#<- statements only said by the utterly based

[justskyla-art]

get crackin', egg!

[chososdiscordkitten]

Keep Them On!

Synopsis: jjk men x reader w glasses ^-^ (yes they stay on during sex)

Includes: : 𝐍𝐚𝐨𝐲𝐚, 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨, 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢, 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐣𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 Content: gn!reader, smut with a sprinkle of fluff, no plot, penetrative sex, cum play, oral (m), glasses kink(?)

MDNI

Naoya Zenin

Naoya is so mean when it comes to your glasses. At first, he was generally mean—pushing them up the bridge of your nose harshly when they would slip or hiding them whenever you made some kind of retort at him that he didn’t like. 

Most of all, Naoya didn’t like it when he would say something you deemed ‘controversial,’ and you would take your glasses off in the middle of the conversation. Muttering something about how you didn’t want to see his face anymore. 

So the next time your glasses were pressed against his face- lips slotted against each other and the plastic frames only making him more frustrated. Naoya pulled away from you, urging your head down to imply that he wanted oral. (yes he's a head pusher)

And when your hands reached for the little legs of your spectacles- Naoya sucked his teeth. Nodding his head ‘no’ and freeing his cock from his bottoms.

Muttering something along the lines of ‘I want you to see as best as you can.’ with far too much smugness coating his words with the very tip of his cock smeared against the clean glass with an amused laugh. 

You scoffed as you felt Naoya slap his tip against the side of your cheek- urging you to open. 

You were on your knees, between his legs, as he sat lazily on the couch, with one hand atop your head and the other wrapped around his base.

And when your lips finally had his tummy clenching, his eyebrows furrowed, and his head daring to tip back. Teetering on the very edge of an orgasm, Naoya pulled your lips off of his cock. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, knowing he had a penchant for seeing you swallow his mess. Then it clicked when his hand started making filthy strokes at his cock- aiming his tip directly for the glass lenses with a smile.  

His spend coating your glasses with a groaning huff from your lips. His only excuse was, “What? You were the one who said you didn’t wanna see me.” 

When he saw the sight of the glossy frames being spurt by his cum- Naoya was sure to ask you for blowjobs with them on from now on. 

Even if you spent the next 30 minutes complaining about how hard they were to clean- and how he was just being a brat. Naoya could always get you new glasses- or, as he put it. “Stop being blind, and you won’t need them.”

Satoru Gojo

From the moment Gojo found out you had glasses, he would make little comments about them. Not mean- just strange little statements that would leave his lips without filter. 

When you would refuse to wear them in public- squinting at everything and holding onto his arm as a guide. Gojo would tell you to put them on, that you look even hotter with them. At once, even calling you a sexy librarian. 

His own way of assuring you that a pair of glasses didn’t change anything to him. 

He found it funny that he had perfect vision- almost too perfect, and you. Well, you needed pieces of glass to see or you would get dizzy.

In his mind, Satoru interpreted that as ‘I cover my eyes because I get sick if I don’t- and you wear glasses or else you get dizzy, another thing we have in common.’ just more ramblings of a man who was utterly whipped. 

And this- well, it only translated to the bedroom activities. 

The first few times- you always made sure to take them off. Knowing how Satoru can be with his afflictions for various positions- you didn’t want to break them. Same when it went for oral; you always took them off before going down on him. 

And Satoru tried to get you to forget to take them off- be it interrupting when you’d try to catch up on work assignments, he would come in and distract you from them. 

He would win most of the time- but you always took them off. Didn’t matter how pent up you or him were, you always did. 

And the one time you chose to forget- too tired and completely uncaring if they stayed on while Gojo’s warmth kept you under the covers with him. Even if all of Satoru’s insides were screaming at him to say ‘Yippee’ and start jumping up and down at the opportunity presented to him. He didn’t. 

Gojo went on about his tasks as he normally did- but when it came to spreading your thighs to welcome him, looking upon your framed eyes and smiling to himself at the little fog formed at the bottom from how heated your cheeks were. 

Even more when his thrusts became frantic- your head moving against the pillow and slightly moving the glasses on the bridge of your nose. 

And your hands were far too busy gripping on his arms- his hair, whatever part of his body you could find to help soothe the ache. Far too busy to fix the crooked lenses.

Gojo looked at you with the same look on his face he makes when he discovers something new he likes. A new flavor of candy, a song he liked the melody of- and now, the pretty whimpers leaving your lips, all topped off with your fogged, crooked glasses- only accentuating the fucked out expression you had. 

And when he rolled off of you, looking at your lazy hand, reach up to the frame and pull them off, your lashes wet with salty water and your cheeks still warm to the touch. 

Satoru made sure to ask you properly to keep them on next time- on his knees with his head bowed as though he was asking some colossal favor from you. 

You would only furrow your eyebrows with a slight grimace- knowing of all the strange things he could ask of you, this one was probably the most tame one.

Suguru Geto

Suguru starts off so sweet with you- brings them to you freshly cleaned whenever he sees you without them. Lightly scolding you- “You’ll only get blinder if you don’t wear them.” he would say- sliding the legs behind your ears and making sure you had them on properly.

He only found it even cuter when you would squint at something- unable to see correctly without them on. 

When it came to intimacy;

Geto made the discovery of your glasses being a turn on from the first few times he saw them fog up and slightly tilt to the side as he pounded them off. 

But- there was one thing Suguru did that was the slightest bit annoying. Sure, you could deal with his incessant words- urging you that it was fine and you didn’t have to take them off. Or when you would reach to remove them Suguru would replace your hands and push them back up on your nose for you.

How desperation fills your movements when you take them off- tossing them to god knows where before connecting your lips to his again. 

Unable to stand the little nudges the plastic made against Suguru, only seeing your glasses as an obstacle in the way of kissing him properly. 

Leading to finding the frames in the most strange of places- and most of all, once or twice finding them broken, bent- or even with a lens popped out, nowhere in sight. 

Or when you’d be in public and you’d look at him over the top of them- raising your brows with a questioning look on your face- it only reminded him when you would be giving him head and do the same thing. 

He tries not to make a mess on them- he tries his hardest to cum in your throat or on his tummy. But it’s almost like his cock and brain rewire at the last second and aim his cockhead for the glass. 

And Suguru’s thing for you in glasses was only intensified when you popped his cock from your lips- rubbing his shaft on your cheek with a fucked out smile. And his tip- nudging against the very bottom of your frames with every little stroke your hand made on his shaft. 

And when he finally spurt his mess- your lips parted and waited for Geto to take his aim. Hot spurts of white landing on your cheeks, your nose, your lips- but most of it was on the glass you used to see. 

What Suguru found most endearing- was when you would only smile and lick as much as you could from your lips. Not even complaining about his shitty aim. 

In the end it was just glass that could be replaced had you really wanted to. 

Toji Zenin

Toji swears he didn’t even notice you had them- he tried to convince you he had never noticed you needed glass to see. 

But he would do this thing- this particular thing that you had never noticed before. 

Be it when you’d be speaking- not noticing how his eyes would tighten, fixating on the little crook at the edge of your frames. 

Reaching a hand out and pushing them to sit correctly on the bridge of your nose. 

He had done it far too many times for you to ask what he was doing or why- so used to seeing his hand reach out to you that you never questioned it. 

Toji also had this urge when it came to intimacy- and you were always too fucked out to notice his little habit during sex. 

When you were on your back, your eyes closed and lightly covered by fog on the glass. The frames slightly tilted to one side as his eyes looked at your expression. His hand would go up to your face with an indulgent smile on his lips. 

Fixing the little crook of your glasses before enjoying the sight before him again. 

And when you were on all fours- Toji was thankful to have a mirror in front of you, piercing eyes watching the frames dare to fall off with every powerful thrust he made against your bottom. 

Almost like he enjoyed watching them slip off- something about your fucked out expression adorned with a pair of crooked glasses, scratched at an itch in his brain he didn’t even know was there. 

Toji had never realized this before you—he didn’t know if it was you specifically or glasses in general. 

You always saw it as Toji showing his tenderness towards you- even if you were too busy focusing on other things to notice the little habit. 

It didn’t click in his mind till one day he was listening to you speak- far too tangled in his own thoughts trying to figure out what it was precisely. 

And then he thought back to the sight of you in the mirror. The look of complete and utter dissolution, as though you had finally let loose and released tension, that’s what he found satisfying. 

Associating glasses with some kind of intelligence- even if you weren’t the brightest crayon in the box at times. The frames made you look the tiniest bit more intelligent. Like you were well-read. 

And when he would fuck them right off of you- it seemed like he was fucking out any unnecessary fun fact you harbored in your brain.

With every roll of his hips- he would fuck you dumb, and continue till you were a blabbering mess, unable to see the satisfied look on his face in the mirror when they would fall off. 

Kento Nanami

Out of all the men- Kento would be the most respectful of your glasses. 

Not as though they were some kind of out of the ordinary trait you had than nobody else did. You just needed a little help to see is all. 

But Nanami would be lying had he said that the sight of you pushing your glasses up your head like a headband didn’t make something in him twitch. 

Be it how your eyes glimmer without the glass blocking them or how effortlessly radiant you look when you look at him without them.

Or when you would crawl between his legs and nudge the book he was reading to the side. Pressing the side of your face on his tummy and watching the frames move from the smush of your cheek. 

When he would roll over in the mornings and see your uncovered face. The bridge of your nose undented from the nose pads and the little creases of your eyes on full display so early in the morning. 

What he hated most was how the glass hid your eyes- even if they were clear. A glare here or there or a smudge would make your eyelashes go overlooked. 

Nanami understood that you needed them- that there was nothing he could do about it. He still liked looking at you with them on- but not as much as he liked seeing you without them. 

It was still you behind the glasses, after all. 

But when you would ask him to wait a moment- his hands wandering and gripping at any exposed skin they could find. His hips rested between your thighs. You would reach your hand from his hair- removing the glasses and placing them on your night table. 

Wasting no time in connecting your lips with his again. Mumbling that you wanted to see him with your bare eyes between every breath of air he took. 

This only gave Nanami the opportunity to keep his chest pressed against you- keeping his lips near yours. Even if they were not locked anymore, a mere millimeter from each other as you looked into his eyes. 

Your request for looking upon him without assistance was heard. He made sure to stay as close as possible so you could see what you desired. 

The light blush that roamed down his cheeks, every furrow his brows would make. And feel every exhale he would make tingle your skin before locking your lips again. 

Lazy and unpatterned, not even bothering to close your eyes as his tongue swirled against yours. 

As much as Kento liked your glasses- he much preferred you like this. No struggle in squinting just to see him. Being more than close enough for your bare vision to see his expression entirely. 

Choso Kamo

Choso is sooooo sweet when it comes to your glasses. 

Seeing you gasp whenever they’d slip off the nightstand, far too scared for them to break and not be able to buy new ones to contain the winces. 

Or how you’d take them off occasionally and wipe the lenses whenever they smudge. 

Even if you never mentioned it, Choso noticed the care you had for the frames. 

So when you would ask him to pass them to you- he would make sure to grab the legs or the little bridge. Mimicking the way your fingers are always avoidant of the glass. 

Or when he would notice a minor blot on the glasses before you could. Taking them off of you and swiping away any debris you had yet to see. 

Choso had the decency to push your glasses up to the top of your head before he kissed you- knowing he could be needy and could end up damaging them had he not been careful. 

And Choso never liked holding back how he felt when it came to you- so instead of that, he would move the precious item away and kiss you with all the urgency that buzzed in his insides. 

When they would be at the top opf your head, almost moving too eager, they would slip down and lightly hit his nose. He would gruff softly- nearly irritated that the pair of glasses were trying to cockblock him right now. 

Choso would gently take them off of you before folding them- placing them on a flat surface with a sprinkle of urge in his movements before connecting his lips to yours.

And in the mornings, he would always like watching your eyes open- a little squint forming on your eyes when you would wake. Little to no hesitation in giving you your glasses to see him clearly. 

Kiyotaka Ijichi

You had always found it rather tedious that Ijichi insisted on kissing you with his glasses on- yours clashing with his were bound to cause scratches on both of your frames. 

You always took yours off before he did his; muttering about how he wanted to see you clearly when things got heated. 

But something about how he would look- so flushed and on the brink of whimpering. So easily flustered and tight in his slacks from a few sloppy kisses. 

Even more so when he would clear his throat and adjust the little frames as you took yours off. As though this was some kind of business deal for which he had to stay composed.  

Even during intimacy, he would keep them on- fogged up and bordering on falling- and yet Ijichi still insisted on keeping them on. 

And the next chance you got- you pulled away and saw him with the little frames. His cheeks blushed red with a growing fog at the bottom of them. You couldn’t help but smile. 

Pushing up the bridge of your own glasses and raising a hand to the black legs of his frames. “It’s my turn to see you.” you mumbled, pulling them off and staying close enough for him to see you. 

That what taking off his glasses meant only gave you more reason to stay close to him and not dare pull away. 

Ijichi got even more flushed, if that was possible- being able to feel your 20/20 vision gaze on his skin whenever you would scan over his body. Suddenly, all too aware of how it must have felt for you when you took your own glasses off in these moments. 

He wondered if it ever felt as piercing for you as it did for him. Or even as half as vulturous as your eyes went low- the starved smile on your lips only adding to it. 

-

(a.n) my most recent regret is not buying 'cum lube' and instead buying the regular lube. SIGH.

[fayes-fics]

A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.” 

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.” 

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic. 

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade. 

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision. 

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him. 

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction. 

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.” 

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman. 

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first. 

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?” 

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now…. 

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his. 

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together. 

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.” 

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly. 

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk. 

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member. 

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip. 

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!” 

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense. 

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race. 

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss. 

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside. 

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently. 

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing. 

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body. 

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever. 

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

[total-lunareclipse4]

🌜I know you better than anyone🌛

pairing: five hargreeves x female reader

summary: it’s been a long time since you last saw Five. due to your nieces’s birthday party, you’re forced to face him again. you can’t help but be surprised when instead of being met with hate, you realize the only thing he wants to do is help you.

genre: angst with a happy ending!

warnings: manipulation? cursing perhaps. nothing major

word count: 4k

notes: this is a little bit based on the gilmore girls scene in which jess confronts rory for dropping out of yale. i saw someone use that audio for a tiktok pov and wrote this. here’s the link to that.

It had been twenty minutes already. Two cars had tried to take your spot during that time and you’d had to awkwardly let them know that you were not leaving. You tried to do a couple of breathing exercises you vaguely remembered Klaus teaching you at some point, but this was something that could not be solved by just taking a few deep breaths in and out. After a couple more minutes had gone by, you decided it was time to put on your big girl pants and get the evening over with. 

You got out of your car and opened up the trunk to pull out the gift. Needing both hands to carry it, you struggled a little bit to get it inside. The sound of screaming children filled up your ears, and you could not think of a worse place to be at right now. You spotted a few familiar faces and decided to make your way over there. After having taken a few steps, you tripped over a plastic ball from the ball pit you’d failed to notice and began stumbling as you tried to regain your balance. Mentally having prepared for the fall, you were surprised when it never came. Instead, a firm pair of hands managed to catch you, one of them holding you by the back of your head and the other pressing against the lower part of your back. 

“You okay there?” He asked. 

You’d known he would be here, but you certainly did not expect him to be the first person you encountered at your niece’s birthday party. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” The uncomfortable silence was soon to settle in, and you had to fight back the urge to run back to your car. 

Luckily, your attention was caught by the birthday girl herself sprinting towards you after noticing you had arrived. 

“Auntie!” Grace yelled, her arms open waiting for you to hug her. You got down on your knees after setting the gift next to a nearby table and embraced the little girl tightly. 

“Happy Birthday, Gracie,” you spoke next to the girl’s ear, kissing the top of her head before standing back up to retrieve the big box. 

“Is that for me?” she inquired excitedly as her eyes rested upon the gift. 

“Of course it’s for you! I think you’re gonna like it a lot.” You winked at her. 

“Do you want some help taking it over to the gifts table?” The man who’d saved you from falling asked. 

Before you had the chance to answer, Grace seemed to realize something and interrupted you. 

“Look Uncle Five, she’s here!” You were a little confused by the statement, given that Five had been standing there the whole time, so it was obvious he knew you were there. However, you figured your niece was just excited about your presence and wanted everybody to know about it. 

“Yes Grace, I see her.” Five replied. Based on his tone and demeanor you would’ve guessed he was embarrassed by the situation. But that didn’t make any sense to you. 

The little girl turned to you and signaled for you to get on your knees again. Following suit, she cupped her hands and held them to her mouth before getting closer to your ear. 

“Uncle Five was asking about you a lot before you got here,” she whispered. Your eyes instantly went to meet Five’s, and by the look on his face you could tell he had some idea of what Grace was telling you. 

“I uhm, I’m gonna go get a soda,” he said before walking away. You felt utterly confused by his attitude, not understanding why he was acting the way he was. Why had he been asking about you? Based on the last time you two saw each other, his current actions were nonsensical. 

Puzzled but not really being able to do much about the situation, you hugged the little girl once more and went over to the gifts table to leave the heavy box you had been carrying. From behind you, you recognized the voice of the reason why you were even here in the first place.

“That better not be another one of those loud ass toys that lights up and blasts up annoying music.” 

You turned around and smiled at the man before you. 

“No, this one just barks and shits.” 

You enjoyed watching as the color got drained from his face by your response. 

“You didn’t,” he said, more of a threat than anything else. You laughed, giving yourself away.

“No, I didn’t. Lila said no dogs. She doesn’t wanna be juggling three kids and a puppy.”

Diego let out a sigh of relief, “Good, I did not want to have that fight today.” He gave you a smile and a quick hug to welcome you. 

“It’s been a while,” he said. 

“It hasn’t been that long, we saw each other for the twins' recital.” You knew he didn’t mean it as a personal attack, but you couldn’t help but feel bad by what he’d said. You tried to be there as much as possible for your family, but things were different now. 

“Yeah, that was two months ago!” He laughed, but you knew he didn’t find the situation funny, he was just trying not to come off too harshly. 

“I’m sorry.” You shrugged. 

He noticed the hint of sadness in your eyes and his own expression softened. 

“It’s fine, I wish we saw each other more often but we all understand.” You chuckled a little at his lie. Certainly they didn’t all understand. 

“You have no idea how much I wish that were true.” You were both quiet for a minute, mutual understanding flowing between the two. 

“His hair’s gotten longer,” you spoke, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah, he’s become more of an asshole also.” You both laughed. Diego moved closer to you and gave you a half hug. 

“It’s going to be fine. Give it time and you’ll see.” You closed your eyes and let yourself give into his embrace. You doubted time would be able to solve anything, but it didn’t hurt to hope. 

…

You didn’t speak to Five again for the rest of the evening. You’d caught him looking at you from a distance a couple of times, but you hadn’t been able to look at him back. After cake, you made the round of goodbyes and left the building before he got the idea of speaking to you. Back in the safety of your car, the tears came rolling down your face before you could do anything to stop them. The memories of your last encounter with Five came flooding back, and all of those times you had repressed them only worked to make them stronger now. 

