#City Lights Publishing

[kaggsy59]

"...much closer together under this sky!" #1962Club #RedCats

Times for some poetry to feature again on the Ramblings! I’ve enjoyed a bit of a resurgence of my reading of verse over recent months, and I’m determined to keep this up – even if, as in today’s case, it’s once again a very slim collection. They certainly seem to have been a good way to get back into poetry reading, as those large complete volumes can be so intimidating… Today’s title is a…

[zhimaqiu]

somehow it makes me feel weird that neon lights existed before world wars already

[theculturedmarxist]

In photos of 2023’s World Economic Forum- or Davos as it is commonly called, after the Swiss resort town where it annually occurs- you might not notice the HEPA filters. They’re in the background, unobtrusive and unremarked upon, quietly cleansing the air of viruses and bacteria. You wouldn’t know- not unless you asked- that every attendee was PCR tested before entering the forum, or that in the case of a positive test, access was automatically, electronically, revoked. And if you happened to get a glimpse of the strange blue lights overhead, you could reasonably assume that their glow was simply a modern aesthetic choice, not the calming buzz of cutting edge Far UVC technology- demonstrated to kill microbes in the air.

It’s hard to square this information with the public narrative about COVID, isn’t it? President Biden has called the pandemic “over”. The New York Times recently claimed that “the risk of Covid is similar to that of the flu” in an article about “hold outs” that are annoyingly refusing to accept continual reinfection as their ��new normal”. Yet, this week the richest people in the world are taking common sense, easy- but strict- precautions to ensure they don’t catch Covid-19 at Davos.

These common sense, easy precautions include high-quality ventiliation, use of Far UVC-lighting technology, and PCR testing. You’ll also see some masks at Davos, but generally, the testing + air filtration protocol seems to be effective at preventing the kind of super-spreader events most of us are now accustomed to attending.

It seems unlikely to me that a New York Times reporter will follow the super-rich around like David Attenborough on safari, the way one of their employees did when they profiled middle-class maskers last month. I doubt they will write “family members and friends can get a little exasperated by the hyper-concern” about the assembled Prime Ministers, Presidents and CEOs in Switzerland. After all, these are important people. The kind of people who merit high-quality ventilation. The kind of people who deserve accurate tests.

Why is the media so hellbent on portraying simple, scientifically proven measures like high-quality ventilation as ridiculous and unnecessary as hundreds of people continue to die daily here in the US?

Why is the public accepting a “new normal” where we are expected to get infected over and over and over again, at work events with zero precautions, on airplanes with no masks, and at social dinners trying to approximate our 2019 normal?

We deserve better. We deserve to be #DavosSafe as the hashtag going around on twitter puts it. Your children deserve to be treated with the care that world leaders are treating each other. Your family deserves to be protected from the disease which is still- unlike the flu- the third leading cause of death in the US. We don’t deserve to be shoved back into poorly ventilated workplaces while our politicians and press assure us that only crazy people would demand to breathe clean air.

Clean water and clean food are rights we fought for; we have regulatory bodies that ensure we aren’t exposed to pathogens via our water supply nor our food. In 1854, John Snow famously conducted his Broad Street Pump study in London and demonstrated that cholera was water-bourne; however, it took decades for our public policy to catch up with our scientific knowledge.

A public health case study published by the NBCI describes the years that followed:

The first use of chlorine as a disinfectant for water facilities was in 1897 in England. The first use of this method for municipal water facilities in the United States was in Jersey City, New Jersey, and Chicago, Illinois, in 1915. Other cities followed and the use of chlorination as standard treatment for water disinfection rapidly grew. During the 20th century, death rates from waterborne diseases decreased significantly, and although other additional factors contributed to the general improvements in health (such as sanitation, improved quality of life, and nutrition), the improvement of water quality was, without doubt, a major reason.

Forty-three years passed from the initial demonstration that pathogens were being spread via water, and public action and regulation to halt disease.

Can you imagine, in the 1890s, being somebody who argued against cleaning the water?

Can you imagine, in those years of plentiful cholera, calling the people who demanded shit-free water “hold outs”?

One thing COVID realists are accused of is being “doomsayers” and “fearmongers,” so let me share a dose of optimism about the future with you. When we choose- whenever we choose- to get COVID under control, there’s an exciting new world awaiting us. One, not only without constant COVID reinfection, but where our kids can grow up free of colds, flus, RSV, and many other common bugs. And no, contrary to what you may have heard, staying healthy (shockingly enough) is not bad for children!

Once we choose to institute ventilation standards and introduce new technologies like Far UVC lighting- and embrace masking as an easy, kind, and useful tool to control outbreaks- we can bring every nasty airborne pathogen under control the way we did cholera. We didn’t have the science before; now we do. (I mean that quite literally; I can’t recommend enough the linked Wired article cataloguing the long journey to establishing that Covid is, indeed, airborne).

We face a stark choice; down one road, the one with zero infrastructure upgrades, no air quality regulations, and Covid safety only for those who can afford it, you and your family will get Covid this year. You will get Covid next year. You will continue to get Covid over and over and over again, as the health problems - like cardiac damage, viral persistance, and immune system dysfunction- continue to build up. (The billionaires, of course, will not).

Down the other road, we quite simply treat ourselves the way Davos would. We engage with what the science is telling us and we build a safer, better world for our kids. We embrace the lessons this pandemic is teaching us, and let go of things we now know are harming people. We stop clinging desperately to the idea that 2019 will come back if we just get the virus one more time, and we come together to achieve what we’ve been told is impossible: elimination.

The economic elite thrive on our divisiveness and blame casting. They don’t mind that we’re calling each other names, engaging in racial stereotyping, or leaving disabled people to die, so long as we keep their machine running. But we can choose to stop throwing blame at each other, and direct it where it belongs: at the powerful people who’ve left us to suffer, at the politicians who are whipping people into a frenzy over masks instead of over our millions of dead, at the talking heads on TV that work so hard to convince us: you want to get sick. It’s better than being a *weirdo* or a *hold out*.

We needn’t wait 43 years to redirect our energies. France and Belgium have already introduced new air quality standards, and DIY projects to build Corsi-Rosenthal boxes for schools and healthcare settings have popped up around the country. We have the science, we have the technology. All we need now is the political will and the solidarity to truly end the pandemic- the kind of solidarity the super rich always show with one another.

The billionaires at Davos don’t accept continual Covid reinfection. They demand better. It’s time we demand better too.

[kkoehn17]

A Golden Gate Birthday (Part 2)

A Golden Gate Birthday (Part 2)

[h-f-k]

THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT | Concept Redesign

Taylor Swift's 11th studio album The Tortured Poets Department dives into the lives of victorian women who refused to adopt wholesale the codes and conventions of the male poetic tradition.

More about the concept under the cut

Theodore Turner, Thomas Bennet, Paul Wright and David Morgan founded TTPD in 1835 in New York with the hopes of making their way through the world of literature. 20 years later they found themselves being the most prolific publishing house in the city with acclaimed poems and short stories becoming an undeniable force among their female readers. No one could believe four men around the age of 30 could understand the nuances of love, heartbreak, loss and hopelessness as well as they did. But not every story has a happy ending. While the four gentleman became history and their names were positioned next to the biggest names of american poetry of the 19th century there's something that lies beneath that chronicle.

35 Women were the backbone of TTPD writing everything from poems, short stories and even clever and witty jokes that were quite hard for victorian men to grasp. While relegated to the back of the building they tried to fought for their space in the poetry world. Each publication was signed with the initials TTPD and while common readers could interpret that as the well known acronym of the company's founders they believed leaving their own trace would mean something to future writers and women across the country.

The Tortured Poets Department was born out of anger and spite yet kept going for so many years, until the company closed, because the shared love for poetry and expressing and seeing the world in a different way was cathartic for 35 women who from a young age were told to get married fast and not intefere in gentlemen's business.

This album shines a light on those women who died thinking their efforts to become someone were useless. The Tortured Poets Department dives into lives of 35 victorian women who refused to adopt wholesale the codes and conventions of the male poetic tradition and recounts the story as it should've been told in the first place.

[wandasfifthwife]

(2) the curse of living in a small town | I got a bad idea series

—> masterlist

southern!wandanat x fem!city-girl reader

tw: allusions to sex (didn’t happen, r just misunderstands), discussion of w&n undressing r while she was drunk bc r threw up on them, slight angst, two separate minor injuries (r), blood mention, mentions to past drunkenness (r), incorrect scared horse description?

a/n: in true me fashion this is published without being proofread. so excuse my choppy ass writing lmao

The sheets wrapped around you were too warm, and it often pulled you back to sleep. Any time you begin to stir, all you had to do was twist your body and you were falling asleep again. The sun was high in the sky by the time you actually opened your eyes.

The curtains were closed, but the air conditioning would push the corners so they’d flip up and let the light in. It didn’t take long to recognize that the room you were in was not a room you recognized.

You froze, dread piling within you as you took in each individual difference between the room you were in versus the one back at your grandparents. The coats hung behind the door, pictures laid on the vanity in front of you, a hand-made blanket thrown across the edge of the bed frame. Not to mention the smell—though pleasant—it was unrecognizable.

It took looking down at your current sleep wear to make you freak out. It wasn’t yours.

Everything on top and underneath wasn’t yours. Your heart rate seems faster than normal when you crack the door open. It’s quiet, and a sign for you to run out the door.

Your feet are bare, so the sound of the bottom of your foot sticking when it picks off the floor is embarrassingly loud. You’ve almost reached the first floor, feet about to meet the halfway mark on the stairs when you hear a voice beside you.

No rational thought came to mind as you rush down the stairs. Your left foot slips and you miscalculate the distance between the last step and the bench sitting across from you. It collided into the bench’s leg with a solid thud.

The wind gets knocked out of you, forcing you to hunch over and wait for the sting to leave. You don’t want to see who’s greeted you, ignoring it even as you miserably make it to the front door.

Across from you in the middle of their yard is Natasha. Though with how fuzzy last night was, she’s become a stranger to you. You turn to the left and book it towards the one thing you recognize at the moment, your grandparents home. You hear her call out to you, but you don’t waste any time running through the warm grass. All emotions related to embarrassment, regret, and shame fill you and force your adrenaline to kick it into overdrive.

Your grandma’s having a field day, laughing as she sees you through the kitchen window. She calls her husband over, the sight of you in almost nothing cracking him up hit he attempts to save your dignity.

He opens the door for you, not saying anything because he knew you’d rush past him and shut yourself in a room. Which is exactly what you did.

“That’s pretty early for a night owl like her,” your grandma laughs, looking to your grandpa. He has a sympathetic look on his face, still looking off where you ran up the stairs.

“I feel bad, honey.“

“It’s not that I don’t feel bad, I just think she’s a grown adult. She choose to get drunk, I’m sure she’s just embarrassed to find out she drunkenly cried over someone congratulating her for graduating college.”

That’s not the reason why you felt embarrassed. You had zero chance of knowing what happened last night until you talked to one of them. Confrontation wasn’t your strength, avoidance was. That’s why you’re caught up in this mess with your boss at work, you can’t tell him to give you a raise because you’re afraid of getting fired.

That’s how you feel now. You’re afraid of asking what happened last night because you’re scared of the possible situation. There’s no obvious physical signs of anything happening other than your clothes being changed. That being said, you still left your clothes over there. At this point, they can keep them.

The picture frames that covered the walls were photos from their marriage. Them smiling, a few of them kissing. It was beautiful and you were terrified you were to ruin it, what they have, after last night. Your home was even quieter than theirs, that was until your mother had begun to bang against your door.

“Get dressed, you’re coming with me into town.”

You realize then that all of your sudden movement from earlier catches up to you. Your mother realizes it too and thankfully allows you to sleep in more. After a few home remedies you’re feeling better, but not fully healed. When she finds you in bed at 3PM, she’s hurrying into your bedroom and pushing you to get out

“Tomorrow?”

“No,” she pulls the sheets off the bed, “fall for stupid tricks get stupid consequences, come on.“

You shy away from the laughs coming from your brother and grandparents when you make it downstairs. There was a small tray in the kitchen with a varying fruits. A small sticky note beside it with a personalized message towards you, telling you to take whatever’s left.

“Want to visit the diner in town? I’d like to visit my friend for a minute, you can get lunch?”

Your mom navigates the plans, pushing beside you. You make a small plate and grab more meds from the pharmacy tray in the furthest cabinet to the left.

“I don’t care, mom.”

She grabs the keys off a small hook and wonders off outside. Her actions telling you get yourself in the car within the next few minutes. You bother finds himself stumbling into the kitchen, “to set the record straight, I won.”

“Fuck off,” you mumble, grabbing your phone and tumbling out the door. Your mom pulled the car out front with the window’s down.

“Buckle your seatbelt.”

“We’re going down St Peters?”

“You’re still sobering. I’m scared you’ll pull the door open and fly out.”

“Mom,” you point towards where the city is, “the streets are 25, it’s slow. Just go.”

She still replayed her comeback to you, going on about how over drinking is terrible for you. Meanwhile her yapping was making everything hurt worse. You rest your head against the window as best as you can, trying to be mindful of the constant bumps due to the rock road.

“—you had cried like a baby.”

“I did what?”

“Cried last night.”

You groan, “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You did a lot of things,” she says eventually once you’ve gotten onto the road. Her sentence doesn’t help the downfall of emotions you’ve been experiencing since this morning.

“Have anybody in your sights lately?”

“Nope, still single.”

She prods further, asking, “are you going to get married? I don’t care how or when, just sometime before I die so I can have grandchildren.”

“I understand. You’ll be the first to know if I find someone.”

