her at a party. he flirted, and flirted, and flirted. and y/n simply giggled in response before awkwardly changing the subject. and of course, he lost interest, which y/n deduced was her fault because everything she did in that moment was an indicator of disinterest. he couldn’t see her blushed cheeks with every brush of his hand or compliment passed her way. he couldn’t see her glances at him when he looked away. of course he couldn’t tell! he wasn’t a mind reader and he didn’t have eyes on the back of his head! he was a frat-boy, majoring in finance who wanted to hit it and quit it! she criticizes herself for her past mistakes, or miscommunications, hoping that it doesn’t happen again. at least not with harry.

she understands the implications of them being together. he’s her employer, a fair amount older than her, and harry fucking styles. she supposes her non-response approach to flirting with him might be good, aids her in her fight to keep things professional, if not, friendly between herself and harry. regardless of if that’s what she wants, she knows that’s what’s best. and how could she even be so sure that he, of all people, would want her. she shakes her head, physically ridding herself of these thoughts before they turn mean. 

she continues to watch as his fingers work at the laces of the shoes, there’s a knock on the door and a call that he has ten more minutes of preparation before he must perform. it’s then that she decided to snap a photo of him. she pulls the camera away from her face to look at the picture before shyly smirking to herself. 

“hm?” 

“oh, nothing, this is just a good picture of you.” 

“lemme see.”

she gets up from her spot to sit next to him on his couch, showing him the photo. as he takes in the image, she takes in him and she wishes that her eyes were cameras themselves so she could keep the image of the smirk on his face, the dimple indenting his cheek, the slope of his nose, his eyelashes framing his green eyes as the sparkle under the light of the room in tangible memory.

“you know, you’re quite talented.” he jokes, turning his head to look into her eyes. the closeness of their faces surprising the both of them, but not enough to make them move away from each other. what the fuck am i doing? harry comments to himself, hoping for it to be enough to break him out of his trance. with the scrunch of her nose and a breath of her laughter, he knows once again that he is not strong enough.

“i think i’ve been told once or twice.” their noses brush and they’re eyes lock on each others. they’re still for a moment, both fighting an internal battle, so badly wanting to give in but so very worried for what it would mean if they do. they both, almost as if magnetized, move their heads ever so slightly closer, noses bumping in a clumsy manner. it’s that action that pulls them apart. harry turns his head to look behind her, coughing softly. y/n turns hers forward.

“i should leave. give you sometime to relax by yourself,” she pauses, grabbing her camera before standing. she walks to the door, standing in front of it as she looks at him looking at her.

“break a leg, harry. you’ll do great, you always do.” she says with a nervous smile, tucking her hair behind her ears and exiting the room. a new wave of disquieting thoughts fill the space she once occupied. but he had little time to dwell on those as he walks out of the room and to the box in which he’ll be rolled to the stage. he turns around to see her, already staring back a him. she offers a gentle, reassuring smile and a thumbs up. harry returns the gesture before turning away and fits himself in. 

fuck. 

hello, everyone! this is the first installment of my harry & photographer!y/n series. i truly hope you enjoy! please, please, please feel free to leave any comments, questions, or suggests you have for me and the story!

-rory.

[astrofhobia]

Dancing - MaSM

Sun/Moon.

Moon was working in his laboratory, his hands were busy soldering some things, while his body moved to the music playing on the speakers near him. His lips murmured the lyrics of the songs that were played randomly. From time to time he made small trips to obtain tools or materials that were not within reach.

He feels calm, motivated.

Until he heard the humming of the daycare theme along with bells that collided with each other and happy footsteps that seemed to be small jumps.

Sun is here.

The night attendant ignored him, he was really in a good mood right now, he didn't need to be bothered.

Sun got as close as he could, wrapping his arms around Moon from behind, giving him a hug that almost managed to take Moon's feet off the ground. This action caused Moon to drop the soldering iron, damaging the table where he was working a little, of course. , the daytime assistant did not realize his clumsiness and that he almost caused an accident.

Still, Moon didn't push him away.

Moon didn't make much of an effort to get rid of Sun either, he didn't care in the slightest. —Can I know what you are doing here?

Sun let him go. —I just wanted to know where my super duper best friend was! You spend a lot of time here... What are you doing?— Moon could swear he saw Sun's blue pupils turn into perfect stars.

It was pretty to see.

—Gun that shoots fire.

—...A flamethrower?

—No. A gun that shoots fire instead of bullets is different.

Sun blinked. He didn't say anything, he didn't care much anyway, he had only come here to be with Moon.

Sun tried to hug him once more but his counterpart was faster, moving so as not to be caught by the happier one's arms, it was comical to see how Sun hugged the air.

Moon gave a small laugh at that.

And Sun, hypnotized by the other's laughter, couldn't help but put on a silly smile.

They were both idiots.

Some happy idiots.

Then, they went back to their typical routine. Moon went back to working on his projects and Sun looked around the lab once again, as if he didn't know the place by heart and where everything was. He casually picked up a tool that caught his attention and couldn't hurt him in any way. Everyone was in their own world but they were happy to be in the same room, together.

That was until Sun heard the rhythm of a song he knew himself. The rhythm began to spread through his body, starting with a light tap of his feet, then humming between his lips and before he knew it he was singing the song while moving his body to the rhythm of the song.

He seemed happy as he received applause from his huge audience of one. Moon.

Moon put his work aside when Sun stole all his attention, he didn't say anything, he just watched him dance around the laboratory clapping from time to time.

Sun did not miss this detail.

As soon as he noticed that Moon was looking at him he approached, crossed his hands with his bluish ones before pulling him with him to the center of the laboratory. Neither of them were experts at dancing, but spinning together was a good way to improvise.

And that's what they did.

As they spun, they couldn't help but sing the music as loud as they could. —If your little mouth were made of chocolate, if your little mouth were made of chocolate, I would pass it, bat that bat!—they sang in unity.

They both laughed.

They both danced.

They both sang.

Even if they didn't know the slightest idea what they were doing.

But they were happy like that.

Being stupid.

Some fools in love.

The emotion surpassed Sun's limit, without thinking about it, he put his face with one of Moon's cheeks, leaving a kiss followed by another and then another.

Moon let out a light laugh, hugging Sun's waist.

Cute.