You had just gotten out of the shower, which you had cut short after the hot water had run out. You got dressed quickly and cursed at yourself for choosing such a cheap place to stay at. It would not surprise you to find all kinds of stains if you were to use a UV light in this room. Repulsed by the thought, you grabbed your toothbrush with the intention of cleaning your teeth when you heard a loud persistent knock on the door. You were reluctant to open up at first, but when the knocking didn’t stop, you figured it was the only way to get them to stop knocking. 

Grabbing one of your knives, you made your way to the door and through the peephole noticed who the person on the other end was. You unlocked the entrance and allowed him to come inside. 

He looked agitated, his brows furrowed in a prominent frown. His hair was all over the place, drastically different to how it usually looked. 

“So, you weren’t going to tell me that you were leaving?” Of course you hadn’t told him, you knew this was exactly what he would’ve done if you’d told him.

“I knew you would try to stop me,” you spoke softly, not wanting him to get any more agitated than he already was. 

“What kind of idiotic response is that? Of course I would’ve tried to stop you.” His words stung.

“I can’t do this right now, Five. I’ve already made up my mind and I’m at peace with my choice.” You tried to sound as convincing as possible. 

“It’s a stupid decision you’re making and I’m not gonna stand here and let you make it.” 

“It’s already done, there’s nothing I can do about it,” you felt your voice getting weaker, but you didn’t want to break in front of him. 

“Of course there is, I’ll help you get out of it. I’ve done it before.” He didn’t understand any of it, and he could certainly not fix it either. 

“Five…” you began. 

“Look, I know you, I know you better than anyone. This isn’t you.” Of course he was right, but you couldn’t admit that to him. Instead, you chose to remain quiet.

“What are you doing? Living at this cheap motel, working for The Commission, leaving us behind- why did you leave me behind?” He looked away, not being able to hold your gaze at the moment. You knew that what had hurt him the most is that you hadn’t told him you were leaving. You hadn’t come to him to let him know you were going back to the place you both had tried so hard to escape from in the first place.

“It’s.. complicated,” you said. 

“It’s not! It’s not complicated,” he yelled. 

“You don’t know!” You wished you could explain it all to him, but he couldn’t know the truth. 

“This isn’t you! This- you going back to working for The Handler. We did the impossible to get away from her.”

“She’s not the same woman she once was…” You tried to defend her, not even believing it yourself. 

He ran his hand through his hair with anger, frustrated by your answers. 

“This isn’t about her, screw her! What’s going on with you? This isn’t you, you know it isn’t. What’s going on?” He walked closer to you, watching you intensely. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. 

“Come home. To hell with all of this! Just- just come home.” He took your hands in his, silently pleading with you. 

Knowing there was only one way out of this, you decided you had to do this in order to keep him and the rest safe. 

“Home? What exactly is home? This is your family you keep talking about, not mine. The Handler is the one who took me in and gave me a place to live when no one else would. Grow up Five! You think this is how I wanna spend the rest of my days? In this fucked up timeline where we don’t even have our powers?  No way I’m staying here, so I would appreciate it if you stopped claiming to know better than me and left me alone for once.” You broke your hands free from his hold and walked to the entrance to hold the door open for him. He hesitated for a few moments before following you to the door. 

“So what? You and I- none of it matters anymore? You’re just choosing to throw it all away?”

“This has nothing to do with us, nothing to do with you. I can’t always put you above everything else.” Knowing that was exactly what you were doing was the worst part of this. 

“I always have,” he said, sounding defeated.

“Well I guess that’s the difference between you and I.” You put the last nail on the coffin.

With that, Five left the room and stood in the hall. 

“When you regret this, and you will regret this, don’t come crawling back to me or my family,” he said before walking away. Based on his words, you knew you’d managed to hurt him a great deal. He was not going to come back now, which both relieved you and made you want to crawl into your bed and cry for hours on end. 

That was the last time you had seen Five before today.

A couple of years after The Handler had taken Lila in, she found you under similar circumstances and chose to raise you as well. The two of you grew up as sisters, carrying out all sorts of missions for the woman you learnt to call mother. Soon, your power began showing and you realized you had been blessed with time control, which came in handy as it meant you didn’t need to use a briefcase for your line of work. One day, you’d chosen to visit the world post-apocalypse, something you knew your mother would never approve of. As you walked through the ruins of what used to be planet Earth, you noticed there was someone else here with you. At first, you thought it must be someone from The Commission, as any other answer was simply not possible. However, upon closer inspection, you realized he wasn’t someone who you’d seen before. That was the first time you’d met Five, and after almost being shot by him, you managed to strike a conversation with him. Soon, you two became close, and after a couple of times of visiting him, you decided to bring him back to the headquarters, risking your mother’s rage. 

She wasn’t thrilled about it at first, and threatened you in multiple ways after finding out what you had done. But after watching Five successfully accomplish his first mission, she allowed him to stay. When you’d met him, he’d confessed to having spent six years already surviving on his own, and you could only imagine how much longer he would’ve spent there if you hadn’t found him. 

He also told you about his family and how he wished he could get back to them, which is how he slowly began convincing you to help him out. It wasn’t easy, as you hadn’t been on board with the idea in the beginning, but after working together and earning each other’s trust, you had agreed to help him. 

You sneaked out one day and left alongside Five to get him back to his family. That was the first time they failed to stop the apocalypse. The second time, Lila was involved, and after getting over her initial anger at you for leaving her behind, she joined you and the others. 

You thought you had managed to leave the life you had once led behind. That you were safe now with Five and your newly found family. However, you were proven wrong when one day, The Handler appeared inside your own home, sitting on your couch. 

“Long time no see.” Her voice made your blood go ice cold. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked.

“Is that the proper way to greet your mother?”

“What do you want?” You insisted. 

“You didn’t think I would seriously allow you to walk out with two of my best agents, now did you? I would’ve thought I raised you to be smarter than that.” You knew at that moment that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to end well for you. 

“I didn’t take anyone with me, they chose to leave on their own.” You clenched your fists, ready for whatever was about to go down.

“Well, in that case then I think I’ll just go then. Thanks for clearing that up.” She stood up and prepared to leave, but you knew it was not going to be this easy. Right on cue, she turned towards you and spoke again.

“Before I leave though, I thought you should know I have agents right now placed all over to take shots at that precious little family of yours.” Your jaw clenched. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

She smiled at you, “That is up to you, sweetheart, but do you really want to risk baby Grace taking a shot to the head because her aunt didn’t do anything to protect her?” You wanted to strangle her, but you knew that wasn’t going to fix anything. 

“What do you want?” You asked for a second time. 

She faked thinking about it for a second, as if she didn’t already know exactly what she wanted from you. 

“I want you to come back to work for me. I want you to do it today without telling anyone, especially that little special friend of yours.”

“Who? Five?” You didn’t like that she was paying special attention to him during this conversation. 

“Bingo! You speak a word of this to him and he gets a bullet in the brain. And now that he doesn’t seem to have his powers anymore, don’t think he’s gonna be able to get out of this unharmed.” You felt shivers run down your whole body at the thought. 

“What do you even gain from this? I can’t even travel through time anymore, I’m useless to you without my powers.” You didn’t understand why she’d want you back specifically. Both Lila and Five were far more skilled than you. 

“You need to learn there are consequences to your own actions. This is your consequence.” You could hear the satisfaction in her voice.

“There’s a briefcase waiting for you at this address. Don’t be late, your first assignment is tomorrow morning.” She handed you a piece of paper you shoved into your pocket, knowing there was no way out of this. Maybe, if you all had your powers, you could figure out a solution, but in the state you were all in, the only way to keep everybody safe was to do what The Handler wanted you to do. You could already feel your heart breaking, hating her even more for doing this to you. 

…

You jumped when you heard a knock on the window of your car, being too lost in thought to notice someone had been approaching you. You quickly wiped your tears with the back of your hand and tried to look presentable before rolling down the window. 

“You left without having any cake.” Five was standing outside your car, two paper plates with servings of chocolate cake on them. 

“I needed to get back to work,” you lied, hoping he would leave you alone. 

“Well, I’ve been watching you sit in your car ever since you left so I’m not buying that.” Of course he’d been watching you cry pathetically all this time. 

“Open up?” he requested. Knowing that he wasn’t going to leave until he got what he wanted, you unlocked the doors and allowed him to get into the passenger seat. He handed you one of the plates and you rested it on your lap, knowing you weren’t going to be able to eat it without making yourself sick given the situation you were in.  

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he blurted out. You opened up your mouth to deny it but he beat you to it. 

“Don’t try to deny it. For the past year everytime you find out I’m gonna be somewhere you suddenly have to cancel. Happened with Claire’s science fair, happened with Luther’s barbeque and it happened with Grace’s play,” he listed. Of course he was right, but you weren’t going to admit that to him. 

“I’ve just been very busy,” you said. 

“Why didn’t you want to see me?” His question took you by surprise. You thought that after your last conversation he was the one that wouldn't want to see you again.

“I think it’s best if we keep our distance from one another.”  

He looked taken aback, hurt, even. Great, you were causing even more damage now. 

“Best? Best for who? You or me?” 

“You said not to come back looking for you.” You didn’t want to throw in his face the words he’d spoken in a moment of anger, but you needed an excuse to get out of this. 

“You and I both know I didn’t mean any of that. I was angry that you were choosing to leave, but I didn’t want things to end up like this. I’m sorry.” He stared at his plate, toying with the fork. You could only imagine he couldn’t stomach taking a bite as well. 

“Things are complicated, Five. This is how they need to be.” 

“Then explain them to me. I’m not an idiot, I know you’re doing this under some sort of manipulation from The Handler, I just can’t figure out what she has on you that made you go back.” He stopped staring at his cake to shift his gaze towards your face. He looked broken, almost as broken as you. 

“I can’t- I can’t tell you anything.” You knew that by saying that you were admitting to not doing things freely, but you hoped it would be enough to get him to understand your motives.

“Whatever it is, I can help. You need to trust me.” 

“How will you help me? What would you do if she sent people here to kill you? How are you going to defend yourself?” You were growing more agitated. 

“Is that what this is about? She’s threatened to hurt me?” You stayed quiet, giving him the confirmation that he needed. 

“I can take care of myself, or are you forgetting that I managed to survive years on my own in a post-apocalyptic world? None of that had anything to do with my powers. I understand that you’re scared, but that’s what we’re here for.”

He always oversimplified things. Made it seem as if you were the one exaggerating, as if he could just make everything better. 

“Maybe you can take care of yourself, but what about the kids? What about Klaus? Have you seen him lately?”

He chuckled at your words, lightening up the mood.

“Okay, maybe you’re right, but you should’ve come to me first with all of this. I’ve been taking care of my family for years, and will continue to do so considering how stupid they constantly prove to be.” 

It was your turn to chuckle now. 

“I promise you we’ll figure something out together. Key word being together.” He took one of your hands in his. 

“I’m not gonna let you continue to deal with this on your own.” He looked determined to keep his promise, which is why you allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of hope. 

“If something were to happen to any of them, then it would be on me,” you said, staring at your lap in shame. 

He used his free hand to cup your cheek and force you to look at him.

“Nothing’s going to happen. We’ve survived worse. And if something were to happen, it wouldn’t be your fault. None of this is your fault,” he reassured you. 

“Please trust me, love,” he said, the nickname slipping out, taking you back to better times, easier times. 

“I really want to,” you admitted, tears welling up in your eyes. 

“Then do.” He moved closer to you, letting go of your hand to grab your face with both of his hands. He put his forehead to yours and allowed you to stay like that for a second. 

“I don’t think I can tolerate losing you a second time,” he whispered against your lips. 

“You won’t,” you whispered back. 

Soon, his lips were against yours, falling back into routine as if nothing had happened between you two. One of his hands moved to your waist, tightening his grip on you. The kiss turned more intense as he began moving with more force, showing you how much he’d missed you. Your hand got lost in his hair, enjoying the new length. He pulled away and smiled against your lips.

“I missed you so much,” he said. You shared the feeling, regretting how you’d chosen to handle things. There was a lot at stake, a lot you needed to figure out, but what mattered is that you would do that together. No matter what happened from now on, you had each other to fall back onto.

[mightyostanes]

Why Jews Aren't "Trying to Trick G-d"

(Note only secondary sources are cited in the bibliography)

For my second post I had originally planned on writing something more fun but unfortunately, I feel the need to write this. Lately I’ve seen quite a few people on twitter saying that the way Jews interpret Halakah is that Jews are trying to trick G-d. While this is obviously a bad faith argument designed to be shitty, I still think this subject should be explained in greater detail. Mostly because I think there’s a fundamental disconnect in the way people imagine religions should interact with their deity and how Judaism has historically interacted with G-d. Furthermore, due to the Haskalah and Counter Haskalah I feel that a lot of these ideas have been lost to a lot of Jews in the English-speaking world. Replaced by Platonism that has much more in common with Philo and Maimonides then it does with anything the sages actually wrote or believed. Or to put it in much franker terms the toilet demon Rabba Bar Rav Huna mentioned in Gittin70:A6 probably wasn’t a metaphor. Instead, it seems incredibly likely that both he and Rabbi Tanhum Bar Tanilai believed in a literal Sheyd that lived in literal toilets no matter how embarrassing that sounds. 

    The reason this bizarre tangent is important is because if you actually look at the biblical, rabbinic, medieval, kabbalistic, and hasidic literature it utterly destroys the idea that the relationship of the Jew to G-d is of one sided kowtowing submission. Granted, it’s quite easy to interpret it that way but that’s mostly due to conditioning in terms of what people think a theistic religion should be about rather than any wiggle room in the texts themselves. In fact, I’d wager most arguments against this have more to do with people’s idea of the Tanakh than the Tanakh itself. 

      The biggest reason for this misunderstanding in my opinion is that very few people actually know what a covenant is let alone its context. To illustrate my point, I’d like you to think back on the last time you made a covenant with someone or something. Assuming you aren’t a ceremonial magician the answer to the question just posed is probably never. In the modern world covenant has become almost solely associated with the Bible and has almost no context. Especially because the idea of the ‘New Covenant’ talked about in the works of Paul the Apostle has very little to do with what covenants historically were. Rather than statements of blind faith, covenants in the Ancient Near East were more analogous to contracts and treaties. There are even some scholars who think that the covenantal theology in Deuteronomy may be based on Ancient Near Eastern vassal treaties. (1)

    In these treaties a bigger state or kingdom would make a treaty for a smaller kingdom to accept fealty to them. (1) In these treaties, at least in paper, rather than being a slave the ruler of the smaller nation was supposed to be a junior partner. Said vassals would also continue to be junior partners to the larger power if they held up the obligations given to them by the treaty. (1) Similarly, just as the smaller party holds obligations to the larger party the larger party also holds obligations to the smaller party. Including ostensibly having to listen to complaints or suggestions the smaller party made. 

   In the Tanakh or Five Books of Moses, there are exactly three covenants mentioned that occurred between G-d and humans. These three aforementioned covenants are the covenant with Noah and his descendants once the Ark lands, (Gen 8:20-9:13), The covenant for Abraham’s descendants where an unknown light phenomenon signifying G-d passes through Abraham’s sacrifice (Gen: 15), and the famous covenant between G-d and the Israelites on Mount Sinai (Exodus 19-24). Shortly after the establishment of both the Abrahamic and Mosaic Covenants G-d or an emissary of G-d appears and holds a banquet with the covenant members (Gen 18:1-10, Exodus 24:9-18). In the Ancient Near Eastern context that these texts were written in, banquets and feasts thrown by a king or senior covenant partner were incredibly important tools for control or consolidation. In both the Neo-Assyrian Empire and in the kingdom of Mari not only eating with the king but being at the table with him showed that you were considered as part of the king’s metaphorical family (2). These constructed family hierarchies would be clearly delineated by how close one sat to the king and how one sat, with the people right next to the king being seen as close immediate family members analogous to sons or younger brothers. In the two previously mentioned covenants the Elders of Israel and Abraham’s family sans Lot were sitting with G-d or his emissary suggesting an incredibly close relationship instead of merely that of master and servant. Especially as the angels or heavenly host were not seated ahead of the human participants at the metaphorical dinner table. 

          This idea of man as junior partner and consultant is also seen in the way that humans can critique, give advice to, or argue with G-d and G-d takes their words into consideration. A famous example of this post covenant is Abraham giving G-d suggestions on what to do with Sodom and Gomorrah and G-d accepting his input (Gen 18). An even more extreme example is in Exodus 32 when Moses actually argues with G-d and seemingly wins the argument thus saving the lives of the Hebrews. Similarly, complaints were by no means unknown by the rulers of vassal states to their overlords. The famous Amarna letters addressed by Egyptian allies and vassals to Pharaoh Akhenaten are filled with complaints and requests, with a few even being acknowledged (3). Considering that Pharaoh’s considered themselves living gods this just adds more background to the precedent of complaining towards, making suggestions to, or arguing with the divine.

    Beyond the kinship of all the community of Israel, and not just a singular son, with G-d there are also many notions that have to be cleared up in regard to humankind’s place in creation. A famous Midrash Tanhuma Tarzia 5 has a Roman Consul asking Rabbi Akiba why Jews circumcise male children when G-d has them born uncircumcised. In response Rabbi Akiba shows the consul grain, created by G-d and bread which is that same grain altered by man. Rabbi Akiba then asks the consul which one is better, before giving the obvious answer that most people prefer bread. This little story besides giving a philosophical explanation for circumcision also gives a good summary of the main ethos of Rabbinic Judaism. That G-d made the world unfinished so that mankind in general and Jews in particular could finish it. To establish the kingdom of heaven on earth rather than merely waiting for it. The translation of ‘Tikkun Olam’ as repairing the world was meant to be understood literally and not just as a metaphor for social justice.

    Lastly and perhaps most shocking to an Abrahamic Gentile reader, the G-d of Judaism was not traditionally portrayed as unchanging or infallible. The idea only gained traction in rabbinic Judaism after Maimonides inserted it into his theology after borrowing it from Aristotelian, Islamic, and Christian ideas in the 12th century. Historically the G-d of Judaism has been shown to change their mind, and according to Moshe Idel is even affected by theurgy (4). As evidenced by many stories in the Torah where G-d explicitly changes their mind on what they want to do. The mutability of G-d’s mind in terms of human prayer and action carries over to the realm of Halakhic interpretation assuming the other party has a good point. The most famous example of this rabbinical overturning G-d’s decree is in Baba Metzia 59B where Three Rabbis tell G-d that G-d and Rabbi Eliezer’s interpretation of a ruling regarding an oven is invalid. They achieve this by citing Deuteronomy 30:12, and Exodus 30:2 stating that the Law is not in heaven and is for the majority to decide its correct meaning. Instead of smiting the group of Rabbis G-d simply laughs stating that ‘My children have beaten me’. Indeed, the Great Maggid even goes as far as to say that G-d, like a parent teaching their child Torah, actually prefers a novel interpretation instead of just parroting the interpretation given by the parent (5).