She turns down the street, onto where the most amount of buildings lie unless you want to drive for hours. It’s a thirty minute drive, decent enough to get what you’re needing. Food, supplies, send mail, or to set up market. There was a spot in front of the town’s diner, the one your mom chose and the one right by where a certain someone’s car was parked as well.

You climb out of the car, unsuspecting and following your mom into the diner. She pulls away from you almost immediately to talk to her friend who’s sat at a booth towards the back. You thought to introduce yourself, include yourself in the conversation between an old acquaintance. The both just behind her was where Natasha was, your eyes finding hers. You grew defensive, turning on your heel to sit at the bar instead.

The lady behind the counter takes your brisk order. The look on her face is also wondering why you’re this bothered by her presence. If it were a one night stand, it’s fine, they happen. Usually they don’t and with one running out into the field barefoot though.

She hands you the tea you ordered. You’re sure your expression is still tense judging by the fact her eyes never leave you until she’s rounded the corner. Whether she’s concerned, or noisy, it doesn’t matter. If she could tell you’re tense, you’re sure Natasha can tell if she so much looks your way.

You’re unsure about why, but you look over your shoulder. It was with a purpose to look at your mother, but you glued onto her again and freaked when you saw her get closer. Hands growing sweaty around the cold drink in your hands when she sits beside you. She wastes no time getting straight to the point, narrowing you with a stare.

“Why’d you run off this morning?”

The conversation you’ve been dreading was unraveling. You keep your eyes on the old tv, not sparing her a glance. She doesn’t budge. You finally turn towards her, meeting her stare, “do I know you?”

It was a complete lie that she seemed to beleive for a split second. She backed up, giving you enough space and time for your mother to come back. You were gone by the time she put the pieces together. The way you looked back at her, nervously swallowed when she got close, and sat still when she spoke to you. You definitely recognized her.

You ran into them again at the market a day later. Whoever they went, you copied, hiding behind anything you could to avoid being seen.

You ran into them again when Natasha was getting gas at the station you liked off Westview. You went above and beyond to push your seat back, putting yourself out of the span of her line of sight.

You ran into them everywhere. The only place they had yet to wonder into was your grandparents land. It felt like your safe zone, the area where they couldn’t roam.

That proved to be wrong when you crept into the stable at sundown, visiting the newer addition to the stable. You met him a day ago when your grandfather took you out to see him for the first time.

You sat in the corner of his pen on a stool, watching as he ate the feed you poured into his food mound into. Your grandfather mentioned needing him to get used to new people as they wanted to train and sell him eventually to a rider.

“Why’re you up so late?” wanda had asked almost as if she came out of nowhere. It startled you and the sound your hand made when it hit his feeder had him freaking out as well. Wanda’s quick to unlatch the door, pulling you into her. The wooden edge caught onto your skin, dragging and pulling it until it bled.

“Thank yo—“

“No need, my apologies for scaring you,” she looks towards the terrified horse, “and him”

“Ah no worries, he gets scared often,” you brush the hay off of your jeans, “why’re you in here?”

“We bought half the stable two years ago.”

Of course they did.

“Oh.”

“Guessing your ma didn’t tell you?”

You shook your head, reaching an arm out to slide it down the side of his snout, bringing him to eventually stand still. She waits patiently beside you, looking between you and the horse.

“Got yourself cut there?”

“I did?“

Her fingers weave under your arm, pulling it up and showing you the slice your arm took a minute ago. She looks saddened, “I’m sorry, angel, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“It’s just a small cut. I barely even knew it was there I’m so immune to them.”

She doesn’t look pleased. She invites you to her house, and you want her to leave. It’s not her, it’s you. You can still feel your nerves spike after all these days when you see them time after time again. Going back to their house would mean you’d have to see how the two of them are doing, and lately, they haven’t been in the same room.

If there’s one thing you remember from last night, was that they came together and were almost wrapped in each other’s arms.

“At least let me cleanse it before anything tries to infect it.”

You agree and she sits you down on the chair in the tack room, coming back a second later with a small bag. The cut did not draw any attention to you when it happened, but you’re thankful she noticed or else the blood could’ve spread onto your clothes or anything else you touched.

Neither one says anything while she rubs disinfectant on the gash. The horses in their stalls were making much more noise in how they huff and walk around. Being cooped up in a little cell would drive you crazy. Like being cooped up in this room with Wanda was suffocating.

“Have you had any meds since last night?”

“Yes,” you rush to look away when she glances at you, “ma has a supply in her cabinets.”

“Good.”

Oh my gosh you want to run back into the house and stay in there until you fly back to New York. She’s entirely calm and her fingers are steady, something you’re trying to copy.

“If you need anything, come visit.”

It was the undertone of her statement that confused you. It was inviting. She put the cotton pad into the trash, coming back to sit beside you. Her fingers were so gentle, hovering over your skin and unintentionally giving you chills.

“Thank you.”

Her smile so soft. She finishes putting the small bandage over your arm and walks back out to put it away. You don’t want to run now, partially because you’re with the one who’ll lay the truth down in a kinder way.

“What happened last night.”

You know she heard you when she laughs out loud, the sound light and airy. It confused you, bringing you to ask more questions. She motions for you to leave the room, the key going into the lock after.

“You got drunk and cried if Natasha or I tried to leave. We all decided it would be best if we just brought you to our house for the night. You fell asleep the second your head hit the pillow. Natasha heard you being sick late into the night, I believe it was 3AM? She left to help you—“

“That’s a wonderful story,” you cut her off in hopes to not hear the rest, but you’re incredibly relieved to find you hadn’t slept with them that night, “I am so terribly sorry you had to deal with that.”

“If you’d like your clothes from last night back they’re folded in our laundry room.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“We wanted to.”

You walk past the first few stables to grab your phone off the table you had set it on when you walked in. You flit it into your back pocket, “would you be alright if I stopped by to grab my clothes tonight?”

“Not at all.”

The front gate to the stable shuts. Wanda pulls a small flashlight, shining the light to help you both walk back towards their house. Her eyes were focused ahead, shorter hair covering half of her side profile.

“When I first met you, how long had you been married?”

“About three years,” she explains, “we got married in the summer.”

“The pictures in your home are beautiful.”

She thanks you, walking ahead to open the door to her estate for the both of you. The moon’s full, providing enough light that almost puts the flashlight to shame. It shows the shorter path ahead of you, marked by dried dirt and stones.

The door to their home opens and Natasha walks to stand in the doorway. The two greet each other with a kiss, whispering small pleasantries. It’s only for a second, but it singles you out and makes you feel you’re imposing. Natasha holds the door for you to enter, letting the screen door swing shut once you’ve all entered.

Wanda walks you through their house towards the laundry room, indirectly giving you a tour of everything you ran past in a blur that morning. The emerald green backsplash in their kitchen and wooden cabinets. Little miscellaneous items thrown about like a stack of papers and a random hair clip.

“Here,” she peeks into the laundry room, setting the clothes onto your open arms, “sorry they’re all cold, I promise they were warm this morning.”

You laugh awkwardly, the shy sound getting cut off from Natasha calling for Wanda from another room. You two found Natasha standing in the living room, holding an opened envelope. Shreds of paper were on the floor, results of her careless attempts of opening the letter.

“Why are we still getting mail from the Parsons? We finished their payment last week.”

Wanda takes it from her hands, scanning over the letter for only a second, “it’s possible they’ve forgotten, they’re entirely too old.”

Natasha mumbles under her breath and goes to place it with the other thrown about papers on their dining room table.

“I’m probably going to head out now,” you look behind yourself, ensuring that you’re actually walking backwards towards the door, “thank you for everything.”

“Course, angel. Have a good night.”

You smile, feeling like you’re being drowned underwater as you step down the porch. Their conversation can be heard even as you’re halfway down their driveway, the screen door doing nothing to separate building from the rest of the world.

You grow cold as you walk back home, the light and warmth their home brought escaping you with each step you took walking away from them. It’s loud back at your grandparent’s home, most everyone is situated in the backyard, but a few remain in the living room.

Your aunt greets you first, asking where you were before asking if you could help your brother with the dessert since apparently he’s “still recovering from last night.” You doubt that but you’re in no mood to fight.

Your grandparents are sitting on a one person couch. Legs are intertwined and hands held and it brings back a memory from last night in their home when you were laid over Natasha’s waist in a similar position. You leave the room with an aching feeling in your chest.

There’s times when you were unsure of how you were feeling. The reason why you felt off sometimes never making itself known. You were home with family, a plate with crumbs laid on the table between you all. It was fine, you were safe and in a warm building with food and water and everything necessary.

When the lights turned off in the house and everyone had gone to bed, you still felt a tight squeeze in your chest. You labeled it as a combination of so much happening the past couple of days, and the fact you drank more than usual just the night before. When you climbed in bed, you fell asleep looking at the little lit-up house down the road.

masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

taglist

@ncis-nerd @thalia-is-not-ok @dorabledewdroop @simpforlizzie @huggingkoalas @yvungmxshroom @hella-hecka-gay @sgm616 @sapphic-simp4015 @puta1 @natty-taffy @the-chocolate-void @scarlizziee @mysticalmoonlight7 @jazzabebev @delulu-bayolet-era @olicity-boo @esposadejoyhuerta @marvelwomen-simp

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Two

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warning: None :)

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“The sun’s barely gone down!” Cassian grumbled, following behind Helion, Rhysand, and Feyre as they walked the cobblestone streets of the Day Court. Every block of the small city contained at least two local bookstores, one cafe that also sold books, one flower shop that also sold books, and/or a small glass box filled with - as anyone could have guessed - more books to be given away for free. 

Helion chuckled, “You’re not in the Night Court any more. My people are early to bed, early to rise. Unless of course you spend a night with me.” He winked at Cassian, who had the sense to blush. Indeed the Night Court members had been shocked when the party cleared out not even two hours after the sun had slipped beneath the ground. 

Aside from the small scale bookstores which housed the most popular and recently published novels, every sector of the Day Court also had between one to three athenaeum’s - elaborate buildings of ivory stone laced with filigree and windows that lit up like the glowing eyes of an ancient beast. They were the pride and joy of all Day Court members. The windows flickered and shone with the magic used to protect the volumes from the sun. Even as the neighborhood lights slowly winked out, Azriel could track the diligent minds scouring the brightly lit shelves. There was a loving madness in their hunched backs, craned necks, and squinting eyes. 

As their troupe reached The Alcove, one of the smaller and cozier athenaeum’s, Azriel couldn’t help but imagine you in a similar display of passionate madness, when you forgot about the world around you and could actually relax.

The Alcove specialized in housing diaries and novels of everyday comforts - quiet, unassuming stories that could steal your heart as swiftly as the grandest tales of war and romance, but with much more discretion. Here, the knowledge pressed between pages with ink was full of warmth and subtlety. The others in your cohort had scorned you for your choice in The Alcove. Why would anyone choose such a dull place to live and work? Why not be surrounded by books on war tactics or history or religion or biology? Someplace useful and worthy of a Librarian’s gifts. But The Alcove had offered you something you’d missed since your mother’s death - a sense of home. 

You sat by the bay windows overlooking the darkened street below, breathing in the crisp and cool air that snuck in through the glass. On the other side of your apartment, a similar window overlooked The Alcove’s interior. Hundreds of mahogany shelves lined the high walls of the octagonal building with its signature domed roof. Grand staircases of gold twisted their way up from the ground, connecting to walkways that gave easier access to the volumes housed higher up the walls. 

It was a blessing in disguise that you’d chosen to sit on this side of your apartment. Otherwise you would have never seen the Shadowsinger watching you with careful consideration, his eyes faintly glowing like the eyes of a cat. He raised one gloved hand up at you in a wave, a solitary gesture as the rest of his companions and Helion walked towards the stairs that led up to your apartment entrance. 

He saw your mouth open in a shocked oh and couldn’t help the faintest smile gracing his lips as you disappeared from view.

“Oh shit.” You sprang up from your seat, eyes madly racing over the contents of your apartment. You were in the middle of a research project on magical signatures and your living space reflected the madness in your mind. Books lay open on the floor, on the desk, on the coffee table surrounded by carefully documented notes and half-scribbled ideas in equal measure. You wouldn’t be able to clean it up in time and, quite frankly, you had no interest in disrupting the chaotic organization. Did you really care about impressing the Night Court and Helion? 

The terrifying answer was, yes.

The dining room. 

It rarely saw use since you were disinclined to receive guests, and had more recently been repurposed to house stacks of romance novels… best not to let anyone see those… 

In the five minutes it took for Helion and the members of the Inner Circle to climb up the dozen flights of stairs, and knock on your door, you’d successfully managed to hide all the smutty romance books in your bedroom, throw a table cloth and candle on top of the dining table, put away the dried dishes that had been displaced on the kitchen countertops, and set a kettle on the stove. Was there anything more that could be done? 

Helion smiled brightly when you made your appearance, keeping the door slightly ajar to keep the worst of the living room out of sight. Perhaps this would be a short visit and they wouldn’t even ask to come inside.

“Y/n!” Helion said with a grin, “I present to you the Inner Circle of the Night Court.” He gestured with a grand flourish to some of the most beautiful fae you’d ever had the honor of witnessing.

“Some of us at least.” The High Lord’s voice was liquid honey and filled with enough charisma to seduce a nun.

“The most important ones.” The Lord of Bloodshed said with a boyish grin. The faint scar on his cheek pulled back with his smile.

“I’ll let Nesta know you said that.” The High Lady had swapped out her dress for a more simple pair of black slacks and a billowing shirt that cinched in at the waist, flowing over her body like smoke on water. 

“Wait, no. Feyre, I was only joking. Feyre-” 

She laughed, tipping her head back while her husband and mate looked on with a tenderness in his eyes you hadn’t expected to see. It wasn’t the love that shocked you so much as the casualness of it. High Lords and Lady’s - from the limited experience you had reading about them in books - were either unreadable or such outrageous flirts they looked ready to jump into the bones of anything that could stand upright or lay down for long enough. Both methods were appropriate to hide their true feelings, but Rhysand and Feyre seemed to take another approach entirely. 

Helion coughed when you made no move to introduce yourself, still shell-shocked at the caliber of guests currently at your door, “And to the Inner Circle of the Night Court, I present Y/n Y/l/n. My dear friend and one of the most talented researchers I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.” 

“We’ve heard so much about you.” Feyre said, moving forward on instinct to embrace you. She stopped immediately when she saw you flinch back, but recovered quickly, smiling brightly, “My name is Feyre, and this is my mate Rhysand,” The High Lord tipped an imaginary hat, “And his brothers, Cassian and Azriel.” 

“It’s an honor to meet you.” You said politely.

“The honor is all ours.” Rhysand said. He held Feyre closer to his side, one hand ghosting close to her stomach in memory of the child that had grown there not even two years ago. “Helion told us everything you did. Our daughter is alive and well thanks to you, as is my mate.” 

You blinked in surprise. You didn’t know Helion had told them about that. 

“Oh um, it was a joint effort. My High Lord is too kind.” You said with a respectful dip of your head and all at once your manners flooded into your brain again, “Please, come in.” 

You sheepishly opened the door further, allowing the two High Lords and High Lady to grace your apartment. The Illyrians crossed the threshold last. Muscular, leathery wings rippled with power and prestige and it was incredible they managed to stay upright, let alone keep them from dragging on the floor. 

You made a mental note to revisit some old anatomy texts on winged fae. 

“I um,” You hurried to the kitchen, hearing the kettle start to screech, “I apologize. I wasn’t prepared for guests.” The screaming stopped and you remembered that you didn’t have any matching tea sets. 

You reached into the cupboards, face blushing at the assortment of novelty mugs you’d acquired over the years. Hardly fit for a children’s tea party let alone some of the most powerful fae to have ever existed. 

“There will be no apologies from you, tonight, my dear.” Helion said with a charming smile, “Not after we’ve barged into your home uninvited and taken over your dining table.”

From over the island you saw that Helion had already settled down at the table, the others following suit. Everyone except for the Shadowsinger. 

He lingered by the kitchen archway, keeping a respectful distance as you poured boiling water into the teapot over a mixture of chrysanthemum and rosehip. 

“Would you like any help?” He gestured to the tray now loaded with the teapot, cups, and a platter of biscuits that shook in your hands. 

“Oh,” You stared at his outstretched hand, soft black leather molded over graceful fingers. “No, that’s alright. I can do it. But thank you for offering.” You stood face to face with him, silently begging him with your eyes to move to the table with the others so you wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of touching him.

His hand quickly dropped to his side, then slid behind his back. You caught the flash of hurt in his eyes before he masked it. 

“There are some cookies in the living room!” You said a little too loudly, “On top of the coffee table. If-if you wouldn’t mind bringing those-” The Shadowsinger was already gone on his mission and you breathed a sigh of relief. 

There were more books on the floor than swords on a battlefield. Azriel stepped over them gently, careful not to disturb the precarious arrangement. Books on anatomy, microbiology, human medicine, and magical theory flared outward, tracing the path of Y/n’s mind. Azriel walked it with wonder at the brilliance hidden within the midnight thoughts that had been spilled on paper, before being organized later on with a loving hand. Because that’s what this all spelled out to him - some chaotic, maddening love. He was almost jealous not to be on the receiving end of it… almost.

He saw the platter on the table, but ignored it for the pile of books by the windowsill. These ones were different from the rest. Older and more worn. The bindings were cracked and flexible after being read hundreds of times. He could even trace the faint outlines of your fingers on the leather bindings where natural oils had eaten away at the dye. 

He read over the titles and committed them to memory for no other reason than the fact that he liked things that had been well loved. 

“I made a mistake don’t-” 

Azriel straightened up, color washing over his cheeks as he turned to face you in a sea of paper and leather. 

Without thinking, he’d fallen into old habits of poking through people’s belongings. There was a reason Rhysand had made him Spymaster of the Night Court after all. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

“Did you eat a cookie?” You blurted out in a panic. 

“No, no I didn’t.” 

Your shoulders dropped in relief, one hand brushing back your hair. Azriel caught sight of your ink stained fingertips, and the faint mark they left on your temple. 

“Oh thank the Mother.” You muttered under your breath, stealing a glance over your shoulder to the dining room where Helion was playing host in your stead and doing a far better job than you would have been capable of.

“Are they poisoned?” Azriel asked, but the joke fell flat upon seeing the horror in your face.

“No! No, that's not why-I should explain myself better. I would never dare try and poison you. Or anyone for that matter!” You scrunched your eyes shut, face burning brighter than the sun at noon.

I’m a fool. I’m making a fool of myself. He’s going to think I’m an absolute idiot. And right after Helion called me a gifted researcher. What a fucking lie.

Azriel, the blessing in disguise that he was, gave you a moment to collect yourself, pretending to find more interest in a volume on snake venom that was laid open on the ottoman. 

“A friend baked those for me.” You finally said. 

Azriel nodded, a faint smile gracing his face and it caught you off guard. He was beautiful, there was no doubting it so long as you had eyes. What had surprised you was the faint slivers of warmth behind the facade of the cold, brooding Shadowsinger. It was… surprisingly comforting to be standing in a room with him, just the two of you. It was certainly better than the party you’d unceremoniously winnowed out of earlier that day.

“I would never hold it against you if you wanted to save those for yourself.”

Your lips twisted in disgust, “Oh gods no, Cherp is a terrible cook.”

“Cherp?”

“He’s another Librarian I know.” Probably the closest thing to a friend I have. But you weren’t about to tell the Shadowsinger that. “He specializes in chemistry and food history.”

“He’s a food historian?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he’s a terrible cook?” The Shadowsinger tilted his head to the side. 

The corner of your mouth tipped up, “The worst.”

“How is that possible?”

You gave it a thought, eyes darting around the walls like the answer was hidden behind paint, “Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, um,” You weren’t sure what to call him.

“Azriel. Call me, Azriel.”

“Azriel.” You said, testing out the shape of his name. You liked it.

“Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, Azriel?”

He cocked his head to the side, “I do not.”

“Thousands, Azriel. Thousands. If I told you to bake a cake with an egg, would you know I meant a chicken egg?” This time you didn’t wait for an answer, “Because you’d be surprised how quickly facts we consider ‘common knowledge’ disappear. Will people know we meant chicken eggs 1 million years from now? Perhaps not! All this to say that when Cherp follows recipes, he usually doesn’t have the knowledge to make it correctly and they turn out bland at best, inedible and poisonous at worst.” 

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed, prompting you to explain further, “He once spent ten years researching the evolution of average spoon sizes because so many of his recipes were measured in spoonfuls.”

Azriel smirked, “Is this what you academics get yourselves so worried about?”

You couldn’t tell if he was ridiculing you or not, but the sincerity in his hazel eyes said he wasn’t. “Well we...among other things, yes, I suppose that is something we concern ourselves with…” 

“Y/n!” Helion called from the other room, “Stop romancing the Shadowsinger and join us at the table. It’s a futile effort. I’ve been trying for centuries.” 

Your face turned a brighter shade of red as you watched Azriel pick his way through the empty spots on the floor. You pressed yourself against the wall to let him pass, a fact that didn’t escape his notice. And when he took a seat at the table, you ignored the unoccupied seat next to him, preferring to stand behind the island like a woodland creature ready to dive into their den at a moment’s notice. 

His lips flattened. He’d hoped to make you more comfortable around him after the disastrous events at the party, going so far as to hide the shadows that were clamoring for release. He should’ve known better than to assume one conversation about the historical accuracy of egg recipes would make that discomfort go away.  

From your island you tossed pleasantries back and forth like it was a game. But you couldn’t help the stiffness in your posture, the hesitation in your voice when they asked you about your life.

“I’m a Librarian.” You’d first answered, as if it were all that needed to be said. But they pressed onwards, tried to make you laugh. Cassian, especially, liked to poke fun, and despite your best efforts, you laughed. 

“All these libraries would make Nesta go feral. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself.”

“What kind of books does she like to read?” You asked, refilling the kettle as the cloudy sky outside darkened into a rich purple-black.

Cassian coughed, face turning red, “Romance.” He answered simply.

“Smutty romance.” The High Lord said, punching Cassian in the arm. His face turned redder.

“Lucky you,” Helion said with a wink that had Feyre bursting out into laughter. It was no secret that Helion had added Nesta onto his list of fae he’d one day like to have in his bed.

“There is an athenaeum that specializes in romance, and there’s no shortage of those sorts of novels… if you’re interested.” You said, hiding your face behind a sip of tea. 

“And how would you know about that?” Feyre asked teasingly. 

“I… am a Librarian. I know-I know things.” You sputtered unconvincingly. “I went once. Purely for research purposes.” 

Azriel gave her a look, a look that said he somehow knew of the eight raunchy books that graced your bedside table and had been well-read indeed.

As the conversation evolved to less embarrassing topics, you were struck by the fact that you were actually enjoying yourself. It was a far cry from the parties that you’d previously been invited to. There was an ease to the Inner Circle. A familial love that flowed off them as easy as water off a whetstone. It was something you hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Azriel noticed when you fell silent, your mind carried away to more sobering thoughts than Cassian’s most recent travels to the Human Lands. Feyre noticed as well and made her surprise at the time look natural and unscripted.

“Day Court members are early to bed and early to rise aren’t you? I’m sorry we’ve taken up so much of your time.” She said, gently pulling Rhysand up with her as she stood. 

“No, not at all. Thank you for coming. I-I hope your daughter is doing well.” Was that an appropriate thing to say? Perhaps it was too threatening to comment on the wellbeing of a High Lord and High Lady’s child. But Feyre didn’t find any fault with that, a glassy look sliding over her eyes as Mor let Feyre into her mind so she could look at little Velaria dozing away in her aunt’s arms back home.

“She’s getting to be more and more of a handful everyday.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?” Cassian chimed in, throwing Rhysand a look as they collected their coats and slowly made their way over to the front door.

Rhysand threw his hand to his chest in indignation, “I was practically an angel.” 

Cassian snorted, “More like the devil.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes, shuffling the pair out the door into the still night. 

Azriel once again lingered behind, the last to leave behind Helion. He stepped out into the night-chilled air, the edges of him disappearing like the darkness had come to reclaim him. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/n, the Librarian.” He said, dipping into a shallow bow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Azriel…the Shadowsinger.” 

He smiled shyly, then froze, the smile slipping off his face into a look of shock. You glanced over your shoulder, missing the explosion of shadows that spilled out from him. 

You leapt back upon feeling their cool touch wrapping around you. There was a curiosity to the way they wound themselves through your hair and got tangled up in the folds of your dress. But thankfully, they carried no memories with them. No feelings but a faint relief and comfort that washed over you and gave you back your breath. For the first time in years you were experiencing a touch that you could handle. A touch that was stillness and peace.

“Is everything alright?” You finally looked back at Azriel, his eyes blown open and panicked.

He was not a man of many words. Never had been, never would be. But he wished he could speak everything on his mind. 

You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re the one I’ve been waiting over 500 hundred years for. 

But when he saw the concern in your eyes, the gentle tilt of your head that exposed the curve of your neck, he knew it wasn’t the time.

“I-I have to go.” 

This time it was his turn to disappear. He swallowed his words, forced down the bond that now burned in his chest with the light of a thousand suns, and fled past the shocked faces of his family members before shooting off into the night sky.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Does this batboy deserve a nerdy mate to tease and have fun with? Yes. I will take no criticism (just kidding if you have thoughts about how my writing is, let me know, just be kind and respectful about it).

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @rosebunnysblog @icey--stars @laceandsuch @coralseacourt @cherryinsalemverse @flowerprincezz @valeridarkness @annaaaaa88 @deeshag @bluesiphonsbaby @allyjoe755 @sidthedollface2 2@auggiesolovey @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @transparentmoonglitter @ang-taylorsversion @ssmay123 @just-m-2 @sevikas-whore @lalaluch @svtwonwoow @user707sthings @cherryinsalemverse @evylynny @decrepit-bees-knees @eleganttravelercloud @ghostwritermia @smitty-werbenjagermenjenson @fussel9913 @st0rmyt

[lucyandalexiafan]

Could you write something where Alexia is obsessed with the reader boobs please

Movie night | Alexia Putellas x reader

I wrote this few days ago and I find now the time to post it🫠. I don't know if you wanted a more smut work, but the result was something really fluff and cute; I don't know why but it came out so sweet, even though the initial idea was something more sexual. Maybe it's because of all the tweets and TikToks that make me watch thousand times the interview she did for the top 11 and I keep hearing 'thank you' and 'Are you a Manchester City fan', which make her seem so cute; or maybe because I'm feeling so single ahah.

Anyway, I'm sorry if you wanted something more smut and less cute, and thank you for the request!

Do not copy, translate or claim my works and fics as your own; if I find out I will report them and block you. Instead, write to me, my directs are always open, and ask me if you can publish your work/fic inspired by one of mine. However, you can reblog them!

I bite my lip trying to hold back a moan.

Ale's hands on my breasts, her fingers caressing and playing with my nipples.

It had all started very innocently.

Since this morning Ale had been very clingy, very physical.