           In Pauline Christianity Deuteronomy 30:12 which states, “The Law is not in Heaven” has been taken to mean that Halakah isn’t binding in the kingdom of heaven. However, the mainstream rabbinic interpretation means that only living humans can truly follow the Torah and perform Mitzvot to their fullest extent. In the Talmud in Shabbat 88B there is one of many Moses vs angels battles found throughout Jewish literature regarding whether humans should receive the Torah. Just like all of the other stories with this mytheme, Moses obviously wins this battle and takes the Torah to Israel. What makes this story different is that rather than using theurgy to bind the angels or just beating the tar out of them, Moses defeats them with a well-reasoned argument. I’ll let the passage I copied from Sefaria speak for itself.

     Moses said before Him: Master of the Universe, the Torah that You are giving me, what is written in it? God said to him: “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of Egypt from the house of bondage” (Exodus 20:2). Moses said to the angels: Did you descend to Egypt? Were you enslaved to Pharaoh? Why should the Torah be yours? Again Moses asked: What else is written in it? God said to him: “You shall have no other gods before Me” (Exodus 20:3). Moses said to the angels: Do you dwell among the nations who worship idols that you require this special warning? Again Moses asked: What else is written in it? The Holy One, Blessed be He, said to him: “Remember the Shabbat day to sanctify it” (Exodus 20:8). Moses asked the angels: Do you perform labor that you require rest from it? Again Moses asked: What else is written in it? “Do not take the name of the Lord your God in vain” (Exodus 20:7), meaning that it is prohibited to swear falsely. Moses asked the angels: Do you conduct business with one another that may lead you to swear falsely? Again Moses asked: What else is written in it? The Holy One, Blessed be He, said to him: “Honor your father and your mother” (Exodus 20:12). Moses asked the angels: Do you have a father or a mother that would render the commandment to honor them relevant to you? Again Moses asked: What else is written in it? God said to him: “You shall not murder, you shall not commit adultery, you shall not steal” (Exodus 20:13) Moses asked the angels: Is there jealousy among you, or is there an evil inclination within you that would render these commandments relevant?

-Shabbat 88B (Babylonian Talmud)

       The Mitzvot, something occasionally seen as higher and holier than the immanent aspect of G-d (6) were meant to be performed solely by humans. Because just like the angels, G-d lacks many of these physical imperfections that give many of the Mitzvot any real weight. Therefore, as the ones who do the most mitzvot, how we interpret and follow them is fundamentally up to us.

    Admittedly I could go on and on about the theoretical frameworks behind the ideas. Such as the status of the Torah vis a vis the status of G-d, or the tradition of prayer as legal battle with the divine realm but that’d be a whole other bag of cats. One that’d probably take 20 pages to accurately give my thoughts, thoughts that would be at best heretical to at least a fair number of Jews. So instead let us end this here, there is no way for Jews to cheat Halakhah because it fundamentally belongs to the Jews. It is our burden that we have to bear and our most cherished treasure. Even if it did indeed come from G-d, like any gift the receiver usually is the actual owner and the one who decides what to do with it.

Citation List for non primary sources

Koller, Aaron. “Deuteronomy and Hittite Treaties.” Bible Interpretations , September 2014. https://bibleinterp.arizona.edu/articles/2014/09/kol388003. 

Milano, Lucio. “Naptan Ḫudûtu Aškun". Practice and Ideology of Neo-Assyrian Banquets.” Thesis, Storia Antica e Arceologico Ciclo , 2013.Section 3. Eating With The King: The Earthly Banquet. PG 60-80

Nutter, Nick. “How the Great Kings Managed Their Vassal States during the Bronze Age.” nuttersworld.com, August 15, 2024. https://nuttersworld.com/civilisations-that-collapsed/managing-vassal-states/. 

 Idel, Moshe. Middot: On the emergence of Kabbalistic Theosophies. Brooklyn, NY: KTAV Publishing House, 2021. 

Idel, Moshe. “The Son of God as a Righteous in Hasidism .” Chapter. In Ben: Sonship and Jewish Mysticism, 531–85. New York, NY: Continuum , n.d. 

6. Idel, Moshe. “The World Absorbing Text.” Chapter. In Absorbing Perfections Kabbalah and Interpretation, 26–45. New Haven, Connecticut : Yale University Press, 2002

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

Hinny prompt: Harry dealing with Ginny’s new fan base.

Ginny is starting to get her first few fan letters. The harpies try and sort them but Harry spots a few on the creepier side OR at a game he overhears some fans obsessing over the fit new Chaser. Have fun with it.😉

This might not be what you meant by "fun," but right about now the most fun thing I could imagine writing was a situation in which horrible, misogynistic men get what they deserve. Can't imagine why... NSFW (language) - Please note, there's some offensive language in this one, included to illustrate how horrible these characters are; NOT meant to condone it. I hope that's clear in the tone.

It would be blasphemous to say it, but Harry strongly prefers attending Ginny’s away matches. 

The furor around the relationship between “The Chosen One” and the rising star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies had reached dizzying heights. Fans of their relationship flock faithfully to Harpies matches in the hope they might witness Harry cheering for Ginny, or clapping for Ginny, or something equally mundane, made exciting and romantic only because he’s the one doing it. While bizarre and invasive to Harry, this parasocial fantasy is nothing short of a PR dream for the Quidditch Club. 

The Harpies administration had been thrilled to reap the benefits of this excitement, and consequently laid out Harry and Ginny’s relationship on a silver platter: whenever Harry attended a match in their home stadium, he was offered a private Top Box at a prime location, complementary Omnioculars, unlimited food and drink, and a large Weasley Banner adorning the wall behind. 

Ostensibly a generous gesture, but in reality a nuisance, because it meant every reporter in the stadium knew exactly where to direct their cameras every time Ginny so much as sniffed the Quaffle. They’d capture Harry’s reaction and then rush to print it in the paper the next day, with interpretations so loosely based in reality that Harry’s nearly impressed at the creativity.

Once, Harry had sneezed, and his pained expression in the leadup to it was painted as “trouble in paradise” for weeks because it had happened to coincide with Ginny scoring. 

On another occasion, Harry had spent much of a particularly chilly match with his hands in his pockets. Of course, the only explanation for such insane behavior was obviously to hide the nonexistent wedding ring on his finger, which clearly resulted from a secret weekend elopement in the aftermath of Ginny’s spectacular performance against Pride of Portree. 

“They’ve got a point,” Ginny had joked over their morning breakfast. “I did deserve a diamond after that match. What gives?”

“A bit late for that, haven’t you heard?” Harry had said through a bite of porridge. “We’re already getting divorced. I’m having another affair with Hermione at the weekend.”

“Damn,” Ginny sighed. “I wanted to have an affair with Hermione.”

Much more insidious, though, were the stories suggesting that Ginny’s signing and popularity was only because of her relationship with Harry. Ginny swore she didn’t give a flying fuck what the papers wrote about her, but Harry took to ripping every story that cast aspersions at her talent to shreds.

But, Harry had finally got one over on the press. He’d called an uncharacteristic press conference and made an announcement that, due to undefined “security risks” at away stadiums, he was unable to attend matches outside of Holyhead. 

The statement had been worth all of the ridiculous stories speculating about his lack of support for his girlfriend’s career, because it meant that he got to watch the Harpies vs Falcons match – donning a thick cap, sunglasses, and a scarf, in some cheap seat that no one would suspect Harry Potter of sitting in – utterly without audience. Sure, his view of the match leaves a bit to be desired, and he’s cramped next to a rowdy group of Falcons fans, but it’s wonderfully refreshing to swear angrily when Ginny is fouled without fear of a think-piece speculating about his repressed anger issues appearing in tomorrow’s Prophet. 

It’s one of his better lies, all told, and Harry’s inclined to celebrate his stroke of genius. 

It’s not until about ten minutes into the match that Harry is forced to concede he may have celebrated prematurely, as he reckons with the drawbacks to his little caper up close and personally. 

“HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS! HI! HO! FALMOUTH FALCONS!”

The lads surrounding Harry are chanting with such an obnoxious, drunken fervor that Harry can hardly hear himself think, forget hearing the match commentary. They scream with such persistence for so long that they’ve nearly earned Harry’s begrudging respect, when the chant finally succumbs to raucous cheers as Falmouth is awarded a penalty.  

“Nice to have a bit of a doss match this week,” the bloke next to Harry remarks loudly after Falmouth scores their penalty. “Gives Wickford time to rest up before we play Puddlemere.”

Harry squints up at the speeding players above and confirms that Wickford, a thick-necked man and Falmouth’s star Chaser, is indeed speeding back defensively as the Harpies offensive formation takes shape, and not resting on the sidelines. Harry shoots a sidelong glance to his neighbors, perplexed. 

“Yeah, nice of the Harpies to carry on with an all-female squad,” another dark-haired lad chimes in. “I thought they were finally going to give it up after last season. What a joke.”

The first bloke, who Harry observes looks rather like Dudley, laughs ruefully. “Gwenog Jones won’t ever admit the problem, though, will she? They just don’t have the speed or the strength, everyone can see it–” 

Harry scowls. Pricks.  

“She clearly thinks the new recruit, Weasley or whatever, is going to make them competitive again, but–”

“Does she?” the Dudley-looking one snorts. “Or do they just want the Harry Potter fangirls to bring in the revenue? It’s a massive publicity stunt, honestly, just like the whole team.”

The three of them laugh, and Harry’s scowl deepens beneath his sunglasses. 

“I’m only hoping they bring back the swimsuit calendar this year,” the dark-haired one adds. “Weasley’s fit as fuck.”

The group murmurs their general agreement, and Harry takes stock of the hexes available to him. Might be time to dust off the toenail-growing one of Snape’s… But no. He can’t get hauled in front of Magical Law Enforcement again. Robards will sack him. 

“Yeah, the Harpies can fuck around with an all-women team, as long as they all look like that,” the Dudley-looking lad adds, pointing up at Ginny who is now flying overhead, and they all get a particularly good view of her from behind. The blond one jeers. “Wouldn’t mind seeing her strutting around on my calendar in a bikini.”

“I’d go so low as to call myself a Harpies fan for one of those,” the dark-haired jokes, and they all snigger. 

Sod hexing. Harry would quite like to kill them. He’s gripping the metal bars in front of him, knuckles white, imagining creative ways of doing it when Ginny - quite literally - takes matters into her own hands: all of their attention is pulled to the pitch as she feints, drawing Wickford into an ugly-looking lurch before she dodges and cannons a shot directly into the right goal. 

God, he loves her. 

“Damn,” the blond one whistles. “Fit and fair enough at Chasing, I suppose.”

“Potter’s a lucky bloke,” they joke. “I’d let her score on me all she wants.”

Yeah, Harry thinks darkly, today’s my lucky day.

Harry thinks he deserves a medal for the level of restraint he exercises, as the lads continue to offer lewd, sexist, and leering comments about Ginny for the entirety of the match. In fact, the only reason he manages not to strangle them is because Ginny, herself, is shutting them up far more effectively than he ever could. 

“Watch this, Robbins’ll catch her, look at the difference in wingspan–”

Ginny drops a beautiful pass to Gwenog who times her formation perfectly, and the Harpies score yet again. 

“Weasley’s tiny, once they let our Beaters loose on her she’ll be a goner–”

Ginny executes a perfect Sloth-Grip Roll to dodge an incoming bludger, and manages to whip a shot past the Falcons Keeper while dangling upside-down. 

“Knock her off her fucking broom!”

Wickford, clearly frustrated, fouls Ginny – hard. While the referee blows a shrill whistle, Harry lets out a stream of abuse, “Dirty fucking wanker–”

“Oi!” the Dudley-looking bloke next to Harry exclaims with glee. “Have we got ourselves a Harpies fan in our midst?”

Harry takes a measured, calming breath before answering, still staring up at the match above. “Yep.”

The group lets out a gleeful ooh. Harry knows it’s commonplace to give opposing fans a hard time at away matches, but these blokes haven’t got a clue how close Harry is to losing it. He’s about one more comment away from turning them into Aunt Marge. 

He claps when Ginny easily puts away the penalty shot, extending the Harpies already considerable lead. 

“Very progressive of you,” the blond one jokes. “Are they your girlfriend’s favorite team, or something?”

“Or something,” Harry answers through gritted teeth. 

They all jeer. “She’s got you whipped, eh? I hope the pussy’s worth rooting for a pussy-ass team like–”

“I’d watch my fucking mouth, if I were you,” Harry says, his voice low and dangerous. He realizes, dimly, that he must look far less intimidating than he’d like, with his ridiculous hat and sunglasses and scarf covering much of his face. Oh, well. Looks can be deceiving. He’s just finished up with seven weeks of an intensive dueling refresher course with the Aurors. He reckons he could incapacitate all three of them before they even had a chance to pull their wands. 

“Oooh, would you?” they jeer. “What, do you reckon if you cheer loud enough, Weasley will hear you and come over to thank you after the match?”

“Could she thank me too, you reckon?” the Dudley one adds. 

Harry can hear his own heartbeat angrily pounding in his ears. They’re all disgusting pricks, not worth a moment of his time or his energy, but he’s not stupid, either. He’d been, at first, when Ginny had originally signed with the club, and he’d just started paying more attention to the news about the team and the undermining, sexist undertones in all of it. He’d been shocked to see the nasty objectifying comments, the aspersions at their talent, the insinuation that the team was a feminist gimmick, not to be taken seriously. 

Hermione had humbled him with a sharp, “No,” when he’d asked her if she was surprised by it, too. 

He’s not as naive anymore. He realizes these blokes are watching their own team get shellacked by an all-female side, watching as Ginny plays elite Quidditch with their own eyes, and still they’ve got nothing but bullshit to say. 

Helpfully, Ginny chooses that moment to score yet another goal, her seventh. When Harry claps, they all join in mockingly. 

“Weasleyyyyy,” they call, with mocking, lovesick expressions. “Ditch the Chosen One and choose meee!”

Harry turns to them, and asks in a flat tone. “Is that the reason you’ve been rooting for such a shit team, then? You’re hoping Wickford will come and give you a cuddle after?”

“Oi!” the dark-haired one says. “Hang on–”

“That’s the only reason you’d be a fan of the fucking Falcons, isn’t it? If Wickford will take you home?”

“Nah mate, reckon all poofs are Harpies fans, aren’t you?”

The toenail hex seems woefully tame, all the sudden. “Are all Falcons fans pricks or is it just you lot?”

“Oi, relax mate,” the blond one jeers. “We’re just wondering how it all works. How many times have you got to wear a Harpies kit before they let you pull a leg over?”

“Dunno, how many times have you got to wear that Falcons kit for them to win a match?”

“Is that the new Harpies recruitment strategy?” the Dudley-looking one continues. “They only sign slags to the team, so they can shag together a fanbase?”

Harry pulls his wand so fast that they jump back, startled. “Say that again,” he growls, holding his wand in the man’s face. “Say it.”

“Watch yourself,” the blond one says, holding his hands up and pointing to his mate threateningly. “This one’s about to be an Auror, you’re about a second away from–”

What surely deadly threat Harry is a second away from, he’ll never learn, because just then, with a loud groan from the crowd, the Harpies Seeker pulls out of a spectacular dive with the snitch clasped in her fist, thereby ending the match at an embarrassing score of 260-10. 

“YES!” Harry yells, his wand dropping to his side as his eyes seek out Ginny in the air. 

He can’t remember ever finding a win so satisfying, and Ginny quite so attractive as she streaks across the pitch to hug Gwenog Jones in a midair heap, her red hair streaming behind her in the wind. When she lets go, she scans the section she knows Harry is sitting in. Looking for him, like she always does after a match, only this time she’s looking for an idiot in a shit disguise. 

He turns back to the blokes, fury and disgust with them still radiating in his bloodstream, and a reckless desire that he’ll surely regret later overtakes him. Fuck it, he thinks, and he begins to pull off his scarf. 

“What was it you were saying before?” he goads, pulling their attention back to him before they move with the rushing crowd out of the stands. “One of you arseholes is going to be an Auror?”

“I am, and I’ll curse you into next week, if you like,” the Dudley looking-one taunts. “Maybe then Weasley will give you a pity ride, if that’s what you’re hoping for–”

“Interesting offer, but I’ll pass,” Harry says, as he pulls off his sunglasses. A look of vague recognition sweeps across the blond one’s face, though the others merely look a combination of angry and befuddled. 

Harry replaces his regular specs and looks to the pitch just in time to lock eyes with Ginny - she’s found him in the crowd. 

She’s halfway across the pitch, but Harry can tell by the tilt of her head that she’s wondering why he’s gone and taken off half the disguise they’d laughed so hard about earlier. He waves, and despite their earlier agreement to forgo their usual public post-match celebration, she seems to get the message and begins flying toward him. 

He turns back to the blokes and finally removes his hat, revealing the still famously recognizable scar on his forehead. All three of their expressions transform into varying degrees of horror as they recall every horrible thing they’d said over the last hour, and connect just who they said it to. “What the fuck–” one of them mutters. “What the fucking shit– is that– Harry Potter–”

Harry stares directly at the aspiring Auror, memorizing his stupid features as he reddens. “I–” he stammers.

“I wouldn’t count on the Auror thing,” Harry spits. “If you’ll pardon me, though, I’ve got to congratulate my girlfriend. Maybe thank her later, for giving me so much to cheer for.”

He turns just as Ginny arrives to hover in front of him, windswept and flushed with victory and so ruddy gorgeous he can’t think. “You were so fucking brilliant,” he tells her. 

“I know,” she says with that cheeky grin he loves so much, and then she kisses him so soundly that he quite forgets the pricks openly gaping at them from behind. 

For a moment.

He pulls back from the kiss and turns to find them making a hasty retreat from the scene, but not before he hears the telling sound of a camera pop.

The ensuing stories plastered all over the papers the next day - Harry, pictured in his ridiculous disguise entering the stadium, their victorious kiss in the stands - ensure that Harry’s never able to sneak surreptitiously into the crowd of an away match ever again. 

A trade worth making, though, when Harry gives an exclusive interview detailing every disgusting thing the three men identified in the background of the photograph had said, and when Ginny writes a cutting op-ed for the Prophet highlighting the ways in which the press had created the very narrative those three pricks had parroted. 

Of course, it doesn’t solve the problem overnight, nor did they expect that it would. But, it moves the needle, just a bit. When Ginny reads an excellent article detailing the Harpies�� unique formations without once mentioning Harry or questioning whether they might be more effective by signing male players, she smiles. 

The rejection of Winston Winthrop’s Auror application is just the frosting on the cake.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Teeth

Part 20!

Masterlist

Warnings: Angst (god, I'm so sorry), discussions of stalking, mentions of nightmares, kissing, sex dreams, more angst, Billy's sad childhood.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, Dinah knocks on his front door.

He knows it's her, he can almost smell her impatience. 

You haven’t woken up yet, and Billy really wants to let you sleep. You’d had another nightmare- he’d heard the moment you woken with a sharp gasp last night. He’d waited, waited patiently to see if you’d come to him, if you’d ask to crawl into bed beside him. He’d listened to your footsteps as you’d made a cup of jasmine tea.

He’d wanted to go to you, but he didn’t want to make it seem as if he was… monitoring you.

Lying on his side, he’d listened to you sigh, making sure you were okay, using his keen sense of hearing to listen to your racing heart.