As soon as the alarm went off she pulled me tighter into her embrace, her hands squeezing my chest, muttering jokingly about how 'I don't love her enough' as I wanted to get up, then kissing my neck just below my hairline every time I stayed a few minutes longer in bed with her.

After almost being arrived late at the training, she tried to be paired with me during both the gym and athletic training, finding every time an excuse to touch me.

Her hands had always been on my thigh, arm or hand at lunch.

It was as if she had an extreme need for physical contact, to touch me, but not necessarily sexually.

On the way home we stopped at the restaurant near our house, my favorite Chinese restaurant, and Ale took there our takeaway dinner that she had ordered while she was waiting for me at the end of the second training session. She composed it with my favorite dishes.

We went into our apartment and had dinner on the sofa laughing in front of a stupid American talk show (even though she seemed to understand one word in ten and only laughed when I laughed).

Once we ended our dinner, Ale asked me to watch a film, one of my favorite dark academia films, and I agreed; so, she helped me to clean the table in front of the sofa and the dishes and we lay down on the sofa.

After a few minutes from the start, she lay between my legs, her head on my chest and her hands at her sides. The position itself wasn't uncomfortable, my back was resting against the couch and my head was on a pillow turned towards the television, my hands caressing her back.

I felt her body relax second by second, the tension from the training slowly flowing out of her body. Every now and then she let out a few moans or gasps, but nothing overly sexual.

About a quarter of the way through the movie, she had moved a little lower, her navel touching my inner thigh, her right temple against my sternum; her hands had started to caress my torso under my shirt, to lightly scratch my hips.

The contact had given me shivers, her cold fingers tracing light circles with her nails.

“I thought you wanted to see the movie amor,” I say, chuckling.

She moans into my chest, her hands gripping the edges of my shirt.

I lift her torso, allowing her to push it over my breasts, braless.

Ale she starts kissing my skin, leaving endless little kisses on my boobs, she draws wet paths that connect one nipple to the other.

Her fingers squeeze my breast in a light grip, playing with my nipples.

"What happened Ale? - she looks at me confused - You are so physical"

"Since when I can be more physical with you? - she asks smiling - I love your boobs so much amor" she says assorted while she squeezes them with her hands.

I gasp, seeking contact with her, and grip her hair between my fingers.

My neck arches back when she bites my right nipple.

She grins against my sternum.

She runs her nipples between her fingers.

"Your boobs are so sensitive - she gasps and then kisses a nipple - That's one of the reasons why I love them… I just need to touch your nipples and you're soaked for me" she whispers absorbedly while she kisses them.

"Only for you, amor - I moan - only for you"

Ale smiles satisfied.

She bends down and kisses a patch of skin just below her nipple. She sucks it, leaving a clear purple mark on me, releasing it with a dull sound.

"When you're really horny you can have an orgasm just by me playing with your nipples - she bites my right one, passing it between her teeth and making me moan- It's never happened to me before, but it's so… so-"

I gasp when her fingers squeeze a nipple tighter, too tight.

My hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, not knowing if I want to stop her or ask her to do it again. Ale bends down to kiss the fingers surrounding her wrist, leaving small sweet kisses on my skin while she whispers to me that she's sorry.

I arch my back towards her asking her to touch me, to keep touching me.

“They're so soft – she whispers as she leaves a hickey on my other tit – and just the right size for my hands.”

I bite her lip looking at her.

She raises an eyebrow.

"Are you saying they are big? - She looks at me confused - Alexia, I've never had a girlfriend with bigger hands and longer fingers than yours"

She opens her mouth wide in offense, her eyebrows raised dangerously, while the sides of her mouth turn up in a smile.

Then, suddenly, she lowers herself towards my breast, biting it.

I groan in surprise.

It's not a painful bite, but it will leave a mark.

She smiles satisfied as she watches it.

"Looking at how you ask me to fuck you with my long fingers I wouldn't say it bothers you" she replies in a mock offended tone.

The tongue touching the edges of the bite.

I turn my head towards the couch, trying to avoid her gaze, my embarrassment clear from the color of my cheeks.

"Ale…" I gasp, not knowing exactly what he wants.

"Keep watching the movie, amor" she tells me, her voice betraying a trace of excitement, before resting her head on my sternum.

Her hand continues to play with my breast, the one towards the television, playing with the nipple, running it between his fingers, pulling it towards her.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

How To Adapt To Fire (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Fireman!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Journalist!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.4k

WARNINGS: Fire(s), intended harm, mentions of death, murder, crime, corruption, arsonist mystery plot, pining, protective!Johnny, flirting, intense banter, etc.

A/N: This is based off of US Firemen just because that's what I'm most familiar with!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was an arsonist in the city, and you were going to catch them.

Getting out of your car, you slap the door closed behind you and rush out, heels clicking over the concrete as the roaring flames continue violently—orange and red going high into the air, all centered around an abandoned warehouse building. Through the darkness of night, everything was lit up like hell.

Your satchel hits against your thigh one fast step at a time, arms pumping as your eyes find the flashing lights beyond the glare, squinting. 

“MacTavish!” You shout, jogging to the line of yellow tape and slipping under it through a small crowd of locals who call to you sharply. Voices going in one ear and out the other, you only search for that familiar helmeted head and the Scottish accent that accompanies it.

“What is she doing?”

“How come she gets to go closer!?”

“Stop that woman!” 

Your white blouse does little to push back the gusts of molten heat on the roaring airwaves, and neither do your dress pants. You push on with stubborn righteousness, even as the mulling firefighters groan under their breaths when they catch sight of you, all pausing in their various duties and panic of grabbing the hoses and getting the water going. 

The iconic red trucks sit stationary, but the man beside one of the three vehicles has his head nearly snapped off when he darts it over to you in a fast instant. 

“MacTavish!” You call out again, locking onto wide blue eyes that blink rapidly at your appearance. 

An under-the-breath curse is leveled out, heard in between shouts and the spray of water, droplets hitting your hard face.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus. Not again.” Heavy boots jog over, tan and yellow uniform loose beside the places where the straps of his gear attach various items and tools to his body. “What in the hell are you doin’ here, Pencils?” 

“My job,” you call stiffly, your finger going out to tap at the small plastic card attached to your blouse. 

‘PRESS PASS’

“So be a good informant and tell me how much damage this is going to cause,” your hand is already inside of your satchel, flicking on a hand-held recorder, as your eyes scan about. “The fire was bigger here,” you begin without wasting any time, and the firefighter in front of you sighs in exasperation, clenching his jaw. “Was it because this place was abandoned unlike the last four scenes, or because there was a different accelerant used.” 

“I’ve told you, Hen,” MacTavish’s hand moves out in appeasement gestures, glancing at the fire and the rest of the teams that rush to get the rest of the hoses going. “Ya can’t be here when the fucking fire is still ongoing. Do you want to get burnt to a damn crisp?”

“I need answers,” you level, gaze darting back to stare into cerulean blues.

John MacTavish, who everyone just calls Johnny or Soap, for some reason, had been a familiar face to you for upwards of two months. In that time, there had been an alarming amount of suspected arson cases—twelve, counting this one. There was an unprecedented spark-up, most taking place in older neighborhoods and abandoned buildings barring the previous four, of which two people had been seriously injured, and three had died. 

But now, it was back to out-of-the-way properties, and you wanted to know why. You needed to. 

Such an escalation just to suddenly drop back down to no casualties? It didn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for your career as a journalist, then it was for your morbid curiosity of which Johnny was intently familiar with.

 The Scot clenches his jaw, dark eyebrows under his helmet stuck into a line. Around him, the others were getting the blaze under control the best they could—there was no need to go inside to search for anyone and all that had to be done was keep the fire from spreading. So, he had no trouble trying to get you to see sense yet again.

“Do you ever give it a rest,” he asks gruffly, accent thick. “Christ, I’ll be gray before you learn to stop sticking your hands where they don’t belong.” 

“You’re not my mother, MacTavish,” you speak, lowering the recorder. “Do you have anything for me?”

Johnny moves up a hand and runs it over his face, groaning. A smirk flickers to your lips. 

“You’re worse than a fly,” he breathes, unimpressed eyes opening to stick to you. “I can’t say much right now, most of it is left for forensics. Just from the blaze alone,” he glances over, taking it in. “I’d make a guess that an accelerant was used. Especially with how fast it popped up and the intensity of it. I’d have to get the dogs down here for a sniff, but it’s likely.”

“Do you think it’s—”

“Connected?” Johnny interrupts, lips twitching at the annotated gimmer in your eye. “Aye. This was man-made. There was nothing here that could start a blaze like this.” 

You click the recorder’s button and move back with a sigh. 

“Lovely.” 

The Scot raises a slow brow, looking you up and down, confused. “That’s it?”

“It’s all you can give me right now,” you mutter, sliding a look at him as your eyes squint at the rabid flames. Pieces of screeching metal fall into a heap, a loud boom of spreading smoke and lifeless coughing of material in the air. 

“Fucking hell,” you murmur to yourself. “This had to be one of the biggest ones so far.”

It was getting held back from the surrounding buildings—slowly but surely in the morning, the entire place would be a smoldering pile of ash and metal, only more questions left behind. 

Johnny sets his hands on the collar of his gear, sighing. “Won’t be the deadliest, though, will it? I’m just glad there won’t be bodies to drag out.”

You send a side-eye his way, feet shuffling. “That, I can agree with. But the pattern doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Well, sorry, Hen, but you’ll catch me a bit more concerned about the potential next targets than the pattern.” He grunts, rolling his shoulders. “We need to catch this prick. Soon. Resources are stretched thin.”

“It’s like the guy completely switched his M.O.,” you ignore him, eyes narrowing. “Abandoned buildings, then to taking people's lives, then right back to where he started? That doesn’t happen overnight.”

Johnny grunts. “‘Cept here.”  

You sigh, tapping your fingers against your bag. The man at your side looks over, shrugging as he takes in the firmness of your expression—the same that he usually wears to any scene he gets called to. Determination. 

“I’ll get the report to you soon as I get it,” Johnny breathes, tilting his head. “Figured with all of your connections, you’ll have a better chance at piecing it all together.” 

“Thank you,” you nod. The man hums. 

“Now, get the hell out of here, yeah? Makin’ me nervous. Tape’s there for a reason Dearie.”

Scoffing, you toss up a hand and shake your head. “I live to make people nervous, MacTavish. You don’t help bust criminals and not make people nervous.” 

You begin backing back up, studying the land one more time. Johnny’s lips are thin, and he shifts his legs to stare after you. 

“Just be careful,” he calls, fingers tightening at his collar, strong jaw moving as he fixes it. His heart stutters in its course. “Don’t stick your neck where it doesn’t belong, Hen.”

You wave a hand, and then you’re off again, disappearing into the crowd with flames rising high behind you. 

The fireman watches tightly, licking his lips before shouting, “I’m serious!”

—

Your list of enemies was seemingly endless. 

Drug busts, criminal enterprises, hitmen—there was no shortage of stories you’d broken and your name being printed into the papers; you weren’t at all unknown to the city or the various police or fire stations. Many described you as a public nuisance, but…you were viewed with a modicum of respect as well—even if it was kept under breath. 

Yet, where there was respect, there was also the less savory emotion of contempt from the related individuals of those whom you’d landed into the eyes of the law and behind bars.

Perhaps you’d taken this arsonist for a disorganized fool…but you were about to get a very violent reality shift. 

“This is the report?” You ask, Johnny sipping from his coffee cup as you both sit in the park three days later, the bench stiff as your fingers play over the manila folder you’d been passed. 

“The public one.” Soap huffs when you slide him a look, his finger pointing at you as he holds his drink. “What? Pencils, I don’t care who you think you are, I’m not about to risk my career for something I can just tell you first-hand.”

You sigh, muttering before your hand pushes open the papers. “Go on, then.” 

Johnny smugly smirks, chuckling as his free hand goes up to fix the backward ballcap on his head. Under the tight hold of his athletic shirt, gray sweatpants sharply contract your put-together and professional appearance—like night and day. He still smells of smoke and metal. 

“You’re bein’ more snappy than usual. Publisher still on your arse, Bonnie?”

“Telling me I need to drop this goose chase,” you grumble, scoffing, eyes skimming down the printed words ahead of you. “As if.”

“Ah, he’ll come round,” Johnny’s lips flicker, flesh crinkling under that stubble of his. An overgrown mohawk leaks from the sides of his hat. “C’mon, tell me what ya need. I’ve got it all up here,” he goes to tap his head, taking another gulp of his coffee. 

The morning air is cold all around you, and people pass pushing strollers or jogging—Saturday just beginning to spread over minds and wake those who’ve slept in. Johnny and you weren’t quite like that. 

“Our theory about the accelerant?”

“My theory,” Soap grumbles but nods. “Gasoline. Dogs found traces all over—there was a damn lot.” 

You tilt your head, glancing at him. “Fits the profile from the other cases except the ones involving casualties.” Your lips pull into a frown, Johnny’s face going more serious. “Weren’t those all started with matches to the curtains in the living rooms?”

“Aye,” Johnny tips his chin to you. “Couldn’t figure that out until—”

“Until you found the matchbox out in the lawn at one of the crime scenes, plus the busted locks on the front doors. All exactly the same.”

The fireman grunts, lips flickering as his face goes a bit red. “Know my job better than I do.” 

You pause, a small heat coming to your cheeks, eyes pausing in their search for new information. “I’m not the one who willingly goes into burning buildings, give yourself more credit.”

Johnny leans closer, chuckling. “Was that a compliment, Pencils?”

“No,” you slide out. 

He hums a sound of amusement, moving back as his form slouches into the bench. A bird darts past overhead, chirping. “Goin’ soft on me. ‘Bout time—I've been waiting.” 

You roll your eyes heavily, closing the manila folder and shifting it into your satchel. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” You face Soap head-on, taking in the deep blue of his eyes and the tease hidden in them. “The station? Home?” Your brow raises. “Animal shelter—I heard they take in strays.”

“Ah,” Johnny flinches, hand raising to his chest as he feigns hurt. “This how you thank your favorite public servant?” 

“You’ll live,” you grumble, standing and flattening out your long black coat. “Come on. Seeing as you’re not entirely lost to me, I’m getting breakfast today.”

Johnny’s beaming grin makes your lips pull in a low smile.

“And just like that,” he chuckles, standing up so that his boots hit the ground and his hand falls into his pocket. The empty cup in his hand is tossed into the trash. “I’m a picture-perfect specimen. Not that I wasn’t already, eh?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you breathe, voice exasperated even as your smile breeds along the lines of your face. 

The both of you take off side by side, legs mirroring the others’ pace one slow movement at a time. Throughout your meetings for information, Johnny and yourself have grown close to one another—Violet’s Dinner one of the many places that was the unfortunate hub for your intel swapping. However, it was only unfortunate for the patrons, not you.

Soap gave what he knows about the fires and the ways they were started, and you gave over potential next targets based on whatever you can piece together from your police informants as well as others. 

You hum as you both walk the trail, slowly weaving away from the bench and down to the gated entrance of the park, slipping past the black iron as John holds it open for you. 

“Besides the ol’ fire-freak, then,” Johnny begins, smiling over at you as he itches at his neck, large arm reaching up and flexing. “Any other big breaks?”

Head turning his way, you speak easily. “In which article—the multi-generational money laundering bust at Warren’s Electrical or the murders near Fifth Ave? Or even the drug smuggling near the docks?” 

Blue eyes blink. “...Eh…any of ‘em?”

You snort, turning back to the sidewalk and shrugging. 

“You asked.” You slyly begin, before getting into the mental paper that you still had to type and send into editing. “Roy Laurence committed the murders near Fifth Avenue—my informant with the SWAT team says he was arrested and booked within an hour of the green light. DNA and fingerprints found at the scene of the last victim.” You raise a hand. “Now, I just have to try and get a spot in the courtroom when a trial date is released.”

“Well,” Johnny breathes, sending you a veiled look after a moment. “Don’t mean to brag, Pencils, but I got to help an old lady cross the street yesterday.”

You laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as Soap chuckles. The sidewalk continues, men and women passing at their slow paces as cars zip past; the fireman taking the chivalrous stance of the person beside the street unconsciously.

“And I’m sure she was very pleased, MacTavish,” you push out, shifting closer to him as an individual passes by, bumping your arm into his. 

“Aye, she was,” the man huffs proudly, puffing his chest. “Called me a handsome bloke and kissed my cheek. Blushed a bit.”

“Playboy,” you tease, eyes narrowed over at him. “Cheating on the mutts back at the station?”

Johnny gasps, putting on a serious face. “Don’t you call Mr. Spots a mutt, Dearie—that’s too far.”

“Christ,” you breathe, and an arm settles over your shoulders, shaking you a bit and squeezing your flesh before chuckles follow. 

Trying not to sink into the feeling of heat and the promise of fire, you live in this moment of nearly something. There was the close sensation of borderline affection—just brushing the sense of care and…pining. 

You knew the Scot was interested in you, or, at the very least, knew he had some modicum of attraction to you. Hell, the way he’d flirted with you when you’d propositioned him to be your link to the fire department was nearly laughable even today. All smirks and glinting eyes.

John was funny, no one was denying it. 

There was that firm push and pull between the two of you, a string attached to your wrists that wouldn’t snap—that had seemingly only grown stronger over the months of mystery. But the arsonist took precedence. 

Play can only come after work, and you were the picture of professionalism. Or maybe just stubbornness.

“The regular?” Johnny asks, letting you go as he pushes open the front door of Violet’s with his shoulder, keeping it there as you move inside and nod. 

“Sure. Same seats?” 

The fireman smirks. “Always.” 

You smile, walking off to the corner booth as John goes up to the front, waving down the familiar face of the waitress to let her know that the both of you are here. The two exchange pleasantries as you sigh and lean back into the red-cushioned seats, letting your satchel drop near your feet. Sending a text to your editor, you tell him that you’ll have an article written up about one of your ongoing fixations by Monday.

Johnny’s broad shadow soon graces you once more, carrying a plate of fresh bread with butter on it. 

“Lady’s a fuckin’ lifesaver,” he breathes. “Gave us free bread today.”

Your eyes dart over to Tammy, the waitress, who winks at you before disappearing to help another customer. Hiding the twitch of your lips, you raise a brow at John. 

“Don’t you usually get pancakes, too? Your stomach will explode,” you huff. 

“Ah,” his face scrunches in dismissal. “There’s always room for fresh bread.”

His large fingers are already around the body of a knife, slathering gooey butter on a steaming piece of the carb, chomping down and swallowing before he speaks—reaching for another.

 “So, spill it on me.”

Your fingers reach out, grasping some bread and bringing it to your lips. You chew, swallow, and ease out, “I think there are two arsonists.” 

Johnny pauses, wide eyes stuck on you as he stops his hand from bringing up the next piece of food. He blinks, his face tightens as he wonders over the information that you have, and then the groans out a long, “Fucking hell… one who’s doing it for kicks, the other who’s settling scores.”

“Precisely,” you shrug. “It explains the complete break in character, and we have enough fires to show that not only is the way the flames started different, but for different reasons as well. One wants to kill, the other can’t control it. Impulse.” 

“Makes sense,” Johnny grumbles, amused mood for the moment dropping to one of flashing anger. He taps his knuckles slowly on the table, thinking. “You tell the police this theory?”

“Nah,” you shake your head as your legs shift along the seat. “You know how the chief gets about me—I need to do some of my own leg-work. Get more evidence.”

The Fireman is already shaking his head with a chuckle that has no ounce of tease or jest in it. “Nah ah, no fuckin’ way am I letting you get involved with two arsonists—certainly not one that kills people, Hen.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking permission,” you smirk as your breakfast plates are brought over. Johnny’s is full of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and you, your regular. You thank Tammy with a nod and take a sip of your small drink. “There has to be a connection between the victims. I’ve written about them before, my notes have the answers, I’m sure. I need to focus on one at a time—”

“Bonnie—”

“A possible Revenge-Motivated Arsonist is a far bigger threat than one that only has an impulse to light fires and not harm others. I’ll leave the ladder to you—”

A hand grabs at your own, grasping it firmly. Head snapping up to the square jaw ahead of you, which is tight, the stubble moving the scar along his chin one frown line at a time, you pause your quick rant. Face steadily heating as callouses run along your flesh like un-cut granite, your heart stutters.

“You’ll do nothing without me.” Johnny’s expression leaves no room for discussion. 

Mouth slightly parted, your eyelids blink before a squeeze is leveled out on your hand, and the Fireman shifts back. Your eyes follow, stuck on how his shirt hugs his large biceps and the gentleness of how he held you—how he always held you. 

Focus.

“You’re not getting dragged into this,” you chuckle, tilting your head seriously. “It could cost you your job.”

Johnny shrugs. “Only if I’m caught. If you're half as stubborn, as I already know you to be, Pencils,” he sighs, low smile coming to his lips. “Then I know you’ll be needing my level head.” Cobalt eyes twinkle.

You stare at him, blinking. Ignoring that skip in your pulse. As hard as you would like to try, you can’t say no to that face of his—that open expectation and firm choice.

“As level as a steep decline,” your grumble meets Soap’s ears, and the man’s face twists with an ingrained amusement that breeds the closer you are to him. It was easy to bounce jokes with you—like a pair of birds, squawking and puffing feathers, only stopping at strange intervals to preen one another before the loud chatter started anew. 

“And stop it with the dumb nickname already,” you glare. “It happened once.”

John drags his plate closer, picking up a piece of bacon and taking a bite out of it. “It isn’t every day you see a bonnie Hen with seven pencils in her breast pocket, is it? Hell of a first meeting with that serious face of yours and the sight of fabric practically ripping open.”

“I was in a rush,” your face burns, jaw rotating. “At least I was prepared, MacTavish.”

“Well, who’s sayin’ I wasn’t prepared?”

“Me!” Your fingers grab at your fork, pointing it at him. “You were practically covered head-to-toe in ashes!”

Red cheeks on his part, but always that adorning sheen to his expression.

“I was just in from a damn fire!”

Breakfast went as it usually did—good food and better company—but there was a deeper level to it now; a sharp edge of purpose. By the time the both of you were done, you’d already made up your mind to make it back to your apartment and gather the intel that you had. Find a starting point.

But, as mysteries like these always go, the good times came to a rapid cliff-drop. Johnny was muttering about his work schedule back on the sidewalk when he got the call. 

Phone to ear, you’d seen his face tighten—feet going completely still as you have to halt and look back at him, confused. A breeze goes by on the air, and your nose twitches to a sharp tang that leaves your fingers twitching.

“What do you mean, ‘fire on third street?’” Your body locks up, and Johnny’s face becomes devoid of pigment, watching yours closely. It was a strange emotion on his face; a hard and hesitant thing all at once. He was staring, brows pulled in as your lungs seemingly went to concrete inside of your ribs.

Third street? Fire? 

Soap’s voice goes even lower. Spine even more straight. “...Stillview apartments?” 

You’re already running before you can understand the severity of the revelation—dashing as Johnny yells after you to stop. 

That was your apartment building.

“Dearie!” The fireman shouts, his boots pounding after, but you had a head start, shoving through the crowds, dodging strollers and trash cans—bags and thrown curses. “Fucking hell, stop!”

Your form darts fast, heart hammering. Already your mind is running through every possibility and explanation. How could this be happening? Why? Has one of the arsonists found you out? But even then, it could only be the one intent on murder—countless others lived in your building; this was more than intent…it was a massacre.

Fires don’t just spark at a time like this to not be called connected.

Even over the air, you could hear sirens above Johnny’s loud pleas to slow down, moving as well as he could through the rush of people. 

He’s still on the phone, barking questions and the will of his legs to take him in the direction of the department building. But you. The back of your head in his black-sided vision. 

The man knows that if he doesn’t catch you, you’ll run straight into that blaze not only for the principal but your evidence. Your cork boards and their red strings—your pictures and printed articles. Johnny knew you had them, he wasn’t an idiot. 

You were too smart for your own good.

He was nearly there—just a few more steps and he could grab the back of your jacket like some stray cat, pull you back until you were in his arms. A fireman, yes, but he’d never get used to the inferno that was you; you consumed him utterly. It was an instant feeling for him, and even with the initial flirting, the immediate latching of his attention held fast. A bird to a wire. Hopeless, he was. Johnny was afraid at how much you trapped him in your ways—your looks and your…you-ness.

And you were only making him more afraid at this very instant. 

Soap was the only person ever supposed to be walking into fire.

“Hen!” The fireman barks, sharp and visceral. But you only take the next corner faster, satchel slapping against your thigh. 

“No,” you pant, legs dashing. “No, no, no. I left everything I need for this case in my filing cabinet!” 

This is what you get for trying to be organized for once.

You smell the smoke before you see it, and feel the heavy hand on your coat collar not a moment after you lock on it.

“MacTavish!” Your angered voice moves out, but it’s all strangled away in a fast moment of the screaming of sirens and the visible fire from your tall apartment building strikes you. Watching blankly, your face falls as strong arms reel you back into a chest. 

“Fuck,” Johnny growls, eyes wide as he looks on, phone clenched tightly in one hand. His jaw writhes with tension, vision darting from one fire truck to another and the men available to help. People were doing a myriad of things—screaming, running, watching—but through it all, there was the presence of fear coupled with a static anticipation. 

Panting heavily, you watch your life’s work go up in flames, and feel the tight arms of your informant keep you close.

You learn that if you don’t adapt to this fire sooner or later, it’s going to consume you. And still, you can’t understand if you’re talking about Johnny, who murmurs quick words of comfort into your ear, or the case that just locked you in with chains of commitment and rage.

The real work had just begun as ashes fell like snow to the street; the spray of the firetruck’s water flew with sure aim. Your face hardens, and you feel that worried grip tighten, bringing you into a ramshackle hug.

You have an arsonist to catch, and not a single person would stop you now.

TAGS:

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[hunnylagoon]

Take Me to War

PT1 Friendly Fire

Streamer! Ellie Williams x reader

A writer, I think is someone who pays attention to the world. We are observers, it is in our nature to be off-putting and turn shallow things deep.

Premise: Your neighbour is becoming increasingly loud and you decide to do something about it.

PT 2 Here!

Two things I hate the most?

My neighbour and New York City.

They shared something in common, they never rest. I liked my quiet life in my small town until I was convinced that all of the greatest writers lived in the city, what a joke. I sold my virtue to move to New York and now my body burned with the shame of not belonging.

I worked as a journalist and in advertisement but it didn't fill the gaping mass that consumed me, I felt like a sellout so I quit to do freelance, and now I feel like even more of a sellout. Freelance is making me think that I hate ghostwriting more than I hate my neighbour and New York City.

It's like you do all of the work and get zero reward but I'm desperate to pay the bills and all that stuff I've been telling myself all my life 'I may never be a rich man but the rich man will never have me' well, the rich man most certainly had me. I was paid an almost criminal amount of money to pour my soul into art just for it to get stamped beneath a new name and make a gross income six times the size of what I sold it for.