He wasn’t too sure what to do. How did he reassure you that he wanted to be with you, that your entire relationship was built on something stronger than pity?

Perhaps, he could encourage you to seek out therapy, help you through your erroneous thoughts and make you see reason.

He shuddered at the reminder of therapists, and his failed relationship with a certain one in particular.

He’d listened to you have your tea and go back to bed, then he’d listened to you toss and turn and make little sounds of irritation that made the beast inside of him alert, tugging at him to go to you, to lie beside you, soothe you into sleep.

He thought about how you’d feel in his arms, the way he’d bury his nose in your hair and wrap his body around yours, a smile pulling onto his face the more he thought about it.

Then, he’d remembered what you’d said, that you might just take his actions as pity, and not the movements of a man utterly and hopelessly obsessed.

In a way, he sort of understood the insanity that being deprived of you could cause, shaking his head as he fell asleep, knowing exactly how unhinged his thoughts sounded.

Billy pulls open the door, wearing only the grey sweats he’d fallen asleep in, rubbing at one eye with the base of his palm.

“Madani.” He greets grumpily, the first peek of sunlight just starting to light up the street behind her.

She looks unbothered by his prickly greeting, in her red shirt and sensible work pants, a coat thrown over the ensemble to shelter her from the chill of the oncoming winter season. Billy steps to the side to let her in, the glint of her badge on her hip when she moves.

“You got coffee?” Dinah asks, eyes scanning the area, most likely looking for changes in his home. It had been years since she’d set foot in his place.

“Upstairs.” He answers, and she nods, pulling her gloves and coat off, hanging it on the little hanger near the door.

He leaves her in the kitchen for a moment so that he can grab a shirt, not wanting to be exposed to her for longer than necessary.

She’s sifting through his collection of coffees when he finds her again.

“So, how is she?” Dinah asks, not looking up. He watches her open a bag, take a small whiff and shakes her head. Billy studies her for a moment, gathering his thoughts, making sure to keep himself calm, stoic. He’d already had an idea of where this conversation was headed, and he didn’t want Dinah prying too much.

He clears his throat.

“She’s alright- yeah- shaken, which is understandable, but she’s a fighter.”

“I know, I saw her background. Hell of a girl.” Dinah says, raising her head with a light smile that suggested she knew something that he didn’t.

“What are you implying?” 

Dinah makes a sound of amusement, selecting another bag of coffee, this one,  harvested from the mountains of Peru.

“I read her file, Billy. Her statements, her firsthand account of that night. I saw the autopsy report for those two muggers. I know.”

He keeps his emotions in check, wrapped tightly with a rubber band and shoved deep down inside of him. His head is full of static, denial in his veins.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He says measuredly.

Dinah has the audacity to laugh, full blown, head tossed back, he’d roll his eyes if he was a little bit more comfortable with the direction of the conversation.

 “I forgot how easy it is for you to lie to yourself. Don’t worry, Russo I won’t tell a soul.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Dinah.” He says, inching closer to her, desperate to make the were-cheetah understand his words. “There is nothing to read into, nothing to know. She means nothing to me.”

Dinah’s eyes slide from his face to something behind him, he turns his head, stomach twisting as he spots you, having just come upon the conversation.

God fucking dammit, Billy swears internally.

.

“Good morning Agent Madani.” You greet evenly, pretending that you didn’t hear what you definitely just heard, “Is everything going well with the investigation?”

She says your name in greeting.

“Are you doing alright?” She asks, grabbing a bag of coffee from Billy’s selection.

“Peachy.” You respond sarcastically, with a smile, entering the kitchen, unable to look him in the eye at all.

You watch her set up his coffee machine, as you slide onto one of the stools at his kitchen counter, unlocking your phone to look through your notifications.

The place is silent, save for the hum of the coffee machine, you can feel Billy’s eyes on you, but you refuse to acknowledge him in any way, shape or form.

I’ll show you nothing.

“So,” You say, clearing your throat, “any news?”

Dinah turns, looking at you both, before stepping over to an unmarked cupboard, opening it to grab a mug.

You blink, tilting your head in acknowledgement that she so easily knew where to find things. Maybe they were in a relationship before.

“We have a… working theory that maybe you’re not the target.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, waiting for her elaboration.

“When we assembled the timeline of events, and analysed the photos properly, we noticed that Billy hadn’t been around at any point that the stalker was there. Every time something happened, he was nowhere around.”

“Are you implying that he’s the stalker?” You say dryly in disbelief, looking down, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“No, more that the intended target of this harassment isn’t you… but rather… Billy.”

At that, you finally look up.

“How does that make any sense?” You prod at Dinah.

“Thing is, Billy is a security expert, catching him off guard would be really difficult. But, threatening a close friend of his, forcing him to watch your fear… we think that was the goal the entire time.”

You blink, looking down.

This wasn’t about you at all?

“That’s why taking several photos of you being mugged was so important,” Dinah continues, “Your fear, they’re using it against him.”

“Which reminds me,” She mutters, turning to Billy, “Can you send me a list of any enemies you have? We’ll start big and work our way down.

“You kidding?” Billy asks, raising a hand to wipe at his brow, “That list would be ten pages long. I’m not in security to make friends.”

“We have to start somewhere.” You hear her mutter to him.

“So… this is good right?” You say interrupting their little conversation, with freshly sprouting thoughts, “This means that I'm- I'm not being obsessed over, yeah? So I'm not in as much danger as I thought? No one is learning everything about me because they like me?”

There's a stagnant silence between the both of them that makes you think that you weren’t very correct in your assumptions.

“Not exactly.” Billy says, glancing at Dinah who looks back at him and makes you think to yourself that they really made a cute couple. The thought makes you press your teeth together angrily.

For a moment, it feels like someone's taken a hammer to your chest again, more and more you realise that maybe Billy had never really desired you.

“If this person isn't actively interested in pursuing you, and just trying to hurt Billy, then they have nothing to really gain from keeping you alive in the long term.” Dinah explains.

It just makes your heart sink more.

“Well it makes sense that my death would be worth much more than my life.” You grumble, crossing your arms.

In your peripherals, Billy turns away, when your eyes follow his movement, you catch him shaking his head.

Great, now you’d disappointed him.

“What if I left the city? Got as far away as I could and never came back?”

You watch his shoulders stiffen.

“You’d probably be safe but there’s a chance the person doing this could go after your friends to make a point, or maybe they follow you, we’re not entirely sure about anything, all we have right now is just a working theory.” Dinah answers.

“Oh.” You mumble, “So you could be wrong, and I could still be the main target.”

She’s silent for a while.

“We’re still exploring every option, but based on analysis, Billy does seem like the real target.”

Great. 

You turn away with a nod of your head, trying to figure out how to excuse yourself from the conversation and retreat into hiding.

“Wait a minute,” You say, turning back, “Why me? I’m sure there are a lot of people they could target that mean more to him than me.”

His head drops, and Dinah glances at him with a wry smile on her face.

“I think you might be his only friend that isn’t ex-military.”

Are we even friends? You want to jab.

“Actually, the harassment might have even been orchestrated to get you both closer together, knowing that Billy might have taken you in if he knew you were being stalked.”

You think you were going to be sick.

The idea that you were just being used as a pawn in someone else’s game this entire time, like a mouse in a maze, with doors shutting all around you, forcing you to go in one direction, made you want to sink into the nearest abyss and never be seen again.

You wanted to claw at the walls, you wanted to scream.

You take a deep breath, holding it, closing your eyes and pressing your face into your hands. You let it hurt, you let your lungs beg for air, you feel your body begin to sag under the weight of itself. When you can’t keep it in anymore, you let the breath out in a rush, feeling your mind calm down, too busy focusing on the mild oxygen deprivation to keep panicking.

“Alright well, it was a pleasure seeing you, Agent Madani, I look forward to speaking with you again.” You say diplomatically, sliding off the stool and stepping purposefully back to your room. You don’t stop until you’ve collapsed onto your bed face down, your face buried into a pillow, hoping that you could close your eyes and have all of this go away.

.

A while later, there’s a soft knock on your door.

You raise your head, sitting up and facing the door.

“Yeah?” You answer.

The doorknob turns, and you feel your throat tighten as you meet his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Great.” Is your clipped answer, “Things have never been better.”

He says your name on a sigh, opening your door wider to step into your room.

You look away, down at the spot on the floor where the glass of water had been smashed to pieces a few nights ago. You wonder if you would still find any remnants of splinters there.

“You and Dinah look nice together.” You comment softly.

“I suppose we might have,” He accedes, coming to sit beside you on your bed, “A  long time ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile.

“She's really pretty, I almost want to congratulate you on being with her.”

“She's alright.”

You make a sound of disbelief, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

He tilts his head in curiosity.

“What?”

“Well if you think she's alright, it's no wonder that I mean nothing to you.”

The silence is stiff, like the air is made of honey, trapping you both in place.

“I'm sorry you had to hear that, but it wasn't true.”

You shake your head.

“Look- It's alright- you don't have to say anything to make me feel better I get it-” You stand, fighting the thick feeling of the air around you both, “-I'm probably not pretty compared to all the other women you've dated, and maybe you've just realized that-”

Your voice cuts off when he stands too, your body freezing up once more as you catch the stern expression on his face.

He's like a predator, the way he moves forward, corralling you until you're pressed against the bedroom wall.

You try to appear calm, though you can feel each time blood pulses into your brain.

His eyes are so dark, you can barely see his pupil, you have to tilt your head up to keep eye contact the closer he gets.

He gets close enough that you can feel the soft brush of his breath on your cheek, his arms pressed to either side of you to cage you in.

“Dinah and I were only together for a few months. I wouldn’t open up to her, and she wouldn’t open up to me. She once told me that I was incapable of making a real connection with someone, and maybe I carried that into my next relationship, but you… are the first real connection I’ve made in a really long time.”

You blink, your insides responding positively to his words.

“I said those things to her because what you really mean to me, is absolutely none of her business.”

“And what do I mean to you?” You ask softly, a depth of challenge in your voice, a silent plea to mean more to him than you think you do.

The corners of his mouth just barely tilt upwards, one of his hands move to cup your cheek.

“So much more than you know. It hurts me to hear you talk down on yourself, it pains to hear you suggest leaving.”

He leans in further, his face beside yours so that he can whisper in your ear.

“I want you, more than I can even understand and I've been thinking about you from the moment we first met.”

You gulp, raising a hand to touch his shoulder, smoothing down the length of his arm.

He takes your wrist in his hand, pressing it against the wall beside your head.

You gasp, turning to look at him in surprise at the meaningful way he moved.

His nose brushes yours, and you can't help tilting your face up in hopes that he kisses you.

“It's not easy to find words for,” he thinks for a moment before smiling, “If I liked you less, maybe I would talk about it more.”

“That's Jane Austen.” You whisper.

The corner of his lip twitches.

“Yeah, maybe she's on to something.” 

You feel his thumb swipe gently over the fluttering pulse at your wrist.

His head moves, his nose trailing a path over your cheek, to your ear. You stay perfectly still, heart hammering, but unwilling to break him from whatever thoughts he seemed to be in.

He drops his head till his face is pressed to the base of your neck, you feel and hear him take a deep breath.

“You smell good.” His voice is a low grovel.

“Thank you.” You whisper in response, feeling him take another slow breath, your body growing aroused at your positions.

He lets out a soft hum of appreciation, you stand there a little surprised at his actions. Was he just breathing you in?

His lips brush your neck and you feel a jolt of heat spear into your stomach. 

Your skin tingles, all you can feel besides his mouth on your skin and his breathing in your hair is your body begging him for more.

You wanted him to touch you, to trail his hands over your skin. You ached to just be felt, and not even in a sexual way. You wanted him to learn you, explore the feel of you so you would know what that felt like.

Do people even do that? Do they explore each other simply for the pleasure of it? You're not sure, but more and more you want to know everything about him.

You feel his grip tighten on your wrist, feeling him lean more against you as if he can't bear the thought of being apart. He stiffens, raising his head from its place, buried in your neck. His eyes are…

strange, there's something a little odd about them, but you don’t get the chance to investigate further.

“Excuse me.” He grunts out  before he's drawing away, and stepping out of your room with meaningful steps.

This time, your stomach fills with warmth and affection to watch him go. Almost intuitively knowing that his departure is based on a heavy desire for you, one that he was worried about losing control over, and not dislike, as you might have previously thought.

He really likes me, is what you think to yourself as the door closes.

.

You swear you're not trying to torment him on purpose, but it's funny how things work out like that.

You tap your pen against your lips, raising your eyebrows curiously when you glance over at him and find him already looking at you.

He looks so calm, except you know him a little bit better now, you watch his eyes drift to your lips, the same dark red you'd worn before.

Somewhere at the front of the room, there's a presentation happening, some routine safety briefings being spoken about.

You smile, looking down, and when you glance back at him, he's still got his eyes on you.

You could feel it in your bones, in that spot behind your navel- it was only a matter of time before you gave in to the tension between you.

The image of it just pops into your head with no warning, the way he might tug at your clothes frantically, breathless kisses, low groans as he gets you naked. His firm press of your body against his desk, or the first flat surface. The reminder of the way his hands feel on your skin, his mouth- you blink, swallowing, looking down at the pen in your hands as you let the memories of him overwhelm you.

You wanted him in so many ways, over and over, you almost felt insane with need. All you could feel is the ache inside of you, a space craving to be filled.

Your body responds eagerly to your thoughts, you swallow, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as arousal dampens your underwear.

You try to avoid looking at him as you let the debauched thoughts consume you. The imagery of him naked, all those delicious scars on display for your mouth to explore, the way you wanted to taste the path from his cock up to the base of his navel. You press your thighs together, aching for his touch. 

He'd probably touch you too, if you asked nicely enough. Maybe he would give you just what you needed.

You fight the groan of desire that builds in your chest, blinking and looking up to reorient your mind in the room. The HR rep is on his closing speech and you're thankful that this is almost over. Your eyes drift to where Billy is sitting, and your breath halts suddenly when you find his eyes on you.

You feel warmth flush in your face, his eyes are heated, the expression on his face is calm but- but the look in his eye promises pleasure beyond comprehension.

It’s like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and for a moment you wonder if he can hear your thoughts.

The sound of a binder closing breaks you from your daze. You blink, breathing in a slow breath, looking around. You meet some of your coworker’s eyes, smiling at them, hoping that they hadn’t witnessed you and Billy basically eye-fucking each other into next week.

You spare a glance at him, wondering if you should take the time to say something, or just leave. You’re unsure of how to navigate here, knowing that no one else knows how close you really are to each other.

You decide against causing any drama- or give anyone a reason to chat about you. You suck in a slow breath, gathering your items before rising to a stand, to walk out of the conference room.

You feel his eyes on your back all the way out.

You keep your breathing even as you walk, there’s a pounding in your ears, the thump of your footsteps on the ground.

When there’s a sudden grip on your arm, you gasp, head swivelling in shock and mild fear to see Billy right beside you.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He hums, pressing you somewhere. Your legs move where he guides, trying to stay upright with his firm steer on your body.

It doesn’t really register that he’s pushed you into a dark supply closet until you hear the door locked behind him.

“Is- everything okay?” You stutter out, heart hammering in anticipation.

“No it’s not.” He grunts out, taking the little items from your hands and placing them onto the shelf above your head in a meaningful motion.

You open your mouth to ask him what he was doing but you don’t get the chance. His fingers grip the back of your head, pulling your body against his, Your hands reaching up to steady yourself on his shoulders.

His forehead pressed to yours, you feel his breath on your lips as he exhales.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, voice almost hoarse, “please say yes.”

You’re shocked at the desperate way he sounds, as if there’s no sanity left in him.

“Please please please, let me kiss you.”

Fuck. Did you really have him this way?

“Yes.” You rush out, before lifting your chin to seal your mouth to his.

Absolute sparks, tingles where your lips meet his. You share a groan, before drawing back so that you can kiss him again. His other hand raises, both gripping your neck with such tender attention that you get lost in it so quickly.

It's not enough, none of it is, you rise onto the tips of your toes, a smile on your lips as you press your body to his. A shared breath between you, remarkably slow for two desperate people.

His mouth leaves your lips, a kiss to your cheek, another right below your ear.

“I'd get down on my knees right now if you asked. Workplace etiquette be damned. Just say the word and my tongue is yours.”

You groan.

Holy fuck was he real? You tilt your head back as his mouth peppers kisses over the column of your neck, you're not sure who moves, if it's you looking for purchase, or him guiding you, but your back presses to the door, nowhere to go. 

Your hand dips into his hair, pulling him close, he hums, one firm hand drifting down your body to grip your hip. 

You're about to give in, tell him that you need him so badly that you can't wrap your head around it. However, at the same time, you stiffen when you hear several footfalls outside, and laughter as clear as if there was no door between you.

If you could hear that, then it's no question whether you'd be heard, maybe discovered before anything really good happened.

Billy pauses, raising his head having felt you go stiff in his arms, you study his dark eyes for a few moments, longing to live within the few seconds you'd gotten with him.

“We shouldn't.” You whisper, hands smoothing over his broad shoulders.

He nods, accepting, a hand raising to push an errant strand of hair out of your eyes.

“You're… really beautiful.” He responds next, and it feels like a cord’s been looped around your intestines, tangled in your heart, tugging gently in any direction it can.

You can only give him a shy smile, before looking away.

“And you,” you reply, lifting your head to return a compliment, eyes catching on his mouth and you notice something is off. You smile, raising a hand to the corner of his bottom lip, “-have lipstick on your mouth.”

He grins, teeth on display for you as you work carefully to rid him of any lipstick remnants.

“I'd wear it with pride if I could.” He confesses, studying you intently.

All you can do is smile in response, feeling so light in his presence.

.

He's lying in the forest, thinking about your cunt.

He feels at peace here, body lying in the dirt with the trees all around him, the sound of rushing water somewhere in the distance and he sighs, thinking about your wet little cunt.

It's like you hear him, your slow footsteps approaching, the crunch of grass beneath your bare feet.

Another dream, he realises, when he lifts his head to look up at you and he finds you naked, realising that he's naked as well.

He watches you approach, and when you're beside him, he extends a hand to help you remain balanced as you seat your body on his, that delicate cunt of yours pressed to his adonis belt.

Your fingers trace his skin, he can feel his cock swelling at the sensation.

Your hand drifts up, cupping his face your thumb pressing against his lips.

He feels like yours, wholly, lying in his most peaceful spot, ready to give himself over to any whim, any desire, parting his lips so that you can press your thumb into his mouth.

He feels a connection building in the back of his head, swears he can almost feel you there, and he wishes with every fiber of his being that it could be possible.

He reaches to grip your hips firmly, no words need to be said as he guides your body upwards, your thumb slipping from his mouth as he settles your thighs around his face.

He takes a deep breath, basks in the scent of your desire, of a cunt just as desperate for him as he is.

His eyes roll back in his head as his tongue darts out to taste you. A sweet sigh from your mouth that only encourages him. He starts slow, he wants to savour this, he wants to wring every drop of pleasure from your flushed body.

You whine his name. He grips your hips to press your cunt more firmly to his tongue.