I look for happiness everywhere but I do not find it. I search for it in things everyone seems to pry joy from; I go clubbing, walk in Central Park, and date around, but happiness doesn't seem to exist there for me.

I plead for it in my morning cups of tea with a spoonful of honey, the sunshine glittering in a puddle after a rainstorm, for a brief moment, it flickers in the light of my cinnamon-scented candle. The truth is I am almost comforted by my sadness and it is in my lowest moments that my creations are the most beautiful, it is like I am dead and I despise those who aren't for I enjoy the company of my silence more than anyone I have ever met.

It was my dream for my name to be above 'New York Times Best Selling Author' but instead, it is just my work beneath it and maybe that's why I'm so bitter.

Right now as I am trying to salvage the bits and pieces I was given by a washed-up pop star for her memoir my neighbour is screaming and laughing incoherently in their apartment, it makes me miss living in an actual house.

The noise usually started up when I would finish up my writing and get ready for bed, then it would go all the way through the night. The dumb fucker probably threw parties every single night; my roommate never faced an issue with this as she worked at a club and was usually working when the deafening noises would begin.

I on the other hand who lived in that apartment and worked from that apartment was always cursed to listen to the random thumps and spats of laughter that sounded all through the night. At least once a night when I'm sound asleep, I hear a bang against the wall and each time without fail, I'm brought awake with my heart thumping.

Trust me, I have retaliated.

On occasion when I'm sleep-deprived and at my absolute limit I'll bang on the walls, that only stops the noise for a minute. I've even complained to my landlord and that one week was heaven until it eased back to the clamour that I've almost grown used to.

Almost.

I still hate it.

I'm broken from my thoughts when my phone rings, it vibrates till it's almost at the edge of my desk and I feel for it; don't worry buddy, I wanna jump too. I read the caller ID and I almost wanted to gag, it was a woman from the publishing company who reached out to me and asked me to write Nicole Elliot's novel. Despite wanting to throw my phone against the wall to stop Noemi's constant checkups and get back at my neighbour while I'm at it, I answer the phone "Hey, Noemi!" I glance out the window where the winter sun has long set, leaving nothing but billboards, street lamps and neon signs to light up the New York night. Under the unforgiving lights I can barely make out the gentle snowfall.

"Hey," She draws it out and I can hear in her voice that she is smiling "I know it's a little late, just checking in, how is the draft coming along?" A loud thump sounds against my wall along with intolerant cackling "What's that?"

"Just some street noise," I dismiss "Anyways, the draft is coming along great, I'm a couple thousand words away from finishing it. I will of course send it to you and I would really love it if you could reach out to Nicole and ask for her opinion on it before I carry on with the final copy," I give a middle finger to my wall, even if my neighbour can't see me, it makes me feel a little bit more formidable "I did follow her outline, which was difficult but I think I salvaged it pretty well."

This time there is a yelp from my neighbour and what sounds like someone slamming their hands down onto a table, Noemi thankfully ignores it "You haven't been in touch with Nicole?"

My eyebrows furrow "She hasn't responded to any of my emails and she's been turning down all of our scheduled Zoom calls, so no, I have not been in touch with her."

"Weird," Noemi comments and there is a brief break of silence between us "She's been M.I.A on our end too," I could hear her scribble something down. "So can you get the draft to me by Friday?"

Two days? If I lock myself inside and don't see the sun then I totally can "Absolutely!" I do work better under a deadline.

"Great," She sounds almost relieved "We will hunt down Nicole, it would be nice to get her greenlight with this but whether or not she approves it, she has already signed off and it will be going to print."

"Okay," I fight the urge to respond with 'sick' or 'aight' because I'm an adult now and someone who is masquerading as a professional.

"Sorry, what was that you mentioned about an outline?" Noemi asks, she sounds more confused with each word "I wasn't aware Nicole made any-

She is swiftly cut off by a crash from the other side of my wall, when I say crash I mean it. It sounded like someone just bodied their car into drywall. My eyes went wide as I saw a crack splitting up my once pristine white wall. I hold my phone against my collarbone as I get up and pound my fist against the wall, giving it a kick for extra measure.

"Is everything alright?"

"Certainly," The nice thing about phone calls is that the person on the other end can't see your awkward habits or subtle outbursts (Or neighbours breaking through your shared wall). After I hit the wall, everything went silent for just a second before laughter sounded heavily from multiple people. "Noemi, thank you for sourcing me out to write this, I am really grateful for this opportunity I will send you that draft on Friday." I try to wrap up the call but she speaks up.

"Well, I've read your work and I was very impressed, I trust you will do well with this. Sorry to have called you so late-

"Thanks, have a nice night now!" I'm talking faster than I can even think, the only thing in my head is the fact that my neighbour is slowly deteriorating my wall.

"Wait-

Before Noemi can finish her sentence, I've hung up the phone. I'm leaning back in my cushy office chair, hands gripping my hair as I stare down the newly formed crack in the wall. I don't entirely like to be confrontational, even in school I hated drama, but I was beginning to think it was necessary.

I saved the progress I had made on the memoir and pushed myself up from my desk. I was clad in nothing more than a t-shirt and some plaid pants, it was my writing attire and in the moment I didn't care much to make a good first impression. It was fucking freezing the second I got up from my desk.

The moulding on my bedroom window was broken which allowed the frigid New York air to slip into my room and make me shiver with each breath. At my desk, I would usually have a throw blanket to shroud my freezing body but the moment I discarded it, I felt regret. I almost wanted to wrap myself in it to confront my neighbour but the pyjamas alone didn't help me look tough.

I did however shove my feet into some cow slippers and march right up to their apartment.

Apartment 2D stood in front of me, the pastel blue door making me angrier with every second that I looked at it. I rapped my knuckles on the wood and crossed my arms to stop me from shuddering.

My nerves built up as I slowly heard a door within the apartment shut followed by footsteps leading to the door. I would just ask them politely to quiet down and calmly work on a way to fix the shared wall that they are slowly ruining.

The door opens and staring me down is a woman. I had expected it to be a man to be truthful. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the colour teetered on the verge of auburn and brown. The woman is clad in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, it's almost parallel to my outfit.

"You need to be quiet," I say the first words that come to mind "And stop assaulting my fucking wall."

She sucks a sharp breath through her teeth "Are you apartment 3D?" She asks to which I nod "I knew you would be stopping by soon." She has this sheepish and almost sardonic smile on her face and despite the amusement she's portraying I can see sadness brewing in her green eyes like a storm.

"I don't know what you're doing in there where you are up all night, I don't even have a clue how you sleep and work with all this time to spare to be a nuisance." I say and then swiftly feel the urge to backtrack "I'm sorry, that was a little rude, but mate, I can't sleep or work when you're being loud doing whatever you do."

"Fuck," She mutters looking back into her apartment and then at me "I'm sorry, I'll keep it down."

"What about the wall?"

Her eyes look me up and down, settling on my cow slippers "I'll find someone to fix the wall."

I press my lips tight together, looking dead into her eyes, scraping my brain for something else to say. It was almost like I wanted to fight. I had expected this to be a full-out conversation that ended in yelling but god she was pretty and she was telling me just what I wanted. "Okay."

"Okay?"

I regard her once more with what I assume is a cold glare before ushering back into my apartment and slamming the door behind me, the whole time, my neighbour watches me from her doorway.

That was the first night of uninterrupted sleep I'd had in a month.

-

I woke up earlier than I would've liked when my roommate Margot came home from work at 4:56 on the dot. She made sure to slam every single door and cupboard before throwing herself onto her bed in all of her makeup and musty clothes that had to endure whatever happens at a nightclub between the hours of 8 pm and 4 am, which I can't imagine is very clean.

Still, even though I was a little ahead of schedule I fell into my morning routine. It started with ignoring my phone, this was followed by a mug of Bengal spice tea with a teaspoon of honey and a splash of cream.

Sometimes I would curl up on the couch, though it snowed last night and I loved fresh snow. Freshly fallen snow absorbed sound, it was like soundproofing for the earth. There wasn't anything like the rare peace you could find in New York. I figured I would have my morning tea on the fire escape.

My peaceful image was destroyed the second I pried my window open and crawled through I was hit with the intense smell of pot. "Shit," I mutter, instinctively wafting the scent away from my nose.

"Sorry, man," I see my neighbour leaning against the railing of the fire escape, nursing a joint. It hadn't crossed my mind that I shared a level of the fire escape with her, I had never seen her out here but now the smell of weed that drifted through the damaged moulding on my window made sense, I had always assumed it to be Margot.

"Joint for breakfast?" I ask, half-joking. A dusting of powdery snow adorns each step and railing, creating a delicate layer of white that contrasts with the industrial gray of the metal though it looks like my neighbour has pushed all of the snow off the platform.

"Nah, for dinner I guess, it helps me sleep," She's in the same outfit from last night, except her hair is now loose around her face and she threw a hoodie over her tanktop.

I furrow my eyebrows "You've been up all night?" The slight tension from the previous night has dissolved completely.

"Yeah," She says it like it was a stupid question and it partially was but I hadn't stayed up that late since New Year only because I was the designated driver and was in charge of getting everyone home safe. "I don't sleep much, that's probably why I keep you up all night."

I mean, I'd let her keep me up in other ways "Honestly, I've gotten used to it, it's almost like white noise." I try to sympathize even if it isn’t necessarily true.

"Next time I'm loud, you have every right to bang on my door and chew me out." She takes a drag from her joint and I watch as the smoke escapes her lips, her cheeks tinted pink from the cold.

"Good to know," I glance behind her at the open window and all I see are purple LED lights cutting through the darkness of her apartment. "Now I know that we share a fire escape I'll just crawl through your window and yell at you that way," I joke, taking a sip from my snoopy mug.

This makes her laugh in the slightest, she crushes what remains of her joint on the cold railing and tosses the bud into the pot of a dead plant that's covered in snow and has lived on this fire escape long before I moved in; one time I just about removed it but I felt bad, it's like I was evicting it from its rightful home "Feel free."

"Am I allowed to ask why you're up all night breaking the sound barriers?" I ask, pulling my fuzzy robe tighter around my body to fight the bitter air. "Are you the leader of a cult? Would it be better for the world in the long run if I push you right now?"

The corners of her lips curl up into a smile once again "You've figured me out, just know I've got some big plans with Koolaid," She plays into my teasing.

"It was flavour-aid, actually." I don't know why I said that.

"What the fuck is flavour-aid?"

"Koolaid basically," Silence stretches between us "So what do you actually do all night?"

"It's a bit complicated," She says, of course, it was complicated. "I work from home," She couldn't do something normal, she probably did voice acting or ran a podcast or some weird shit like that.

"Sick," Don't worry, I made myself cringe when I said that too "I work from home too."

"Yeah, you said something about work last night, are you in marketing?"

I shake my head "I'm a writer," every time I tell someone that, I feel a twinge of embarrassment. I know it wasn't a noble career like my parents had hounded me over, but it felt noble to me. I had two absent parents and was raised by a pack of wolves, I would devour as much food as fast as I could because I didn't know when I would be eating next. I was far too emotional to be around all of the narcissists who preferred their own faces to my company, the only friend I had was the written word.

Since then I have been serving my soul up to strangers through word documents.

The thought makes me homesick for the arms that did not hold me and I truly expect my neighbour to make a mockery of me, the way others have. The way they've told me 'It's a tough industry but hang in there!' and pat me on the back like I'm a hopeful child clinging to her mother's skirts.

"That's really cool," She smiles while she gazes out to the skyline, I can see her perfect side profile and ski-slope nose "I wanted to be a writer, I thought myself to be a poet, and then I thought myself to be a scientist and wanted to be an astronaut. Now, I'm here."

"Where's here exactly?"

"Working things out, figure it out as I go," She shrugs like she is unsure of her answer.

I think it's beautiful how everything around me has been touched by human hands and carries so much history. For a quick moment, my mind wonders to those who built this building, the calloused hands that crafted the iron railing and now my neighbour who was leaning against it. "What's the end goal with this whole freefall thing?"

"To make it out alive."

"And your name?"

"It's Ellie."

-

That night Ellie stuck to being quiet as she promised. The next night was a different story. I was so close to finishing the draft of Nicole Elliot's memoir and was praying that the deadline would pass with no issue.

However, the noise began again. I was coming around to like Ellie and I didn't want to go yell at her again so I shoved my headphones in and turned up my playlist as loud as I could. There is no song I can blast in my headphones to drown it out.

She did say that the next time I was loud I could come and chew her out, I wouldn't do that; I would just knock on her door and quickly tell her that she was being too loud, and then we would both carry on with our respective work.

I stopped in front of the smooth door and raised my hand to knock. Ellie slips the door open just a crack, when she sees that it's me she opens the door. "Hey, Ellie."

"Hello," She smiles "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She had a very nice smile.

We both know the circumstances of my visit but I spell it out anyway "Dude, you're way too loud, it's disruptive and I'm working under a deadline."

"I know, I'm sorry." She looks genuinely apologetic.

"I don't know any office job that needs you to scream for hours on end," Alright, that blows what could've been a simple visit where she apologizes and I leave, I always had to add on.

"Right, sorry," She carries herself with so much confidence that it is like she is wearing armour made of gold though she has these subtle awkward tendencies of someone who has never been loved and was forced to improvise. "It's hard to explain,"

"Yeah, you've said-

"Do you wanna come and see?"

I'm taken a little aback and for a minute I think this is all a ploy for Ellie to lock me in her her apartment and kill me because she is sick of her neighbour banging on her door "What?"

"Well, you've asked a couple of times and if you have a minute I can show you."

I pause, mauling over her proposal. I think of my laptop on my spruce desk, open to the final pages of the memoir and I make up my mind "Alright, just not too long."

"If you say so," Ellie opens the door wider for me to move past her and then shuts it behind us.

Ellie's apartment is what I had expected from her even though it is surprisingly nice. She has a large L-shaped sofa in the living room adorned with throw blankets and pillows and a huge flatscreen with a coffee table in front of it. The layout is exactly like mine but inverted, her open kitchen has some odd knick-knacks that looked like they belonged on an Amazon must-haves list.

I don't go into her bathroom and the door leading to one of the rooms (What is equivalent to Margot's bedroom) is shut. The apartment itself is pretty sparse aside from little bits and pieces as she only moved in a month prior.

On the left side, I see that purple LED spilling out of what I assume to be her bedroom.

She walks in ahead of me and the second I follow in after her there is one question I have to ask "Ellie, are you a porn-star?" There are entirely too many computers in here. Her desk is set up with one of those fancy triple-screen PCs and she has a laptop placed seemingly randomly on a white loveseat that's pressed against the right wall.

There is one of those galaxy lamps that projects that trippy shit onto your walls and ceiling. The screen of her PC is facing our shared wall and I can see a huge hole where I assume that a loud crash from the other night occurred. Plastered all over the walls are posters from video games and movies, many of which I hadn't seen.

"What?" She sounds nearly offended "No," she grabs a folding chair from the corner of the room and unfolds it beside her black florid office chair. She sits on the folding chair and motions for me to sit in the office chair. "Come, sit."

I hesitantly sit in the chair "Are you going to attack me now?" I ask, getting defensive for no particular reason other than it was in my nature "Because I've read The Outsiders and I'm pretty sure I can fight."

She chuckles "I'm not gonna fight you."

"Because I'd win?"

She furrows her eyebrows but has this look of amusement on her face "Yeah, definitely."

"So what is this?" I motion around at all of her equipment.

Ellie puts one earbud in then hand me the other "Chat," She says, looking dead at the camera clipped onto her PC "This is my neighbour who came to yell at me for being annoying, she has every right."

"Who are you talking to?"

"I'm streaming," She said, clicking something on the screen so it changed, instead showing Ellie and I in front of the camera, I looked absolutely lost next to a rolling chat bar full of jokes that I didn't understand and people saying hello to me.

"So I was right," I turn my attention to Ellie "You are an internet person."

"Yeah, I'm an internet person but you weren't right, I don't do porn."

"Not yet," I shrug "Times are desperate," To this, the chats come in even faster than before. "So do you just sit here all night and scream at people?"

"I play video games and do challenges, sometimes I do just sit here and scream at them."

"That makes so much sense," I say "If there's any job that needs you to be obnoxiously loud and annoying, it's a youtube personality."

"Okay, well-

"So you're like Logan Paul?"

Her eyes go wide "No-

"What explains why your eyes are so bloodshot."

"You are a writer," She says it like it's a fact I wasn't aware of "You are in no place to judge, you probably spend as much time in front of a screen as me."

I nod "I hate to say you're right," My attention shifts to the hole behind me "Can you explain how playing video games put a hole through the wall?"

Ellie looks almost embarrassed, she doesn't say anything in response, instead, she just clicks something to screen share with us in a little box in the corner and then goes into YouTube. She types in 'Ellie Williams falls through wall' My eyebrows furrow as I read it, and she clicks the first video that pops up.

The video starts off strong; Ellie is cackling at something that her friend off-camera is saying, her friend then makes a comment that makes her laugh even harder and she throws herself back in her chair. This act breaks it, you can hear the chair snap beneath the pressure and Ellie just lets it happen as the chair crashes against the wall. Her eyes go wide when she realizes she's just put a massive hole into the wall and seconds later you can hear me on the other side banging my hands on the wall. Her eyes go wide and she stares at her friend off-camera, all of the laughter stops abruptly before her friend can't hold it in anymore and erupts in chortles, and the video cuts off.

My hand flies over my mouth to fight back the laughter I so badly want to let out. Ellie and I sit wordlessly, the only sound being donations on the screen and my giggles slipping through. Eventually, I manage to compose myself and look to Ellie, I don't have much to say except for "Oh my god."

A/N: Streamer! Ellie won the poll so here we are. As I was drafting out the other chapters for When I Was Your Girl, I decided that it is most likely to be discontinued unless I do a rewrite which will not be in the near future. I’m not rocking with the plot and there was a lot of mixed feedback, sorry if you were invested I guess, but you have this series to be invested in now!

[lunargrapejuice]

husband tax

alhaitham x fem!reader

whipped & teasing ‘haitham<3

sleepiness clung to your bones like dew on blades of grass in the warming morning sun, crystalline drops once frozen in the quiet night though unlike those droplets last night, and now as you waited to the side of the coffee stand for your drink to be made, you were warmed by your husband at your side and the way he kept you tucked in close to his chest, his heart beat steady in your ears.

with one arm around you, his thumb rubbed back and forth in slow motions on your waist that was not helping you shake that last bit of tiredness but that you didn’t want to stop all the same. you wanted to melt into alhaithams touch. it was quiet between you as he finishes the last few pages of the chapter he was on before you both headed out the door for work and after little convincing, though you did bat your lashes sweetly once or twice just for good measure, he indulged in your request to stop for coffee, even though he had already had a cup at home, and was far less bothered than you when you showed up and had to stand in a long line. he just pulled you close, got out his book and told you it’d be fine. and you found it hard to disagree when it dawned on you it meant you’d get to be with him a little longer before you parted for the day.

it seemed to end all too quickly too when they called your name and tore you from your beloved's embrace, reminding you there was more to do today than just lay against alhaithams chest and relax, even though it's what you’d both rather be doing.

“i’ll get it, stay here,” he says, his fingers running across your lower back as he closes his book and slips it back into his bag, stepping away from you with long strides.

you grumble as he leaves, just like you had this morning when your alarm went off and took you from your dreams. your ears fill with the noises of the waking city, his warmth lingers on your skin but his scent quickly dissipates, replaced with the strong smell of coffee. your eyes follow after him, watching the sway of his cloak, the bounce of his ahoge. you smile as he thanks the stand owner and heads back your way, looking not nearly tired as you even though he’s harder to get out of bed.

he stops in front of you, his tall frame lingering over you as he grabs for your outstretched hand that was meant for your coffee but was still happy to be met with his skin, the softness of his gloves. he laces your fingers together and brings them between you while he takes a sip of your drink, a smirk pulling at his lips at the way you look at him quizzically. 

“husband tax,” he says in answer and you don’t miss the teasing lilt in his tone. falling into step side by side, headed towards your work, he hands you your drink and feels his chest swirling at the pleased look on your face at your first sip of your drink and the smile you give him after.

“it’s gonna be a good day ‘haitham,” you beam, your smile growing brighter and he can’t help the way his own lips twitch upwards, though he hides it well by pulling you closer, leaning down and placing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

“yes, it will.” 

cuddled up in the little nook inside alhaithams home office, afternoon light spilling through the stained glass windows, your favorite blanket layed over your legs and a book in your hand, your eyes drank in the images being painted with words on the bound pages in front of you. the story had you captivated, your gaze not breaking from the pages even when you reached to grab a chocolate covered biscuit, a sweet treat imported from inazuma to go with your book from yae publishing house. 

you were so sucked into the world laid out by the author you hadn’t even heard the opening of the front door or the clicking of alhaithams shoes against the hardwood making their way towards you. you were right where he left you an hour ago, having only slightly shifted into a more comfortable position and now with many more pages finished. 

had you been able to look up from the pages you would have seen an image of alhaitham not many would ever see or even believe the stoic scribe was capable of; a smitten man taking in the joy and comfort of his beloved as he leans against the door frame with his arms folded. the warmth of the afternoon sun clung to his dark clothes but his chest was filling with another kind of heat and another emotion he found himself so weak to when it came to you, need. the need to have your attention, to kiss your lips, have you welcome him home, to tease you for making him feel this way because only you could make him feel so.

it’s only when long fingers come into view at the top of the page, the book leaving your grasp for the first time since you picked it up, do you finally realize alhaitham is home. he’s caught you at the perfect moment, a chocolate covered stick poking out of your mouth that’s now curling into a smile, matching the light in your eyes, when you see who it is.

“welcome ho- oh~”

he doesn’t give you a moment to speak before he’s closing the distance between you, the hand not holding your book keeping you caged between his large muscular frame and the back of your chair. the scent of rosewater and hibiscus envelopes you and his proximity sets your heart to an unsteady beat. it grows more erratic when you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, the tickle of his hair on your forehead and find your eyes unable to leave the image of his pink lips parting before he breaks your treat in half, little crumbs clinging to his lips as he takes a bite and swallows, still so close but never touching your lips with his own. 

“husband tax,” he says with a smirk that told you all too well he was enjoying the way he felt your skin burning up, like he might have heard the thump of your heart in the quiet room.

all too casually he slips the book back into your hands and takes a step back, ready to head to his own corner of the office to read but letting his eyes linger on your adorably flustered face and the way you try to hide it behind your book.

“habibti, dinner’s ready,” you hear your husband's voice call from the kitchen followed by the soft clank of plates being pulled from the cabinets. 

“coming!” you call back, quickly slipping on your sweater, well alhaithams sweater, before emerging from the bedroom feeling much better than you had when you first arrived home with heavy eyes and a pout on your lips. 

it wasn’t usual that either of you worked overtime but lately you didn’t have a choice if you wanted to get your work done by its deadline so you had arrived home much later than your lover, much later than you would have liked to. upon seeing your exhausted state, he pulled you into his arms, your face buried into his chest, kissed your lips tenderly and easily coaxed you into a hot shower while he promised to prepare dinner.

you could smell the food he had been cooking the moment you stepped into the hallway and felt your feet practically float into the kitchen after it. your stomach grumbled upon seeing the food laid out on the counter and your whole body filled with love that melted the entries days stresses away when seeing alhaitham untying his apron as he turned to meet you.

he was always so handsome but there was something about seeing him like this, in comfortable clothes without his headphones and a messy apron after making you dinner, soft eyes to match his loving tone as he spoke to you, makes you ever weaker to the beauty that was the scribe.

“feeling a little better?”

“mhmm,” you hum as you wrap your arms around his middle and bury your face into his chest. he responds in kind, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other at your lower back. “much better now.”

“good,” he replies with a chuckle that makes you feel even lighter as you nizzle into him. “go sit down, i’ll get your plate ready.”

“thank you ‘haitham,” you whisper over his clothed heart, earnest and honey sweet, before reluctantly pulling yourself away from him and going to take your seat at the table.

with a tired smile and your head resting in your propped up hand you watch as he plates your favorite foods of this dish first and in the portion you like, followed by the things you liked less but were just as full of nutrition to help you through your long nights and hard work. your heart skips a beat seeing a bit of sauce dripping from the spoon and clinging to the edge of the plate before he wipes it off with his finger and licks it off, his eyes flashing up to yours just to see if you were indeed staring. 

quickly you look away, clearing your throat like you weren’t just caught with shameless hearts in your eyes. you half expect him to tease you, to at least point it out like a smart aleck but he doesn’t say anything as he makes his way over to you and places your food in front of you. it's only when he grabs you a fork, not yet handing it to you and the action causes you to look at him in question, that he speaks. 

“husband tax,” he says, taking a piece of your food for himself, ensuring that you’re watching as he takes a bite and licks his lips before handing you the fork with a knowing look in his eyes but acting all innocent just the same.

“you know if you want to share all you have to do is ask,” you coo sweetly at him, your cheeks warm, your heart full knowing just how much you love when he does this.

“i know,” he replies. but whether it be to tease you, to see if your drink is cool enough, to ensure your food is to your liking or any other reason he could think of, he’ll always be happy to see you smile, make you blush and hold your attention, your love. “but this is more fun.”

genshin impact masterlist | main masterlist

[daenysthedreamersblog]

STRANGERS

Don't talk to strangers or you might fall in love

Freezer bride, your sweet divine

You devour like smoked bovine hide

How funny, I never considered myself tough

summary: you've won the hunger games, and ready to return home in peace, but president snow has other plans for you, and he won't take no for an answer.

pairings: president!coriolanus snow x district6!reader

warnings: MDNI!, blood, violence, murder, manipulation, power imbalance, coercion, heavy drinking, non-con male masturbation, non-con oral sex (m receiving), roses ( pls let me know if i forgot any!)

notes: im new at publishing on tumblr so pls be patient with me! also new at writing in second person POV so sorry for any mistakes! hope u enjoy! there will be more parts coming soon!

Blood splatters onto your face.

"Please," He mouthed underneath you, but the knife was plunging down anyways. You couldn’t hear it.

The crunch of a sternum bone.

Silence. Cold silence rang in your ears and you blinked climbing off of the body a distant boom rupturing around the arena, but you only felt to shake of it, the sudden vibrational change in the air. You looked around the sun blaring down onto you as you turned away from the dead boy, you stumble forward, knee giving out from under you before you collapsed to the ground rolling onto your back staring upward. The blood oozed from the wound on your leg, it stung, it stung harshly, but it was welcomed.

It was over. Everything. It was over and all you were met with was blood stained hands and silence. You could smell the rot forming in your soul.

Boots were pounding into the ground, surrounding you, guns pointing at your body. Hands wrapped around your biceps pulling you, dragging you out of purgatory and into the looming light ahead.

~

"Congratulations." He whispered placing the small crown on your head, a dainty gold thing, his hands lingering too long on a wisp of your hair. The games had cut off your tongue it seems words never rising to the surface. His hand was under you chin, "Smile. You've won." It felt like a command so the corners of your mouth tugged up as the camera flashed upon you, shaking hands with your esteemed president.