So good, so good, is the only thing his brain can formulate, licking your clit repeatedly, getting high on your moans and the tart taste of your cunt.

He feels you rock your hips against his face. He simmers with the delight, loves his precious mate using him for her pleasure, taking what she needs.

He is yours, after all.

Hands tighten in his hair, you must have gripped it at some point, your grinding growing sharper, desperate. He keeps his tongue out for you to rub against.

Gripping your ass tightly in anticipation, knowing you're right on that edge and he'd do anything, anything to taste your orgasm.

He's alone when he wakes up. Upset and unhinged, he angrily climbs out of bed and is out of his bedroom in seconds. 

He wants you, he wants to barge into your room and drop to his knees so he can bury his face between your thighs.

He needs this- he needs- he feels his body shudder at the desire that spreads through him. The panther awakens fully, growling in his head, reminding him of every detail of his dream.

The smell of strawberries fills his nose as he gets your door open quietly.

There you are, asleep in your bed, he tilts his head at the peaceful way you look.

It's what makes him pause, blink in realisation of what he was about to do. He backs away in shock, the predator surging forward angrily, urging him to go to you.

He takes another step back at the way he feels himself losing control. Something was wrong with him. 

He blinks, sudden awareness of what day it was, or rather, what phase of the moon was almost above head.

Billy backs away from your door, cock swollen and aching, needing a cold shower more than anything.

.

The full moon was close. 

He'd verified it after an icy shower, the panther demanding he give in to his base urges, clawing at him to feed, to fight, and most importantly, to fuck.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, he couldn't give into it now, who knows how rough he might be, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to go softer if you asked, and that was the most sobering thought of them all. The first time he'd been with you, he'd bruised your wrist, and that hadn't even been near a full moon.

It was safer to wait this out, keep you at arm's length until he had his full sanity back.

But of course, the universe is seldom kind, especially to him, and he watches as you step into his line of sight from his spot in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel.

He watches you evenly, fingers tightening on the mug of coffee in his hand, his sensitive hearing warns that the cup might shatter if he squeezes any tighter.

“Going for a swim. You can come if you like?” 

He keeps his expression calm, tries not to think of how you look naked, fights the panther for the braincells necessary to respond.

“You go ahead, sweetheart, I've got some work emails to glance at really quickly.”

You smile at him, and he feels like the air has thickened, slowing time in his head so that he can look at you for a few moments more.

“Okay.” You say happily, turning to make your way down his staircase, the smell of your skin lingering in the air.

The panther isn't kind to him this time, pushing images of you, lying in your front below him, face pressed into the bed while he fucks into you from behind.

Billy stifles a groan, thinking about the sweet sounds you make, about how tight your delicious cunt is.

He was in so much trouble.

.

He's a little distant, you notice.

Not unbelievably so, but it's definitely there.

He can't seem to spend time in a room with you, always finding an excuse to leave, or maybe work really had gotten stressful for him.

He was a CEO after all, maybe he was just busy.

You sit in his sunroom, looking out with a sigh, you'd been feeling antsy lately, stuck between his house and your work and the occasional visit to Amy’s. Other than that, you'd felt really stagnant.

For a moment, you find yourself wishing you were in the woods camping again. Exploring with your friends, photographing any amazing thing you'd find. You frown when you remember the way your lungs felt while running away. 

Maybe you could do something for him that would help you take your mind off of feeling this way. It couldn't hurt to show him how appreciative you were of his protection and it would hopefully help him feel better too. 

To lift your phone to your face, smiling as you begin planning.

.

He's been sitting in his office, listening to your heartbeat for the last two hours.

As a precaution, he'd shoved his desk against the door, to slow the panther down if he somehow managed to take control of him. 

His nails are embedded in his palm, the pain keeping him locked into his body and all he can hear is the thumpthumpthumpthump of your heart.

His office is the one place your scent is weakest, he can't even go into his own bed without scenting you in the sheets. You're everywhere, like his home is yours and though on a normal day he'd relish the thought, today it's torture.

Would things be different if you were actually together? Maybe. He wouldn't have been so frustrated in the first place.

Billy tilts head back, sucks in a deep breath. He can't see this desire for you fading. He worries that he'll always be this unhinged around you on a full moon.

He squeezes his eyes shut, giving the panther the right moment to push more thoughts into his head.

He'd stalk you through your home, enjoying the scent of your arousal in the air. He'd tear your clothes to shreds, bury his face between your soft thighs and listen to you cry with need. 

He'd hover above you, ask you for permission, make you beg to be fucked as hard as he wants to fuck you. 

The sounds you'd make, as his hips met yours furiously, he'd feel you clench around him, he'd lick the sweat off your skin.

Your eyes, full of tears as he gives and gives, ridding you of any doubt of who you belonged to.

He doesn't realize where he is until his nose is pressed to the column of your neck.

You make a small sound of surprise, turning to look up at him, he's somehow found himself in the kitchen, an arm wrapped around you as he stands behind.

You smile up at him, unaware that his control is crumbling, you tilt your head up, a silent ask for a kiss.

The panther purrs in his head when your lips meet, he feels you sigh into the kiss, your body relaxing.

His hand grips your jaw when he tries to move away, keeping your head tilted up for him, so that he can kiss you for just a little longer.

“Sorry.” He says- can't believe that's the sound of his voice, “Got a little carried away.”

You turn in his arms, smiling up at him.

“That's okay.” You hum, your hands wrapping around his shoulders as best as possible.

The smell of raw meat catches his attention.

“What are you making?” He asks

“Steak for you, chicken for me. Just something to say thank you for all your help.”

The panther purrs louder in his head.

“You're- cooking for me?”

“Mhmm, we can't go out much, so I could use a distraction, and you've been so caught up working. I just thought I'd make you something.”

“Thank you.” He hums, still in disbelief.

He's not sure why he's surprised, you've cooked many meals together, but usually he's there to help. The idea that you'd feel comfortable enough to use his kitchen without him, only reinforces how comfortable you are in his space.

You smile, turning back to what you were doing, and before he can make a second thought, the panther shoves the image of his cum dripping from your cunt into his mind.

He backs away, retreating into his office quickly before you even notice that he's gone.

.

Something’s so weird about him right now. 

For the first time you can see anxiety written into his movements, unsure and hesitant when he reaches for his glass of water.

You’d worked hard, maybe turned the steak just a little bit past rare. Placed beside some creamy asparagus and some crispy fries that were amazingly delicious and it was safe to say you were proud of the final product.

You’d taken the food up to the sunroof, lit candles all around the table and the space heater running,  hoping to warm up the space with winter almost upon the city.  

You’d knocked shyly on his office door, letting him know to come up, and you’d grabbed some drinks on the way back.

He’d given you such a happy smile, one that had looked so gorgeous on his face, made you want to kiss him right then and there. 

It had made it worth it, and then his further delight at tasting the food made your insides flutter all over again.

He stops looking so unsure of himself the minute he starts eating, you can tell he’s focused on the meal for the time being, and you get to relax and enjoy each other’s company.

“So, you told me you liked cats- are they your favourite?” You ask, giving him a smile as he looks up.

It’s light, you know that, you don’t want to pry into any deep personal questions right now, you just want to hear the sound of his voice as he sits across from you.

“I think so. I can’t think of another animal I like more.”

“Interesting.” You say, leaning forward to grab your glass of wine, “I don’t know a lot of men that like cats.”

He nods in understanding.

“It’s the consent. It’s hard for some people to wrap their heads around the idea that animals need their boundaries respected too.”

“You’re not a real person.”

It’s such an absurd thing to say that it makes him laugh, which in turn puts a smile on your face.

“Did you have any pets growing up?” You ask.

Your heart sinks when he stops smiling almost instantly.

You can see the memory of it cross his face, the heartbreak of it all. You can tell whatever it was is ingrained into his psyche so deep that it’ll never leave him.

He swallows, looking down.

What do you say? Tell me more? It’s okay if you don’t want to? What would be the right words?

You stand, his eyes flit up to observe you as you thump across to his side of the table, before dropping into the space beside him and pulling him into a fierce hug.

He takes a deep breath of surprise, one hand moving cautiously around you, before he goes all in, pulling you into him, pressing his face into your neck.

“It can’t hurt you now. I promise.” You mutter against him, and his hold tightens in response.

“Her name was Della. She was a- a little kitten searching the dumpsters for scraps just like I was. Her fur was soft, so soft that I can never forget the feeling of it.”

Tears spring to your eyes, being soaked up by his shirt almost as fast as they come.

“The group home didn’t allow pets, I snuck her in anyway. I’d feed her before I would eat. Every potential foster that came by, I’d ask them how they felt about cats. If they were against them, I’d act out. Until I finally found a family that would take me and her.”

He’s quiet, shaking his head.

“When they found out they were expecting, they put me right back in the group home, but they kept her. After a few months, they moved away, and I never saw Della again.”

“It was probably for the best. I could barely take care of me, I would never be able to help her if she got sick but…”

“But you loved her.” You finish for him.

“I did. I do. I don’t say that much, but she was everything to me when I had absolutely nothing.”

You bury a hand in his hair, holding onto him tightly, wanting him to feel some semblance of the adoration he’d had back then.

Even more, you want to take that pain away from him, you wished you could soak it up, all of his hurt and his endless supply of trauma and replace it with something good.

After a long while of you holding each other, you finally find the willpower to pull away. There’s an understanding between you now, a line that’s been crossed. 

You smile up at him, and you turn, reaching across the table to grab your plate of food, settling against him as you continue your meal.

“You’re a good man, Billy.” You say after a while, deep in contemplation.

“Maybe the best man I’ve ever met.”

You can almost feel his fond smile.

.

You finish dinner peacefully, using small talk to avoid deep conversations. You spend the evening enjoying his presence, laughing with him, leaning against him.

Kissing him.

You can tell there’s something there, beneath his cool exterior, something that urges him to press his mouth to yours harsher than he usually does, his fingers so easily gripping the back of your neck, demanding your submission.

He manages to keep himself in check though, despite the fire in his eyes, he doesn’t do more than kiss you.

Yet, you find yourself yearning for it more and more.

You bump his shoulder as you wipe a dish dry, staring at the distorted kitchen sink through the wine glass.

He makes a sound of amusement, gently bumping you in return.

“I’ve been thinking…” You start, and struggle to find the right words to finish your sentence.

He passes you another dish when you find the right spot for the wine glass.

You hesitate for too long, deep in your own thoughts, fear and the worry of rejection holding your mouth hostage.

He bumps against you playfully, and you almost drop the dish, cupping it securely after a moment.

A quick laugh of surprise and you glance at him to see that playful look on his face.

“What is it?” He asks, reminding you of what you had just been about to say.

“Oh god, nevermind.” You groan, feeling embarrassed.

“Tell me.” He pries in a light tone of voice.

You shake your head.

“I was only going to say- that I think I might be ready? Well, I know I am, I just said ‘think’ because I didn't wanna come on too strong but uh I've never really had to say this out loud so forgive my awkwardness about it and I just wanted you to know- I mean- we don't have to do anything now and maybe you might not even want to but I just wanted you to know with no doubts in case it gets lost somewhere-”

The sound of your name on his lips interrupts your mindless rambles, and you give him an apologetic look. He takes the very dry dish from your hand and puts it in its proper place calmly before turning back to you.

His hands on your cheeks, cold and raisined from having his hands in the water, but you smile up at him softly.

He studies you, eyes tracing across your face like you're a book he wants so badly to read.

“What do you mean by ready?” He asks.

“For… us.” You confirm hoping you get your point across. 

“Us?”

“You and me.”

“Us.”

“Yeah.”

He stands still, studying you, as you can feel your beating heart, squeezing in your chest, pounding in anticipation of what he's going to say.

“I- would really like to be an ‘us.’” 

It makes your heart beat that much faster.

He closes his eyes, a look of regret briefly crossing his face that makes your stomach twist.

He presses his forehead to yours, and you're forced to look down or get a headache from trying to focus on him.

“I can't stay. I have to go.”

You blink in surprise, drawing back so that you can look him in the eye for an explanation.

“For work,” he elaborates, “we were having such a good time I didn't want to mess it up before I really had to.”

You feel sadness overcome you.

You take a deep breath in, slowly let it out.

“Oh.” It's the most you can voice.

He has to leave for work, in the middle of you asking to be with him?

“I'm sorry, please believe me when I say I'm not running, I want to stay. I want to be with you. I won't be gone long, just three nights. I'll ask Dinah to increase patrol outside, and you can go anywhere you want in my house, treat it like it's yours.”

Agony twists inside of you at the idea of being away from him, paired with the shock of having this dropped on you so quickly.

Your head spins, you're not sure what to say, all you know is that you'll regret it if you let him leave on an upset note.

You reach out to take his hand, smiling up at his beautiful face.

“I get it. You manage a lot of people's safety, not just mine. I'll be fine, and we can talk about it later.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

You reach for each other at the same time, his hand on your cheek, yours to his.

The kiss is soft and earnest, open and vulnerable, a parting gift between you.

“I'll see you in three days, yeah?” You whisper lightly, trying to squash the undeniable despair threatening to choke you.

.

.

.

[tanadrin]

"The United States exists" is a psyop to trick Germans into supporting additional military bases on their soil under the guise that these belong to a ""foreign ally.""

"Ich bin ein Amerikaner" ← a statement by the utterly deranged, a madness, an unspeakable paradox.

By claiming to be an American you are merely replicating the ancient national origin migration myth. The fabled homeland of your dreams is a fiction, like Mu, Eden, and Aztlán.

And when the King asked Columbine, ‘what do you want to become?’ Columbine would say, ‘I do not want to become anything. I am something. I am Columbine.’

The King said, ‘but you must become something,’ and Columbine said, ‘What can one become?’

And the King said, ‘Look at that man there, with the beard and the brown, leathery face. He is a sailor. He wanted to become a sailor, and he did, and he sailed across the sea and discovered new countries for his king.’

‘If you want, my king,’ said Columbine, ‘I’ll become a sailor.’ At that, the whole court burst out laughing. Columbine ran out of the hall shouting, ‘I will discover a country, I will discover a country!’

Everyone looked at each other and shook their heads, and Columbine ran out of the castle, through the city, and across the fields, and when the farmers who were in the fields greeted him, he called out to them, too: ‘I will discover a country, I will discover a country!’

And so he came to the forest and hid for weeks in the bushes and brambles, and for weeks no one heard a word about Columbine. The King was sorry and blamed himself, and the courtiers were ashamed for laughing. Finally, after weeks and weeks had passed, the watchmen on the tower blew a fanfare and the court rejoiced, for across the fields, through the city, and up to the gate came Columbine, and he went before the King and said, ‘my king, Columbine has discovered a country!’

And because the courtiers did not want to laugh at him, they tried their best to look serious and asked, ‘what is it called and where is it?’ ‘It does not have a name yet, because I have just discovered it, and it is far out to sea,’ said Columbine.

One of the grizzled sailors stood up and said, ‘well, Columbine, I, Amerigo Vespucci, will go and look at this country of yours. Tell me how I get there.’ ‘You go into the sea, and then go straight, and you have to keep going straight and not give up until you come to the country.’ Columbine was terrified, of course, because he knew that what he said was a lie, and that there was no such country. So off went Amerigo Vespucci, and for days and days Columbine could not sleep.

No one knows where Amerigo went. Perhaps he, too, hid in the forest.

Then the trumpets blew, and Amerigo came back.

Columbine was red in the face and dared not to look at the great sailor. Vespucci stood before the King, and said loud and clear, so that all could hear: ‘Your Majesty, O King, the land is there.’

Columbine was so glad that Vespucci had not betrayed him that he ran up to him, hugged him, and cried, ‘Amerigo, my dear Amerigo!’

And the people believed that this was the name of the country, and they called this land that did not exist, ‘America.’

‘You are truly a man,’ the King said to Columbine, ‘and henceforth you shall be called Columbus.’

And Columbus was famous, and all marveled at him and whispered as he walked past, ‘there he is! The man who discovered America!’

And they all believed that there is such a place. Only Columbus was not sure, and doubted it his whole life, but never dared to ask the sailors for the truth about where they had gone. Soon enough, other people went to America, and then, a great many people. And those who came back all said, ‘America is there!’

‘I,’ said the man who told me this story, ‘I have never been to America. I do not know if America exists. Perhaps people only say that it does, so as not to disappoint Columbus. After all, when you see two people talking about America these days, they wink at each other, and hardly ever say “America”. Instead, they say something vague about “the States” or “over the pond”, or whatever.’ Perhaps when someone gets on a plane or a ship to go to America, they are told the story of Columbus, and hide away somewhere, and come back later to talk about cowboys and skyscrapers, about Niagara Falls and the Mississippi, and cities called ‘New York’ and ‘San Francisco’.

In any case, they all say the same things, and talk about things that they already knew before they left, and that is very suspicious.

And people are always arguing about who Columbus really was.

I know it.

--Peter Bischel, Kindergeschichten

[hauntingcryptids]

Tell Me That I Belong To You

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Summary - The Reader is having a bad day. So, with the convincing of The TARDIS, The Reader seeks comfort in The Master.

Based On This Request - *This was originally based on a request but the more I continued to write and edit it, the more the fic drifted away from the prompt. So, I am just going to let this be its own fic and write another fic more closely aligned to the prompt.

Warnings - Reader not feeling well, insecurity on the part of the reader, canon typical telepathy. (let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count - 1864

A/n - Gender Neutral Reader. I have a smut version of this fic if anyone would like to read it, but I don’t want to post it if people would just prefer the fluff version. I also don’t know how good this is, but I just wanted to get something out there after feeling awful mentally for a while. So, I hope that you enjoy this :)!

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

You woke up with a headache. The type of headache that no matter how much water you drank, food you ate, or sun(TARDIS created sun) you layed in would cure your malady. Headaches, in general, but especially ones as bad as the one you were experiencing, always made your whole day awful. Oftentimes, the pain in your head would cause you to spiral internally until your mental health was utterly destroyed. That’s where you were now, arguing to yourself in your head about you and your “Humanness” and how you weren’t good enough for The Master. How could you possibly be good enough for The Master? Even if you weren’t Human, why would he want to be with someone like you?

The TARDIS beeped determinedly. You were becoming better at understanding The TARDIS given how much time you had spent within the ship but still you could only understand part of what she was telling you. The bits you could discern were: “The Master loves you”, “you are good enough”, “you have always been enough”, and “The Master would never think such horrible things about you. Ever!”

Eventually, you stopped The TARDIS’s rant about how great you were and that she wished that she could help improve your self-image. You thanked her for everything she said. Even though didn’t understand everything, you could feel her distress over your thoughts and her want to help you.

“The Master could help you where I fail.” The TARDIS finally said telepathically.

“He’s probably busy, though.” You mumbled, worried about upsetting him if you interrupted him while he was doing something.

“Go to him. He wouldn’t want to know that you allowed yourself to suffer when he was there ready and available to help you.” The TARDIS had to say this statement a couple of times in order for you to fully understand, and you sighed in response. She was right. The Master would be furious if he found out that you hid your distress from him, you knew that, he said as much many times before. It’s just that your brain would lie to you when you were upset.

“The Master will understand.” The sentient time and spaceship whispered into your brain. The TARDIS, given her time being The Master’s ship, knew better than anyone how the state of a person’s physical health could affect their mental health. She knew how greatly The Master suffered, therefore The Master would never judge you. The TARDIS just hoped that you knew what she knew.

“Can you lead me to The Master, please?” You asked after ruminating over everything the incredibly kind ship communicated to you. The TARDIS cheerfully directed you to the main library where The Master often lounged. 

Like many times before, The Master was sitting horizontally on the sofa reading. He seemed engrossed in the thick tome resting up against his bent thigh. The alien’s engrossed demeanour made you want to turn back and talk to The Master later, but The TARDIS reassured you with a comforting presence. Both you and the ship knew that the only person who could make you happy when you were feeling off was the rogue Time Lord.

You walked up as quietly as you could and poked the Master’s cheek with your finger. The Master looked up at you with a smile, completely unbothered. Even while agonisingly planning an upcoming plan to toy with The Doctor, you would always bring him joy just with your presence. You were never a bother to him,

“Hello, my little Human. How are you today?” The Master seemed so calm even though you expected him to be upset. You wrapped your arms around your torso anxiously and subconsciously began rocking back and forth on your feet.

“Can I sit on your lap please, Master?” You sounded tired, which worried The Master, though he chose not to react for your benefit. 

“Of course, love.” The Master placed the book he was researching and moved slightly to allow you to sit on his lap. 

As soon as you rested your body against his, The Master scooted his body down the sofa until the two of you were practically lying down. The Master then wrapped his arms firmly around your back, trapping you against his chest with the beating of his hearts rattling throughout your body. 

You breathed a sigh of relief, causing The Master to chuckle lovingly. You then nuzzled against his clothes-covered collarbones and the base of his neck and then breathed in his scent. His presence was comforting, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Your mind still hurt and your thoughts still moved far too quickly for you to properly calm down. You assumed that your thoughts were loud, loud enough for The Master to hear, but you didn’t put any effort into hiding your thoughts. You just wanted to dissolve into The Master’s chest and to let all of your anxieties disappear.

“I’m sorry that you aren’t feeling well, Y/n.” The Master said softly against your ear. One of his hands absentmindedly caressed up and down your back.

“Make me feel good, Master, please. You’re the only one who can.” Your headache seemed to peak right before you committed yourself to asking The Master for some help. The warmth of The Master’s body against yours and the severe pain spiking through your head was too contrasting and too overwhelming to put on a brave face any longer.

“What kind of Master would I be if I didn’t take care of my beloved Human.” The feel of The Master’s smirk against your skin sparked a warmth to spread through you. The Master always made you feel better and more secure, but on bad days you just needed a bit more reassurance.

“Please tell me that you mean that?” 

“Of course I mean it, my love. You are the only person I could ever care about.” The Master adjusted slightly in order to look you in the eye. You shied away, avoiding eye contact, and The Master didn’t push you to look at him. Though he did brush a hand down the side of your face a couple of times before kissing your forehead delicately.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, love.” The Master said this to inform you that he would move the two of you. He would carry you places in The TARDIS without telling you where you were going when you were feeling like your everyday self, but not when you were feeling off. The Master never wanted to add to your anxiety, so he would always tell you when he would carry you off somewhere.

The Master moved the two of you so he was sitting up with you on his lap. He wrapped your legs around his waist and held you tightly against his chest before finally standing up with you securely in his arms. Then he carried you off to your shared bedroom. 

Once in the dark-themed and dimly lit bedroom, The Master gently placed you on the bed and wrapped you up in as many blankets as you wanted and needed. He stepped back from the bed momentarily to remove his clothes that were far inferior to yours when it came to the act of cuddling and resting. Eventually, he crawled under the covers to join you on the bed. He cuddled closer to you, holding you tighter than he did in the library, and then rubbed his hands up and down your back as you returned to your place cuddling into The Master’s side.

“What do you need, my love?”

“You.” You’re speech was muffled by The Master’s neck, but he still understood you.

“Yes, but what do you need me to do? I know that you are hiding something in that beautiful mind of yours.” You felt The Master softly tap a finger against your temple, a little jolt of calmness and relief coursing through you with each tap.

“You won’t laugh at me, will you?”

“Never.” The Master answered with sincerity heavy in his tone. You nervously mumbled your response under your breath and into his neck, making this comment more difficult for The Master to decipher.

“I couldn’t hear you, love.”

“Can you tell me I belong to you?” You asked a bit louder, but you were still quiet and nervousness permeated your question. The Master’s breath caught in his throat. He tried his best to hold in his excitement brought on by your request because this moment was about you. The idea of you belonging to him was exactly what The Master wanted, more than anything in the Universe, probably even the Multiverse. What added to his growing excitement and adoration of you was the fact that The Master didn’t even have to make you feel this way. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you. Somehow, the stars aligned and they delivered the perfect person to The Master. What else could he do but give you whatever you wanted in an act of gratification?

“You belong to me, love. You always will belong to your Master. You’ll be mine forever.” The Master cuddled you impossibly closer, intertwining your bodies in a knot, and whispered into your ear with all the devotion and fervour he felt for you heavy on his tongue.

“And you really mean that -” You tried to ask again, but The Master cut you off before you could finish your insecurity-filled question. 

“Of course I mean that. I would never lie to you, especially about this.” This time when The Master moved to look you in the eye you didn’t turn away. His warm chocolate eyes held all of the sentiments that were laced within his words and even more. If it were possible, you would stare into his eyes forever. 

“Thank you, Master.”

“There is no need to thank me. You just need some rest and then you will feel better.” You huffed into The Master’s neck, just wishing that he would accept your gratitude without dismissing it.

“Come on, rest your head on my chest and close your eyes. I will deal with that headache and those pesky thoughts that were troubling you.” You did as The Master asked, already planning how you would repay The Master for everything he did for you today. 

As soon as you placed your head on The Master’s chest, the sound of his heartbeats immediately calmed you down and the pressure on your mind began to subside. The Master massaged his hands along your back, starting slowly along your neck and then moving further down toward the base of your spine. He smoothed every ache and worked out every knot and kink, all the while placing delicate kisses across your head and face. You heard him whispering praises in your ear, some in your native language and some in his. Even though you couldn’t understand everything he spoke to you, you knew that what he said was entirely comprised of his love. Because of The Master’s actions, you soon fell asleep. You were completely consumed by the rogue Time Lord’s presence, just like you wanted to be when the day began.

[mariacallous]

Nearly every day someone or other on my social media feeds will share the same quote by Hannah Arendt. It reads:

This constant lying is not aimed at making the people believe a lie, but at ensuring that no one believes anything anymore. A people that can no longer distinguish between truth and lies cannot distinguish between right and wrong. And such a people, deprived of the power to think and judge, is, without knowing and willing it, completely subjected to the rule of lies. With such a people, you can do whatever you want.  

It’s a damning quote about autocracies by the late German-Jewish political theorist, whose book “The Origins of Totalitarianism” has also found a new audience in a political climate where lies and misinformation are flowing down from high office, where Democrats and Republicans can’t agree on a common set of facts, and where Mark Zuckerberg said his company will no longer moderate hate speech and misinformation on Facebook and its other platforms.

The only problem? Arendt never said it — or at least not exactly. As the Arendt scholar Roger Berkowitz pointed out over the summer, Arendt said and wrote “many similar things,” but the viral quote seems to have been patched together from various other statements she made in a long and prolific career. 

Berkowitz isn’t the only one to note the irony that a philosopher who considered truth “the ground on which we stand and the sky that stretches above us” is represented by someone else’s version of what she did or didn’t say. But distortion may be the inevitable consequence of celebrity: Interest in Arendt, who died in 1975 at the age of 69, is riding a wave that hasn’t crested. 

A new book, “What Remains: The Collected Poems of Hannah Arendt,” gathers and translates all of Arendt’s poems for the first time in English. A new, critical edition of her unfinished final book, “The Life of the Mind,” came out last year to glowing reviews. A recent study by UCLA scholar David Kim, “Arendt’s Solidarity: Anti-Semitism and Racism in the Atlantic World,” explores her notions of intergroup cooperation in the fight against bigotry — and her blind spots in applying the notion of solidarity to African-Americans and other oppressed groups. 

The Israeli media have discovered — or re-re-discovered — her thoughts on war and responsibility in the 15 months since Oct. 7. Vera Weidenbach, in Haaretz, invoked Arendt in criticizing the failure of the progressive left to condemn Hamas, in calling Benjamin Netanyahu a “wannabe dictator,” and in decrying “the deterioration of moral standards” among the Israeli public. 

Another Haaretz columnist, Robert Zaretsky, wrote that Arendt would have found Israel’s initial response to the Hamas massacre “utterly justifiable” — and would also have supported the International Criminal Court’s decision to prosecute Hamas and Israel for war crimes. 

Conservative pundit Bret Stephens embraces her anti-totalitarian writings; a contributor to Sapir, the journal he edits, quotes her in rebuking “post-colonialists” who justified the Oct. 7 attacks.

Of course, Arendt isn’t around to defend or deny these appropriations. And because she wrote so much and in language that was painstakingly nuanced, she’s ripe for cherry-picking. Her ideas are invoked in conversations about a host of contemporary ills: authoritarianism, racial- and gender-based violence, climate change, and right-wing populism, to name a few.

“People like to appeal to her because her name brings a sense of authority and weight into a conversation. You know, some people joke about ‘St. Hannah.’ She can’t do anything wrong,” said Samantha Rose Hill, author of a 2021 biography of Arendt and editor of the new collection of her poems. “She was very anti-ideological. And so there’s a question for readers about how seriously they take her position on certain topics, and to what extent she’s just trying to get us to think about the different sides of the political argument.” 

Arendt was born in 1906 in what is now Hanover, Germany, to secular, middle-class Jewish parents. Having read all of Kant’s works by the age of 14, she received her doctorate in philosophy at the University of Heidelberg when she was 22. 

In 1933, she spent eight days as a prisoner of the Gestapo, jailed for the research into antisemitism she had done for the World Zionist Organization. Released, she fled to France, where she worked for Youth Aliyah, helping Jews immigrate to Palestine. She was eventually able to escape through Spain and Lisbon to New York, where she arrived as a stateless refugee in 1941.

At Columbia University, the eminent Jewish historian Salo Baron helped Arendt get published in English and land a teaching post in modern Jewish history at Brooklyn College (she later taught at Princeton, The New School and the University of Chicago). Baron also hired Arendt as head of Jewish Cultural Reconstruction, an organization charged with rescuing heirless Jewish books and artifacts stolen by the Nazis.  

“The Origins of Totalitarianism,” published in 1951, established her reputation and her place as one of the “New York Intellectuals,” a largely Jewish tribe of left-leaning, anti-Stalinist writers. 

Their political disputes were fierce and legendary, and many in the crowd turned to the right with the rise of the radical left and its disdain for Israel. Arendt, fiercely independent, was hard to pin down ideologically, but she drew across-the-board ire in 1963 when her coverage of the trial of Adolf Eichmann, a mastermind of the Holocaust, appeared in The New Yorker. Critics charged that the now famous phrase she used to describe the Nazis’ genocidal enterprise, “the banality of evil,” minimized Eichmann’s crimes. Worse, they said, she had shown remarkably little empathy for the Jews forced into collaborating with their tormentors. 

Arendt’s reputation took another, posthumous, hit in 1982 when a biographer wrote about her youthful love affair and lasting friendship with the famed German philosopher and later Nazi Party member Martin Heidegger. 

Her defenders, however, remained fiercely loyal to her work and her legacy. They included Jerome Kohn, who died in November at the age of 93. Much that was written and said about her was “preposterous,” wrote Kohn, her executor, former research assistant and the founder of the Hannah Arendt Center at The New School in Manhattan. He was particularly adamant about accusations that she was a “self-hating Jew.” 

In a collection he edited of Arendt’s Jewish writings, Kohn insisted that her experience as a Jew — as a target of antisemitism in her youth, as a German Jew left stateless, as a supporter of a Jewish nation in Palestine, (albeit a binational state of Jews and Arabs) — “is literally the foundation of her thought: it supports her thinking even when she is not thinking about Jews or Jewish questions.”

In his book about Arendt’s notion of “solidarity,” Kim, a professor in the department of European Languages and Transcultural Studies at the University of California, says Arendt’s perception of how the world failed the Jews shaped her thinking on liberation for other oppressed peoples — and not always for the better. While she considered herself what today we might call an “antiracist,” by the late 1960s she was wary of the Black Power movement and rejected the idea of assigning collective guilt to white people for the evils of slavery, Jim Crow and lingering racism. Her resistance to the militant wing of the civil rights movement, writes Kim, “tells the story of Arendt’s imperfect love for the world.”

And yet in death Arendt seems to have gotten the last word: Beginning with the rise of Donald Trump and the resurgence of real and would-be autocrats from Venezuela to Hungary to Russia, her works are back in fashion. Even her poems — published together for the first time in the new collection — reflect preoccupations that seem of the moment: alienation, loneliness, the feeling of being a refugee, the terror of living under totalitarianism and a way of thinking free of ideological orthodoxies.

And yet Hill, the editor of the poetry collection, cautions against relying on Arendt as a sort of intellectual guru. At a conference in November, she even suggested “it’s time to put her back on the shelf.” 

“We live in a radically different time today, and I think that requires a new form of analysis,” Hill, a professor at the Brooklyn Institute for Social Research, told me. “I think that to try to divine what is happening right now through her work is a sort of misdirection, and it can lead to a kind of looking away from reality, which is the very thing that she cautioned us against.”

[juvenillia]

~ Death of Peace of Mind ~ 18: casual

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader

photo credits go to very talented @ave661

a/n: This is more of a filler chapter though, but I wanted to give you an insight of the relationship Skadi and König shared before we're getting any further into the direction of the end of the first half of the fic. Oh, and because of many amazing ppl that gave me feedback I try to improve my writing now. Just tell me what you think!

CW/TW: smut, mentions of loss, violence, trauma, piv, unproteced sex, petnames, oral, fingering, suppressed emotions

wordcount: 3.2k

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Even if you tried the hardest to keep your eyes open. To accompany Simon on the way back to the base, the sleep did creep up to you and dragged you away. Your mind circling the events from a long time ago. About nearly three years ago to be clear. To a fateful evening that changed so much and still too less. Your mind taking you back to the golden and cozy hall of the hotel lobby. Surrounded by four people that trusted you more than anything.

"No fucking way!" Eli yelled as you and König came back with the beers and shots.

 "Language, Kabuki.” You smiled while handing her a bottle of Dutch beer and a shot glass.

"Sorry, but I am shocked." You took the place next to Randy, across from her. Randy had one arm around the shoulder from Matt and König took his place between you and Eli, after giving the drinks to Matt and Randy.

"Why though?" you chuckled while taking a sip from your beer. Leaning back into the couch. Your team was seated at the hotel lobby, sharing some drinks before heading to bed. Every one of you wore a casual but chic outfit. Everything because you had to attend one of those benefits galas, and they were always the same. Having lots of drinks, shaking lots of hands and talking passionate about your job with persons who couldn't see a difference between a grenade and C4. But at least you got a fancy hotel, and good company. It wasn't that bad after all.

"Our sweet Droplet gave me a quick peck, and Kabuki lost it," McKenna stated while leaning against Randy's shoulder sipping on his beer.

"Bloody hell, it's just a kiss between mates." Randy laughed and placed his head onto Matt's. The urge in him to give his teammate just another peck grew with every second that Eli looked bewildered at him.

"It's like Droplet and me sharing a bed sometimes." You shrugged while your glance wandered to the two English men sitting close. A smile tugged at your lips.

"Skadi, you and Droplet, that's different. That's so damn different," Kabuki exhaled "It would be like kissing König right now." She pointed at the tall Austrian. The man only blinked at the statement.

The men let out a chuckle. "And what if I'd do? Would be just something casual. Like giving a compliment." You shrugged, and your answer earned you a mischievous grin from the two men next to you.

"No, and I excuse myself Lieutenant, fucking way!" Kabuki exhaled dramatically waving her beer in the air. Usually you would shake it off, but you had to prove a point. Your stubbornness winning over your other senses and the alcohol in your system did the rest.

You turned to König, who was unusually silent in this round. You placed your free hand under his freshly shaved chin and tilted his head into your direction. It was ridiculous how easy he obeyed. Your eyes met his clear blue ones. "Just casual." He breathed out before your lips brushed over his. Hesitant and quick. It was over before you could interpret too much in it. You leaned back into the couch and smiled at Kabuki who only looked in disbelief and utterly shock at you.

"Your Brits are a different kind. For real." Everyone at the table laughed.

"To Britain then!" Randy raised his shot glass.

"To the Wolves of war," you said quick before Matthew could protest.

"Aye!" Everyone chimed in and clunked their glasses together. Playing over the fact that you ignited a longing in your heart. Shoving it in the very back corner of your mind to just enjoy the gathering with your team.

The night went on, and after some more beers everyone parted their ways to go up to their hotel rooms. Randy and Matt brought you up, before heading to their shared room. It took the three of you like a whole eternity to get to the floor where your rooms were. Always joking and stirring up each other. You loved them, with your whole heart and still you couldn't wait for some peace and as soon as the door closed behind your back, you exhaled deeply. Immediately throwing the casual dress with your bra into the next corner and changed for comfortable pajama pants and a plain oversized shirt.

You took your make up off and afterwards placed yourself onto the bed and get used to the way too soft mattress, when a knock came from your front door. A sigh left your throat as you stood up to open the door. "Droplet, I swear to god..." but the sight in front of you cut right through your words. In front of your door stood the tall figure of your first mate. "König?", you were confused but according to the way his button up was only halfway done, and the tie was long gone, you knew he already went to his room and for some reason came back now. Without a word he stepped into your room, you let him. Something about him felt odd. Something about him made you suddenly feel so small and vulnerable.

Before you could question his behavior furthermore, he put your head into his huge palms and pulled you in for another kiss. Before you even realized what happened, you gave in. Completely in autopilot you let him do what he wanted to. Hesitant but eager kissing him back, while he kicked the door shut. "Make me stop," he exhaled deeply while catching his breath. "Nur ein Wort, and I'll stop."[Just one word] But you couldn't. You didn't want him to stop. It felt too good, you knew it was wrong but this once you wanted to be selfish.

"Just casual...," you breathed out before planting another kiss on his lips. That's when he lost it. His tall hands found your hips and pushed you up against the door, just like you weighted nothing. Your legs instantly wrapped around his waist, while your hands found the back of his neck pulling him impossible closer. The kisses grew more heated, more passionate. His hand found your butt cheeks, steadying you while pressing more into you.

You let your tongue slightly brush over his lips before he let you enter without a second thought. Your tongues found each other, while you clung to his neck. You could feel the heat radiating from his body. But more importantly you could feel how his pants grew tighter. You broke away for a moment. Catching your breath while looking in those deep blue eyes. His eyes searched for any regret in your eyes, but there was none. Only hunger. He buried his face into the crook of your neck while planting a row of open-mouthed kisses and bites along your neck, up to your jaw. Your head fell against the door and a muffled moan escaped your throat. "König... "

"Verdammte Scheiße..." [holy shit] It made him groan, pushing his bulge into you. The arousal grew between your thighs, you couldn't think clear anymore. Of course, it was wrong. Of course, you should stop, but it felt too good. Giving in to your carnal lust. Your eyes were blown with desire as he lifted you from the door and threw you onto the bed. You could sort things out when both of you were sober and more important satisfied. After all you were only a woman and therefore you had your needs. So why shouldn’t you let him help you with those?

You shuffled over the bed propping yourself on your elbows while he literally ripped his shirt off his body. The need to feel your skin onto his was unbearable. You eyed him up and down. It's not like you never have seen him without a shirt, but right now, it made you feel different, fairly hot. The tight suit pants left nothing to your imagination. You bite your lower lip, while you pressed your thighs together. "Such a pretty Engel," he said while he climbed onto the bed. The mattress shifting under his weight. His tall hand grabbed your waist pulling you up with him and placing some more kisses onto every place of flesh he could find.

"König.", you moaned his name once more while your hands found his shoulder.

"Let me taste you. Bitte." [Please], he looked with those puppy eyes at you. So desperate for you, so needy and you nodded. How could you deny him? How have you managed to deny him all the time?

He didn't waste any time and shuffled down, playing with the waistband of your pajamas before he freed you of them. Licking his lips while he looked with lust blown pupils at you. His hand caressed your clothed cunt, already soaking wet with your liquid. "Scheiße, mein Liebling," [shit, my dear] he exhaled before pushing your panties aside and letting his thumb run through your folds. You let out another moan. It was so long ago since someone touched you like this, and you couldn't believe how much you missed it. "So feucht, already." [so wet] His voice was full of desire, full of need. "Sei ein braves Mädchen and open up for me." [be a good girl] He bit his lower lips as you obeyed without hesitation. Moving down, he pulled your panties off and replaced them with his mouth.

You immediately took a grip on his freshly trimmed dirty blond hair and God; you wished it would be as long as usual. Your legs wrapped around his head while he ate you out like a man starved. Already arching your back and thrusting your hip further into him. He let you, he would let you do everything that would give you pleasure. His own hard member started aching and twitching, but he wanted to be patient. Soon one of his hands wandered from your hips to your entry, and he slowly pushed one finger inside, soon another one. It made your back arch even more. He observed every move you made. "König, I need you," you breathed out, your hips started pushing more into him.

 "Sssh, mein Schatz. Need to prepare you first. Wir wollen dir doch nicht weh tun," [we don't want to hurt you] he said while sucking at your skin, leaving bruises on the most unholy spots. He’d finally be able to claim you like he always longed for.

His fingers sloppy making his way in and out of your hole and you soon started to clench around him. His pace picked up and the mixture of the thrusts of his fingers and sucking of his mouth pushed you to your edge. "So ein braves Mädchen. Cum for me." [such a good girl] And you did. His moaned and sinful voice against your sensitive skin pushed you right into your climax. Your hand gripped one of the pillows to muffle your scream. A smile played along König's lips before he crouched up to you again. "Look at me, bitte." He gently pulled the pillow from your face and kissed you through your high. You could taste yourself onto his lips. God knows how much you needed this. All the longing glances, all the cravings satisfied with only so less of action. Still, you wanted more. "König please," you begged him to fill you up, hands wandering over his handsome face. He kissed your knuckles before placing another kiss on your lips. Softer, more intimate than before. You wanted to feel him all over you. God were your turned on by the man in front of you. You couldn't give a single shit about how wrong it would be. That was a problem for later, now you just wanted him all over you, deep inside you.

"I'm already yours," he said while removing your shirt and letting his tongue brush over your hardened nipple. "Only yours," he whined between the kisses on your delicate skin.

Your hands found his cheeks and you pulled him up to you again. The need for friction was an internal urge. "Bitte, ich will dich," [please, I want you] you cooed at him, and you could feel him shiver.

"Wie könnte ich dazu nein sagen." [How could I say no to that] In an instant he fumbled with the belt and unbuckled it. Pulling the pants and his briefs downs in one motion. His hardened length jumped against his stomach. The sight of him made you tremble. You imagined him being huge, but not like that. You bit down your lower lip, while he moved between your legs. Giving his hard member some few strokes and letting the pre cover the tip completely. Taking in the perfect and delicate view in front of him. Burning the image in his brain. He positioned his cock between your folds and pushed gently in.

"Bloody hell...", it felt like someone would tear you apart from the inside but at the same time you didn't want it to end. Your hand found the silky sheets of the bed. König gave you always a bit time to adjust before pushing further into you. Praising you for doing so good.

"Scheiß, so eng." [shit so tight] König had imagined that so many times. So many times, lonely in his room, chasing his own release while you were on his mind. And no image of your face came close to this reality. Your delicate moans, the way you cried out his name while being close to the edge again. The reality he found beneath him right now. He wanted you for so long and now he could have you. He didn't know how long it would last, but until then he wanted to give you everything. He made sure to show you that he was worth it.

It took him some time to button out and for you to adjust to his whole length. He made sure to not push it too fast, he wanted to take his time, even if it drove him mad "That feels so good," he breathed out. Closing the gap between your hips. Standing still for a moment to, taking you completely in. Your face in that light, your little moans, the way how you gripped tight onto him. He already was addicted but now he would never be able to let go.

"König, move," you demanded, and he eagerly obeyed. Pulling his cock nearly complete out again before his hips thrusted into you with a nerve-wracking pace. Your hands found his back and your nails dig into his flesh as you cried his name out. Leaving marks along his anyhow scarred back. He didn't mind. How could he? He already knew he belonged to you, for such a long time he wanted to feel you. And now he could feel the softness of your walls clenching around his cock.

"So perfectly made for me," he groaned while he kept thrusting into you. How could you have missed out on this the whole time? You didn't care right now. Because just then another high built up in your stomach, while you clung to him for dear life.

" 'm close. So fuckin' close," you moaned while he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

"Ja! Bitte, komm für mich." [cum for me] He inhaled your sent before leaning back to watch your face again. Having a tight grip around your waist, hoping to leave some bruises on you. Showing the world that you belonged to him, just like he did to you. He could feel your walls clench around him and God, it made him weak. His thrusts grew sloppy, and he could feel that he was close too. "Scheiße."

"Keep going, darling. Please." Your next orgasm washed over you and you cried out his name, just as he spilled his seed into you. It made the whole sensation so much more intense that even tears started to form in the corner of your eyes. His forehead pressed against yours, both trying to catch your breath. He wanted it to last longer. It was over so soon, too soon. It wasn't allowed to be already over. You could feel how his cum leaked through your hole.

"Es tut mir leid." [I'm so sorry]

"Hush." You traced lazy patterns on his back while he collapsed onto you. You could feel how his cock softened inside of you. Pressing his nose into your shoulder. In this very moment everything felt alright. You stayed in this position, him clinging onto your body and you stroking and massaging his scalp. How you wished he had his longer hair for you to play with.

It took you some time to get up, take a shower and finding your way back to bed again. König only pulled his briefs up before getting comfy on the bed, pulling you into his muscular arms. Your head resting on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. His soft but still deep voice brushed over your skin. "My queen...there's some..."

"Don't," you interrupted him before he'd say something he would regret. Of course, he wouldn't regret it, but you couldn't bring yourself to go through all of that again. It should stay simple, casual. He exhaled a deep sigh of frustration. You could feel how his chest raised and lowered itself with in the action.

"Can I at least stay? Bitte." He placed a kiss onto the crown of your head and stroked through your hair. You nodded; you couldn’t bring yourself to threw him out. Not after what you just did. His heartbeat was the coziest lullaby you ever heard until then. You didn't want to push it away. You didn't want to push him away, but you couldn't commit to him. You couldn't commit to all of that. Not after what happened all those years ago. But for now, you just wanted to enjoy it. Even if it only was for one night. The thing was you already were infected. Addicted to the way he made you feel, to his touch, and your selfish side wanted that. But you knew you didn't deserve it...no, he didn't deserve it. He deserved so much better than what you could give him. He deserved more than a casual thing. He deserved a woman that loved him, that could promise him a life side by side. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t promise him anything. You would never promise anything anymore. With a heart full of guilt, and a snoring König by your side, holding you close to his chest, you drifted away.

taglist: open

@yyiikes @saffronimagines @originaldeerhottub @illuminwtesz @killergoddess97 @kaelaiscool @spiritndrain @anothersimpsblog @backupgal @hungryhungariann @victoriazynui

[bloody-bee-tea]

Beetober 2024 Day 3 - Oh brother

Hitoshi is only half awake as he shuffles over to the kitchen, where the tantalizing smell of coffee is calling to him. He grunts when he makes out two shapes in front of him, too tired to really open his eyes fully, and he throws himself into his chair to the sound of light chuckling.

“There you go,” Yamada’s annoyingly chipper voice informs him and Hitoshi immediately hones in on the pot of coffee being slid towards him.

Sweet, sweet liquid of life.

He cradles the cup close, inhaling the sweet aroma for a moment before he takes a big gulp, effectively burning his mouth and not caring one bit.

It’s only when Yamada lets out a considering hum that Hitoshi finally blinks his eyes open for real.

Yamada is seated across from Hitoshi, his eyes darting from Hitoshi to his left and when he follows Yamada’s gaze, he’s not really surprised to find Aizawa slumped right next to him, cup of coffee equally cradled in his hands.

“I think I want a paternity test,” Yamada says out of the blue and Hitoshi startles badly enough to make the coffee slosh over the rim.

“What?” he stutters out because he doesn’t think he heard that quite right.

“A paternity test. For you and Shou. I think that’s something we’ll have to do at one point,” Yamada goes on, as if his words aren’t completely and utterly insane and Hitoshi looks over to Aizawa, silently pleading for the other man to say something.

“Irrational,” Aizawa grunts out, because of course he would and Hitoshi and Yamada let out the same amused snort.

“I don’t think so,” Yamada says, after winking at Hitoshi before he motions for him to drink more. “I mean, look at you two. You’re practically mirror images of each other. Zombies in the morning. Eyebags for days. Gravity defying hair. Mental quirk that scares the shit out of other people. Absolute adoration for cats. No time for bullshit in the mornings and only marginally more time for bullshit any other time of the day. I think we really need to get that tested.”

“We’re not related,” Hitoshi and Aizawa say at the same time and then share a brief, amused glance.

Yamada wildly gestures with his hands as if to underline his point and Hitoshi rolls his eyes as Aizawa narrows his own at Yamada.

“I’ve only ever been with you. There’s no reason to get a paternity test.”

“Yeah, well, indulge me, huh?” Yamada says without missing a beat. “And besides. If it says negative I get to harass you of literally having a soulmate in son form, because there’s no way the universe created Hitoshi and made him like this without the express intent to bring him to us.”

It makes Hitoshi’s face burn, but for once it’s not out of shame. His previous foster parents would have meant that to hurt, would have hidden barbs and insults in a statement like that, but Yamada simply means it.

He thinks Hitoshi was made to be fostered by Aizawa and him and it makes warmth unfurl in Hitoshi’s chest.

“Fine,” Aizawa says, much to the surprise of everyone at the table. “But you’ll do one, too.”

“Me?” Yamada asks, pointing a finger at himself, as if Aizawa could mean anyone else and Yamada and Hitoshi share a confused look.

“But we’re nothing alike?” Hitoshi also offers now, because he can kind of see why Yamada would ask this of Aizawa.

Hell, Todoroki is still insisting that Hitoshi has to be Aizawa’s secret love child and by now he has at least half the class convinced, too. Hitoshi has to admit that there are some similarities between them but with Yamada? They have nothing in common at all.

“Prowess in the kitchen. The way you drink your coffee. Voice-activated quirk. Uncanny observational skills. The ability to play a room to your liking. If I have to do a paternity test based on what you said then you have to do one as well.”

Hitoshi stares into his coffee, as black as the machine spits it out, before he looks over to Yamada, who also drinks his coffee black. Aizawa on the other hand has milk and sugar at the ready, because he despises the bitter taste if he has another chance.

It’s one point in his favour but—

“I can’t cook nearly half as good as Yamada,” Hitoshi complaints and Aizawa snorts into his cup.

“Maybe, but your cookies are to die for,” he easily gives back and now even Yamada nods.

“He’s kind of right, kiddo,” Yamada slowly says, clearly still thinking Aizawa’s words over. “And I mean it’s only fair, right?”

“And like this we can be sure that he was made to be both our soulmate-son,” Aizawa says as if that makes any sense at all and still, Hitoshi ducks his head in embarrassment when his cheeks go yet again hot to the touch.

“Alright,” Yamada cheerily says and claps his hands together, clearly done with that topic for today and Hitoshi briefly wonders just how fast this entire thing will be forgotten by the two adults.

~*~*~

It turns out that nothing ever gets forgotten in the Aizawa-Yamada household because three days later Yamada sets two small boxes down on the kitchen table.

“What’s that?” Aizawa asks, eyeing the boxes with distaste and Yamada gasps as if he mortally offended him.

“The paternity tests we talked about,” Yamada says just before Aizawa can reach out for the box and it makes him freeze.

“You were serious,” he mutters after a moment and Hitoshi is left staring between the two, because he doesn’t quite know what to say to any of this.

He thought Yamada was joking, too.

“Of course I was. Imagine, Shou, just imagine, the test results come back negative. We hang them on the fridge and then put the adoption paper right over them!”

Hitoshi jerks at the reminder of the still ongoing adoption process, because there’s a small part of him that still can’t believe they really, truly want to adopt him.

But the necessary files have been filled out, all the required visits and talks have been done and now it’s just a waiting game.

And Hitoshi has to admit that it would be a little bit funny, to do what Yamada just said.

Aizawa must think so too, because his face goes all soft in that way that still surprises Hitoshi even after almost a year of living with them, and when Aizawa briefly glances over at him, Hitoshi knows that they are going to do it.

And really, what’s the harm in a silly, little thing like that, right?

~*~*~

Hitoshi is almost ashamed to admit it, but when Yamada comes in with two identical letters, nerves settle in his stomach.

It’s stupid, because they all know what they are going to say but Hitoshi still can’t shake the slight feeling of dread running through him.

He knows Aizawa and Yamada care for him, it’s more than obvious in their behaviour and even more so in their wish to properly adopt him but he still can’t help but to think that maybe the results of this one stupid test will change everything.

Maybe they will read that they are not his father’s and then it will suddenly dawn on them that they want nothing to do with him.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” Aizawa asks, pressing into his side for a moment, effectively grounding Hitoshi who comes back to himself at that.

“I’m fine,” he says and he can tell just how believable it is by the raised eyebrow he receives from Yamada.

“Sure you are. You want us to open this, or burn it?” he asks and it’s not an empty offer.

Hitoshi knows that they would do it without hesitation should he even so much as hint at wanting that and so he shakes his head.

“We’re opening them,” he decides and sits down at the kitchen table, expectantly looking at Aizawa and Yamada to join him.

They do almost immediately but when Yamada slides Aizawa’s letter over to him, he shakes his head.

“You open them both, and then just tell us,” he grumbles, leaning slightly to the side, just enough to be able to brush his shoulder against Hitoshi’s and he’s so grateful for this that he presses further into the contact.

“Alright, fine, fine, leave all the work to me then,” Yamada grumbles good-naturedly as he tears the letters open, though he doesn’t immediately read what they say.

He puts both of them on the table, face down, before he grins at them.

“Here it goes,” he then laughs out, flipping both letters over and eyes quickly scanning over them.

Hitoshi knows that something must be horribly wrong when all the colour drains from Yamada’s face and his eyes roam over the pages more quickly, more desperately.

Aizawa must notice it, too, because he leans forward, no longer pretending to be disinterested.

“What’s wrong? What do they say?”

“We’re his uncles,” Yamada’s trembling voice announces and the words are accompanied by a faint ringing in Hitoshi’s ears.

“What?” he breathes out and Yamada reads over the letters again.

“It says, right here—” he accusingly stabs the relevant part “—that we’re his uncles. Both of us. He is our nephew.”

For a moment nothing happens, everything feels suspended in air and then Aizawa jerks away from the table so violently that his chair topples over before he runs out on them.

“What the fuck,” Hitoshi mutters, because nothing about this makes any sense at all, but when he looks at Yamada, he is only met with a watery smile.

“You’re our nephew,” Yamada says again and Hitoshi doesn’t understand how that is possible.

“What is going on?” he demands to know because Yamada is crying and Aizawa left and he supposedly has family and nothing makes sense.

“It’s—fuck,” Yamada mutters and scrubs a hand over his face, before he comes around the table, taking a seat in Aizawa’s previously toppled chair. “So, this wasn’t quite how we wanted to bring up the topic of family to you,” he mutters, even as he tries to give Hitoshi a smile.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, that neither Shou nor I had a very good family,” Yamada admits and reaches out to take Hitoshi’s hand. “I mean, you already know I’m adopted, but I never told you why.”

“And you don’t have to,” Hitoshi blurts out because no matter what those stupid letters say, he doesn’t want to force them to tell him about something they don’t want to talk about.

“It’s fine, kiddo. It’s doesn’t bother me, not anymore. It did for a long time, but—” Yamada trails off with a  shrug. “I was born with my quirk, you know. And my very first scream deafened my birth parents and the staff in the room. From what I’ve gathered, they decided then and there to give me up. I never even learned their names.”

“That’s such a shitty thing to do,” Hitoshi mutters, because it’s hardly Yamada’s fault that he had no control over his quirk as a literal new-born.

Yamada shrugs again.

“It happened and my moms are great so it all turned out fine for me in the end.”

Hitoshi worries his lip for a moment, because even though Yamada seems to be fine with things, the same can’t be said for Aizawa. Who is still hiding away in their bedroom.

“Aizawa—” Hitoshi hesitantly starts and Yamada sighs.

“It’s a bit more complicated for him,” he admits, looking over his shoulder to the bedroom. “His family was—absent. Neglectful. They were barely at home, and from what I’ve gathered it’s been like that since he was around four. He mentioned having a sister once, but I’m not even sure he remembers her name. He—was just always alone.”

“Until he found you.”

“Hey, excuse me, I found him,” Yamada corrects him with a small smile and he reaches out to ruffle Hitoshi’s hair. “But yeah. He hasn’t talked to his family in almost twenty years now I think and he pretends that he doesn’t care, but we know him better than that, right?”

“We do,” Hitoshi nods and stands up. “Which is why we can’t let him be alone right now,” he decides and starts to march off towards the bedroom, only to be halted by a hand on his wrist.

“Kiddo—”

“I get my overthinking from him,” Hitoshi plainly says. “If we leave him alone with his thoughts for too long it’s going to be bad.”

He speaks from experience on this, because Hitoshi overthinks like it’s his goddamn job and he knows Aizawa is prone to do the same, even though he pretends he isn’t.

Yamada must realise that he’s right because he nods once, letting go of Hitoshi’s hand and then following him silently to the bedroom.

Hitoshi doesn’t dare to hesitate because if he does then he will start to overthink this, so instead he only pushes in. Aizawa is seated at the edge of the bed, slumped over, hair hanging in front of his face, the picture of misery and Hitoshi doesn’t think, he just acts.

He sits down right next to Aizawa, leaning heavily into his side, impatiently patting the bed when Yamada lingers in the doorway for a moment too long.

It’s only when Yamada is seated as well, that Hitoshi speaks.

“As far as I’m concerned, this is a downgrade,” Hitoshi states and he can just make out the faint “Oh, brother,” from Yamada.

He clearly spends too much time around Class 1A, if that is his go to curse, Hitoshi thinks but then pushes straight on.

“Let’s look at it like this, okay? Our families—” he does not stumble over that, he does not “—managed to screw all three of us over. Our two families managed to let all three of us down at one point, they abandoned all of us, and I for one, do not want them in my life. I know Yamada doesn’t either, because he could have looked for his birth parents and never did and clearly you don’t want your family anywhere near your life as well. Right or wrong?” Hitoshi demands and Aizawa lets out a harsh breath.

“Right,” he eventually mutters and Hitoshi nods because this is about what he expected.

“Okay. So, look. Just a few days ago you joked that the universe literally made me to be your son. It’s just—it’s all just a little to the left, right?” he tries because it kind of is.

He wasn’t made to be their son, he was made to be their nephew, which explains all the strange similarities but ultimately doesn’t matter.

Because fuck the universe, Hitoshi thinks and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he’s going to say next.

“And like I said, I think it’s a downgrade, anyway,” he repeats, before he reaches out for Aizawa’s hand and then Yamada’s. “Because you’re my dads. It doesn’t matter what that stupid paper says. I don’t care if you’re my uncles, because you’re not. You’re my dads.”

It’s the first time he calls them that out loud and it’s less terrifying than he would have expected it to be. It mostly just feels right.

Hitoshi is not surprised to hear a sob from his right, because of course Yamada would cry at that, but he was not at all prepared for the same sound to come from Aizawa.

Hitoshi has just enough time to send a panicked look at Yamada before Aizawa pulls him in for a rough hug, cradling his head close.

“You’re the best son I could wish for,” Aizawa breathes out and it makes Hitoshi’s eyes burn as he clutches at Aizawa’s shirt.

Yamada drapes himself over Hitoshi’s back, breathing just as unsteadily as Hitoshi and Aizawa, and even though Hitoshi’s eyes burn, he still thinks this is a pretty good moment.

“These letters do not go up on the fridge, I don’t want them there,” Hitoshi decides after a long moment and Yamada laughs wetly.

“Okay, kiddo,” he agrees and Aizawa hums.

“The adoption papers, though—”

“Those definitely go up!” Hitoshi is quick to agree and Aizawa hugs him closer for a moment before he moves away.

“Thanks, kid,” he mutters, his voice a little bit scratchy and Hitoshi gives him a little grin.

“I got my overthinking abilities from you, I know how to deal with his,” he admits and it makes Aizawa huff out a laugh.

“Clearly,” he says as he ruffles Hitoshi’s hair, much like Yamada did earlier and Hitoshi leans into it.

He knows that they will need to talk about this some more, and in all honesty it doesn’t yet feel quite real to Hitoshi that these two are related to him, but all of that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he has his dads here with him and Hitoshi knows that that is never going to change.

[timeisamanysplendoredthing]

Things Rjalker is Wrong About

this one blogger is making me like, completely fucking lose it?? It (rjalker uses it/its pronouns) has some kind of vitriolic hate vendetta against the author Martha Wells (and a few others) and while some of its critique is actually kind of valid, in other cases it gets things so wrong that I'm utterly bewildered about how anyone could come to that reading of the text.

While I could just walk away and not think about it any more, I'm kind of too fascinated to do that but I have to get it out somewhere, so here's a post I'll continue updating as it says more batshit things.

What I'd like to start off with today is the claim that Murderbot (The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells) was born a human baby that was then mutilated into a cyborg slave.

It's been using this, what the author said online in some kind of QnA, as proof of this claim:

Now, the technical definition of cyborg is: "in science fiction stories, a creature that is part human and part machine" or "a bionic human" or "a being with both organic and biomechatronic body parts" or "an entity made up of both biological and technical elements". At it's base level, it means something both organic and machine.

However, the term "cyborg" has recently started leaning in a direction where when people hear it they picture more specifically a human or animal that has been modified with mechanical parts to some extent, and with the way Murderbot is described in the books, this is inaccurate and not what the author would want people to picture- so it's called a "construct" instead.

(likewise, the term "android" or similar words tend to have people picturing a robot that is merely human in shape but is fully mechanical, and that is also inaccurate in terms of what Murderbot is)

All Rjalker is using to say that Murderbot was born a human infant that was mutilated at birth is that the author, in one QnA, said that "cyborg is technically correct," meaning that Rjalker is using the informal definition of "cyborg" as though it were blatant fact.

In the books, Murderbot's only human parts are described as some human brain tissue and nerves, some skin covering its mechanical parts, and potentially its lungs (though its lungs don't work like a regular human's so who knows). It does not have bones, or organs, or muscle tissue, and what skin and flesh it does have is described specifically as being "cloned".

There is nothing indicating it ever was born a human in the books or in any other statement by the author, and using "the author said that teeeeechnically the character is a cyborg so that means my interpretation is right" is, to put it simply, fucking stupid.

(Side note: Rjalker has been using this claim of "Murderbot was born a human" to insist that the author is claiming that people who have been altered with prosthetics/life support devices/etc are not human, despite there being plenty of humans with augments of prosthetics in the setting of the story that are not treated as any less human in the Free World part of the setting?)

(And like, Murderbot is the main character who is given the most insight and empathy from the narrative, with lots of emphasis both by the narrative and the other characters that its life has no less value than theirs- because even if it isn't human by some definitions, it still is a person.)

[henrysglock]

Breadcrumbs Post, Revisited <3

The VR game really does pain me...particularly about Henry. (Who could have known...this revelation is truly a left-field twist...)

There's one part in Chapter 5 that really gets me:

Shadow Brenner: You were a good child, in your own way. Henry: What does that even mean? Shadow Brenner: Obedient, eager to show off, brilliant—but just like all shining things: Too. Much.

He goes on to show Henry memories of himself in the lab with Brenner as a child. Henry starts in with pleasantries ("I trust you slept well?"), Brenner makes a comment about Henry historically disliking pleasantries, to which Henry responds that they're "made-up rules".

After that, Brenner makes something of a striking comment:

Brenner: Are we getting distracted, or focusing? Young Henry: ...focusing.

After that, we're transported to the tattoo scene, wherein Brenner tells Henry that Soteria is temporary, and will only be in place until Henry's "emotional acuity" increases and they can find "more collaborative ways forward". Read: It'll come out once you submit to me completely.

You mean to tell me Henry's a good kid who's eager to please, brilliant, easily distracted, has a distaste for social games like pleasantries and small-talk, struggles with reading emotions, and is defiant in the face of perceived injustice? That he's specifically "too much"?

Anyone with autism and ADHD has heard all that shit before...which is exactly what I said here last April when I discussed the misuse of the label "psychopath" in regards to Henry, who more prominently displays traits of autism and cPTSD (though after playing this game and seeing The First Shadow...I'm inclined to adapt that diagnosis to auDHD).

The other one that kills me a little is when Shadow Brenner tells us/Henry about how Henry's mind works. Shadow Brenner says that Henry killed his family so they could never send him away again, that Henry loves via obsession...meaning whatever he obsesses over, he loves, and that El and her rejection of him makes him emotional/weak.

Regardless of how true those statements are/how much of it is being said by the Shadow to convince Henry that the monstrous/negative aspects are true/how much of it is being said to try and hurt Henry and break him down...we can at least surmise a few underlying themes:

Henry loved his family, and it hurt him to be cast aside/set apart from them.

Henry was utterly heartbroken by Virginia sending him away/selling him out to Brenner.

Henry loved El.

To some degree, given the obsession: Henry still loves El.

These are all things I've said before. It's nothing new...but it sure does hurt to have them reaffirmed.

Henry was a good kid who loved his family even when they couldn't love him. Shocker (/s). And now, despite the fact that it Hurts, he can't let them go/refuses to let them go, as if holding onto them will make them love him. He was also "too much" for his family to handle, and post-El...that translates very obviously in-game into him believing he's too much for anyone to handle, let alone love. He makes his empathetic mental connections as Vecna based on that feeling of being an unlovable monster (which I also said in my "Henry isn't a psychopath" post!).

Shared trauma, man. That's the real deal. Everything you see Vecna weaponize against someone is something he himself has experienced...which is something I said back in January of last year in a post I dubbed "the breadcumbs post" (hence the title of this post):

In short:

[madsciencestudent]

So, I lost access to my main fanart and fanfic blog (No, don't send me tips, I'm already working on it), which means in the meantime, I'm gonna post this little character interaction practice here. Also, I'm specifically lobbing this over at @emuwarum and @potnialabyrinthoio95 since you guys encouraged me and are now doomed to me throwing random thoughts and things at you.

(Notes: Idyia = "Feathers", my Blue Song oc Rubra-Harenas = "Sands", my Kindred of the Tusk oc I kinda use more modern language in this mostly because I'm just always tired these days and it's easier for me. And I based how I think the Blue Song would cool off in high temperatures off the little family of Carolina Wrens I would watch on our porch during the over 90 F and 90% humidity heat waves we get in the summer.)

Rubra-Harenas had to admit, if only to himself, that he may have underestimated the little chronicler. As they traveled through The Endless Sands, he had expected the fragile looking Saurian to at least start complaining like Tusken children did on long journeys. If not out right become ill from the intense sun and heat. Yet the most she did in regards to the hot environment was alert Rubra-Harenas before stopping, hopping off her Carnotaurus mount before snapping off her armor cuirass and any arm armor she bothered to put back on, and then… Puffing out her feathers, crouching closer to the ground, and seeming to pant for a few seconds. She then would shake herself out, snap the cuirass back in place while her feathers settled back down, and jump back up into the saddle. She never said anything else about… whatever that had been, just simply let Rubra-Harenas know to start moving again. He had watched this odd behavior in silence, utterly baffled by it but determinedly not asking about it.

He assumed it was better to avoid any unnecessary arguments if he could help it.

He hadn’t been doing as good of a job when it came to hiding his confused staring, apparently. Idyia hadn’t mentioned it at all for the first few days, but finally she couldn’t keep it to herself.

“I can feel your confusion from all the way down here, you know.” Idyia said as she replaced the cuirass. She glanced up just in time to catch him startling at her statement. Her mouth twitched up at the corners and an amused snort slipped out. Rubra-Harenas frowned in response and a small rumble formed in his chest.

“Your Blue Song rituals ARE confusing,” he answered.

“Our rituals?” Now Idyia was truly grinning as she climbed back up into the saddle. “Trying to keep cool is a ritual now?”

“How is THAT-?!?” Rubra-Harenas sputtered, hand waving back down to where she had just been crouching to explain what he was referring to. She started to softly laugh, bringing a fist up in front of her beak as if to hide the noise. He huffed in slight annoyance and cut off the rest of what he was going to say. She seemed to catch his irritation.

“You don’t have feathers, of course you wouldn’t do that,” Idyia muttered mostly to herself, before relenting. “It really is just to make sure I don’t faint from the heat. I get the feeling you wouldn’t appreciate being slowed down any.”

Rubra-Harenas studied her for a moment, trying to decide if she was mocking him or not, before humming and nudging his Allosaurus to start moving again. Idyia followed suit, gently scratching her mount behind its horns as well as a reward for waiting for her.

They traveled in silence for while.

“…I am… Confused as to why you haven’t complained or so much as mention the heat before now,” Rubra-Harenas admitted. “Even with your Embassy built on the edge of Solaris, you haven’t been under the suns like we have. I would think you shouldn’t be able to handle it as well as you have been…” He stole a glance at her, gauging what her reaction was going to be. Another Kindred Brother might have been insulted, taking his words as an insinuation of weakness.

The little chronicler, however, had raised her brows slightly before looking considering. She hummed as she turned over his words in her head.

“…Well, it’s not as if complaining about it is going to change the temperature,” Idyia slowly answered. “…But… I think I might have just… Not really thought too much about it? Not given it much notice? If I’m not about to over heat, I mean. And even then I just tell you to stop for a moment.” It looked like she hadn’t even realized she hadn’t mentioned the heat or sun the way Rubra-Harenas (or anyone else) would have expected her to. “I… I guess I’ve just been too distracted to even think about complaining.”

“Distracted…”

“Yes,” Idyia nodded. “It might not be that noticeable to you since it’s your home, but the Endless Sands is so fascinating!” Rubra-Harenas blinked, surprised.

“Fascinating?”

“I wasn’t aware I had an echo traveling with me.” Idyia quipped with a tiny smirk, and he rumbled at her. “But it is! At first glance, it looks completely barren and lifeless, yet I haven’t seen us travel more than a step without there being some type of insect or wildlife tracks in the sands beside us! Look, see?” She pointed out just slightly ahead of them and off to the right where, sure enough, tiny reptilian prints skittered across the sand. Mixing and crossing with that set were other various patterns left by beetles, spiders, more tiny reptiles, and a few that weren’t immediately identifiable.

“And! And there’s the patches of grasses and shrubs and-! And other plants I’ve never seen before! Only ever read about! You would think there wouldn’t be ANY plants out here, but there’s so much!” She went on, excitement leaking into her voice and she was unconsciously moving her right hand around to mimic plants’ growth as she talked. “There were bunches of flowers! Flowers! Not even close to any obvious water source, and they were so pretty!” Rubra-Harenas released a rough chuckle at her enthusiasm. The noise seemed to bring her back down slightly, as she stopped moving her hand around and shifted back into a more ‘proper’ posture. She shot him a glance and sheepish little smile.

“…Also, well… Before I came over to the main land, I’d never seen the sun as much as I do now.” Idyia added, scratching just under the strange growth (her third eye but Rubra-Harenas didn’t know that yet) on her left side. “It’s nice.”

“…Wait, what?” Rubra-Harenas straightened up when her words registered. “Why couldn’t you see the sun before you came here?”

“It wasn’t like I had never seen the sun before!” Idyia laughed. “Just not nearly as much. And because of all the rain, of course.”

“…What.”

She blinked at him. “…All the rain? It’s- Oh.” She blinked at him again before facing forward. “How am I supposed to explain…? Uh…Hmmm…” She trailed off, frowning and thinking hard. She put her left hand to her beak as she did.

Rubra-Harenas frowned as a small voice in his own head whispered that she was trying to figure out how to explain… whatever she wanted to explain because- like all other Blue Song- she believed him to be just an unintelligent animal.

“Okay… So… You’ve travelled outside of the Endless Sands, right?” Idyia asked. He nodded.

“Have you spent any of the rainy seasons outside the Sands as well?” He nodded again. “So you know how those rainy seasons are much longer than those in the Sands, right?”

“Is this going somewhere or are we just stating obvious facts?”

“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it!” Idyia placated. “Just…Making sure you know other places tend to experience longer rainy seasons than the Endless Sands.” He rolled his eyes.

“Back home, we have rainy seasons that last almost the entire year.” Idyia finally explained. “It’s not that unusual to go weeks without getting to see the sun. Sometimes, the sun may break through the clouds while it’s still raining but only for brief periods at a time.”

Rubra-Harenas openly stared at her with wide eyes. She held his gaze and patiently waited for him to reply.

“…Nope. No, you’re lying to me. There is no way that is the truth.” He finally shook his head.

“I’m not lying!” Idyia laughed and defended her claim. “It is true!”

“No. Absolutely not. How could any Saurian live like that?”

“The same way a Saurian can live in the middle of the desert, I suppose!”

“No! The desert doesn’t try to DROWN you!”

“We don’t drown! As long as you stay away from the flood zones of the rivers, that is.”

“SEE?!?”

Idyia couldn’t help herself and kept laughing at his incredulous response. “Tell you what Rubra-Harenas, once we finish up with the Forefather ruins, I’ll take you back over to the Pluvian Rainforest one day and you can see for yourself.”

“Should that day ever come, you best be prepared for the consequences of lying to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

Rubra-Harenas shook his head and turned away from her as she continued giggling. She rolled her eyes but remained grinning for a long time after that conversation.

[superm4ks]

I don't really know how people analyse/read testing times so like whyy does everyone think rb will be the fastest? I mean I can understand that they were dominating last year and that that lead doesn't just completely dissappear over winter break, but at the same time they've changed the concept a lot and maybe the new concept is a flop?? Just looking at testing times and long-runs the ferrari looks just as good as the rb (to me lol as I said idk)

Aight honey I gotcha here’s what to actually look for in testing and what NOT to look for

Pay attention to:

Consistency - drivers will run what they call ‘programs’ set to see if the data they’ve spent all winter working over in their lil computers actually correlates to the finished product on track. It’s important that it does lmfao. When the wind tunnel and the tarmac give u similar ((controlled)) lap times in !!similar environments!! then u know you’ve got a good base to work on for the remaining of the season. So look for consistency in ur drivers laps. Look for race sims on c1 c2,c3 ((hard and medium compounds)) wid obvious delta references and see if they were actually able to deliver consistent times across the board.

Tires used by teams - personally always find it interesting and telling when teams will focus a lot more on softer compounds and harder compounds instead of miss ole reliable her majesty the long run queen - C3. C3 is a medium compound baddie thats the most likely to give u a broader picture of how the car actually handles at a race speed. A few nailed laps on c4 and c5 ((softer compounds)) DO look sexy and strong on top of the table, but for testing they’re kinda like stretching a muscle u won’t even get to use all that much. But if ur fav gets on top the table, no harm done right 😭

Laps completed - Nando Alonso said it best, 3 days of testing is fucking bonkers . And it is. Imagine not only u gotta learn everything about one of the most intricate and sensitive and complex pieces of machinery on the planet but u gotta also use whatever data u find to extract some type of competitive, podium scorer, race winning performance . All this against 10 other mfs ((yes even haas)) who are trying to do the same. So , how do u get an edge here? Simply put, u run your car from the moment it’s green until it becomes like against the law to have the fucker out there. More laps = more sim data = more data overall = better quality corrections between sim and on track behavior = more knowledge of how car responds to different programs = where to improve and gain performance

Immediate statements from drivers on how the car is behaving *relative* to last year - drivers are pr trained to death but they’re not robots. One of the most important aspects of an f1 car is its drivability. If a driver tells you it’s better or it’s worse /or they’re having less or more fun, believe that . That is important

Do not give a fuck about:

Testing classifications - or, to put it bluntly, it doesn’t matter who tops the charts in testing. The term ‘glory runs’ // ‘sandbagging’ comes to mind, and while teams theoretically shud not b wasting precious testing time wid that nonsense bro sometimes those mfs can’t help themselves . And it’s all utterly meaningless until fp1 in Bahrain . Lemme tell u why. There’s simply too much we don’t know about how teams are moving atp. What engine modes they’re on, fuel loads, delta targets, programs. Apples to oranges. Except apples is a fresh lap on c4s and oranges is like 15 on used c3. Cud mean something, cud mean nothing. Don’t focus too much on it.

Hope this helps love u mwah