"Thank you." His jaw ticked at your slip, the lack of his title, but he shook your hand anyways as Lucky Flickerman’s crew zoomed in for their close up. The motions were clear, set into place as you read the prepared words off the telecom. If you could get through this then you could return home where it was simple and safe. You would be okay once the Capitol train dropped you off in District 6 where you can happily watch it all disappear forever.

A hand slid to the small of your back, your spine locking up as another photo flashed of the two of you. Your smile stumbled as his shoulder pressed into yours heat pouring off of him where your bodies collided.

You met his eyes, face half turned towards each other, and your cheeks burned with a flush.

The only good thing about winning was finally eating and drinking real food again.

You downed cups and flutes of any alcohol you could find shoved into your hands drowning out the sound of people talking, congratulating you. It was cruel really how when the film of a camera was replaced it sounded like small bones cracking, so your drank more. Why were they so thankful? They arranged for you to be there...they sent you to either die or kill for them. Because some great-great grand-whatever rebelled, so now you had to live with the consequences of someone else actions.

Your brain was beyond heavy, mouth no doubt stained red from the wine. One more day, one more day and you would be going home to die of hopefully natural causes some other time. One more day and you would be out of this hateful city, away from theses entitled, hateful people. You felt it then, the dryness in your throat, the angry water welling in your eyes. You set the empty cup down, stumbling away from the party silent tears beginning to unwarrantedly roll down your cheeks. You gripped the railing as you climbed the stairs towards the mansion doors needing to hide away from the world, and when you reached the top you pushed it open harshly. The heels of your shoes clicked on marble floor in an empty hallway, a door slamming shut behind you as you kept moving. The hallway was spinning like you were stuck in a concrete mixer turning and turning and turning.

You tripped over your foot catching yourself by throwing a hand out to the wall, collapsing onto a small cushioned bench. The groan left your mouth as you slid out of your shoes feet aching, you felt the long gash of the scar the District 2 tribute had given you. It was taking a while to fully close, the wound on you soul would never heal either it seemed.

More tears. More anger.

"You should be celebrating." The cold, calculating voice cut through the air.

You could only roll your head upward, too drunk, too ashamed to be afraid at the surprise. Fresh tears rolled down your cheek. "I did."

Footsteps were coming towards you, slow, like the wolf hunting a doe, and that was when your body alerted, when he had stepped into your space, head snapping towards him. He looked as calm and collected as his tone, a rich black suit fitted to his lean body, a hand lazily in his pocket as his legs bracketed in your knee. "Then why are you in here? I have a whole party out there for you and you hide away in my home.”

"Too noisy." You stared up at him with red rimmed eyes as he towered over, your vision fuzzy at the corners.

His knuckle came up to your cheek collecting the tear freshly traveling down makeup covered skin. "You should be celebrating." He repeated the moisture glistening on his bone. "Not crying."

You sniffed, your voice cracking from crying, "Sorry sir."

"Mr. President." He corrected.

"Sorry, Mr. President sir." You cleared your throat offering him a fake smile.

His hand came under your chin, a pinky resting on your jaw his thumb tracing puffy, wine stained lips, "That's a good girl. Too much wine I suspect hmm?" You only nodded as he held you face, held your life with it too. You might have won his games, but he could still ruin everything, ruin the little family left back home. He had always made that clear to everyone; it wasn’t a shock people started dying soon after they crossed him.

"Yes. Mr. President, sir.” For some reason another tear slipped out with a wide eyed blink.

"You look so pretty when you cry." He traced over your lip one more time gently pushing in until the pad of his thumb pressed against your tongue. You heard the wet noise of his lips parting, as he took a quiet deep breath your teeth grazing his skin. Then he popped it out, bought it to his mouth, sucking gently on your leftover wine. "Come." He wrapped his arm around your bicep pulling you to your feet in front of him. "Let's get you some food, introduce you to some more friends of mine, and then bed." Two hands stroked down your hair holding your head between his palms. "How does that sounds my little victor?"

A dark gaze lingered in his eyes that there was no way around what he wanted, no telling him no. So you let him bend down and slip your shoes back on keeping your face towards the opposite wall. ”Yes Mr. President, sir.” His hand lingered too long on your bare ankle before he rose.

He smiled, a snake like gleam in it, like he had finished wrapping his body around his victim to suffocate it. One more day, and then you were done. He could introduce you to whoever he liked, feed you whatever he wanted, but come tomorrow on that beautiful train ride home the Capitol, the games would be a distant traumatizing memory, and he would just be a face on a screen come next year.

He plucked the white rose off the front of his suit jacket, took the pin out, and tucked it behind your ear to sit prettily in your hair.

His hand wrapped around your waist causing you to grip his forearm to stumble out into the party once more. Your eyes scanned the party, catching on a young girl, the winner from District 4. Her name started with an M, but you couldn’t find the rest of it in you hazy brain. The only thing you could focus on was the sad frown etched upon her pretty face as President Snow dragged you through his party.

6 months later

You wiped dirt off on your pants standing up to admire the blooming garden spread out in front of you. A smile flittered onto your face for only a moment before it fell staring at the wilting leaves on top of wet soil. They had fallen no doubt during a weeding or pruning or plain decay, but they were there ready for the earth to absorb them for nutrients.

Did the arena absorb their decaying bodies too or were they flown away somewhere else? Did they go back to their families so they could rest in peace?

You shook the thought grabbing gardening tools and the water can heading back to the house. Time was helping, the white noise of the district was helping, the trains going by were helping. The only reminder you had ever been carted away...well that and the large sum you had been gifted upon winning. You decided to ration it, save it but comfortably. It was the only thing truly stopping you from drowning yourself in alcohol or morphling, and the disappointed look your father had given you when they had carried you off the train, too wasted to walk. You took up gardening soon after the initial withdrawing, rotting period needing to keep you hands, your mind busy.

The scent of vanilla hit you as soon as you entered the house your body freezing on the threshold. It was a warm vanilla scent, which meant your mother had made tea, which meant there was company. You set your tools down, peeling off you mud stained boots. Your mother laughed as you slowly continued down the hall, the sound muffled by the kitchen wall you had yet to curve around to enter the kitchen. Alarms shot off in your head, the hair on your neck standing up knowing it wasn't anyone from District 6.

"Mother." You called seeing the outline of her at the table.

"Darling." Your mother smiled as you turned the corner, eyes flitting over to the man across the table from her sipping on his tea. A fresh bouquet of white roses sat in a new vase at the center of the table. "We have a guest."

"Mr. President." Your mouth dried out, feet heavy, gluing you to the middle of the kitchen. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Your mother only stood up rushing towards you, taking your hands to sweetly drag you to the table. "Come sit, my darling bluebell." She forced you into an empty chair around the modest circular table, a plaid green table cloth covering it. You kept eyes on him as she poured tea into the only empty cup. Once the kettle was down she discreetly tried to wipe dirt off your face, "Always covered in something from your little garden."

President Snow mouth quirked up. "Garden?"

You only managed a nod. ”It was a small little thing, something to help…” Her eyes dropped, “Something to keep her busy, and well before you knew it it had taken up most of the lawn." Another discreet pat on the cheek. "I have never been more proud than when I see her out there working on it." She chuckled, "Well besides when you put the tiara on her head." You inwardly cringed at the word tiara, at the reminded of what had been done to earn it.

"My grandmother grew roses." He motioned to the red one he worse pinned to his blue suit. His eyes met yours, "Do you?" A small nod as steam swirled up from the tea that would never be drank, "May I see them?"

Your mother stood up answering, "Of course." Her hands came upon you shoulders, "Go change and show our lovely President." You pushed the chair back using it as an escape for the moment, "Wash your face, and put on that pretty blue sun dress." You didn't answer, only walked back down the hall to your room finally able to breath normally away from his suffocating presence. What was he doing all the way out here? You had figured, had clung, to the fact you would never have to see him, or the Capitol again, and now he was here invading your home.

After washing your shaking hands and face, digging the dirt out of your nails, and braiding your hair back did you put that stupid sundress on and walk back out. Your mother was standing by the door a forced smile on her lips, "Yes sir, no sir." She reminded you, pulling small tendrils of hair loose around your face. "Don't speak unless spoken to."

"I know." You told her, forcing her hands away from your face reciting what your father and mother had both instilled in you. "I am grateful for what you've done for us President Snow."

"Mr. President Snow, sir." She pinched your cheeks to give them color then let you step around her and out of the house.

He was standing near the edge of the garden just before the walkway split separating each sections. "It truly does take up most of the lawn." He smiled holding out his arm for you. You slowly allowed him to hook it under his elbow to lead down the walkway. "It smells divine."

"Thank you." You swallowed, "Mr. President, sir."

He only smirked, "Your mother raised a well mannered woman."

You offered him a shy smile, ”My father and mother always instilled proper etiquette as best as they could. They emphasized respect and dutifulness."

"Important traits to have." He agreed. He was Capitol, he was the president, no doubt relishing in the fact district folks weren't born with those traits, they had to have it beat into them.

His hand clamped around yours, trapping it in his arm. Your breaths shook, don’t stutter. "My roses are just this way." You motioned up the path for him to lead in that direction.

The rose bush could have looked better, but it had always been a work in progress, a difficult flower to manage, and your heart had never truly been fond of roses. Red and yellow seeds were the only color you could acquire so the colors sometimes missed their mark or died all together. “Troublesome for you?” There was no hiding the disappointment in his tone.

“Yes.” An embarrassed response. "I'm tempted to rid myself of them."

"Hmm," He stepped forward fingers running along the soft petals. "I have a garden full of white roses, I brought some for you today."

You gave him a small smile. "Thank you. I'm sure my mother adores them."

"They're for you, not her." He flatly told you a sneer on his face. "A gift of sorts to my favorite little victor." He smirked down at the bush plucking a perky red rose from its stem. "Or what did she call you?" He turned back towards you, "Her darling bluebell?"

The blush bit at your cheeks, "Thank you. Mr. President sir." He smiled deeply tucking the stem of the rose behind your ear rooting it into the braid. "They are lovely." I lied. The scent of roses overtook the air to the point you felt dizzy with it, felt them swallowing you whole like he did.

"I do hope your mother won’t mind looking after it all.” He sighed his hand running down your arm as blood drained out of you, the question sitting leaden in your mouth. "We're trying something new, something Dr. Gaul believed would bring good publicity to the games." You chewed on your cheek, biting the refusal back. You remembered hearing about her death a year or two ago. "A victory tour of sorts." Both hands were on your arms holding you in front of him, "You'll go district to district letting them celebrate you and then finish at the Capitol. I'm going to throw you another party."

Oh

His hand came under your chin tilting your face up to him, "How does that sound my little bluebell?"

"Okay." You whispered because it was what was supposed to be said to him.

He beamed, "Such a good girl." His smile fell, "Since this is the first time we're doing it I'll be going with you of course to make sure everything goes smoothly."

Ice coated you. How long would this be? Would he ever let you remain in peace? Would the garden wither and die in the time you would be gone? Why did he stare like that?

You only nodded the obedience in your spine locking into place.

It wasn't horrible. The train was comfy and reminded you of home, the rumbling sound it made, the smell of the smoke and gasoline, the horn blaring through the night. They had written words, of course, to say at every district, reciting from a script how sorry you were for their losses and how thankful you are for the Capitol and their generosity. President Snow talked the most which was ironically a godsend since you didn't want to speak at all.

Mostly, there was food, tons of food...and wine.

You more self-indulgent habit to make the time go by smoother. Even more so now because you could, because it was free, because your parents weren't here to shame you. You would stop once you got home; you had done it before. When the tour was over, you would stop, you would go back home, relish in the normalcy, the garden, where it was safe. Where no one could find you.

Snow wouldn't be on the train ride home.

It unnerved you that he was here simply a few train cars down, eating, sleeping, plotting murder no doubt, planning more games. It only made you swig from the bottle more to shove the anxiety down.

You had crawled in the train car window, a comfy seat under it, curling you feet under you to watch the night blur past. Each bump comforted you, like you were in the older train cars carting people around the district. The moon wasn't out making any outline impossible to see, so you closed your eyes, pretending to hear the bustling square at home. You took another drink of wine savoring the lazy feeling coating your body.

The door slid open no doubt an Avox coming to do some chore, so you didn’t even bother to look. "You didn't come to dinner." Your head snapped up seeing Snow standing in the door a tray of food in his hands, "They said you only grabbed a bottle of wine and left."

"I wasn't hungry." Not a lie, you had felt ill since leaving District 9 the tributes faces beginning to gnaw at you once more. You had survived, and they hadn’t, and it felt wrong. "Mr. President, sir."

He wasn't wearing his normal suit instead a pair of dress pants, and a starched white button up, the top two buttons undone. His immaculate blonde hair was slightly mused a stray curling piece falling onto his forehead. "Come eat with me." You weighed the options before unfolding your legs out and turning to slid off the sill. You tugged at the nightgown they had shoved in the closet for sleep, a soft thin robe covering your shoulders over it. They hadn’t allowed you to bring any clothes from home. His eyes glanced up your body as you pulled it tighter around you.

"Excuse my appearance Mr. President, sir." You sat down across from him.

"No need." He only smiled as he pushed the tray. "Do you like the train?"

You nodded picking at the food, "It reminds me of home. We used to live by the test track before it moved, and it used to rumble the house. I used to hate it growing up, but now it seems to have grown on me."

"I bet it has." You should enjoy the food more, shovel it down until it was nothing. Your family had never suffered too much within the district not like the others, like 10,11,12... but it wasn't exactly always easy. The Capitol was always cramming food down your throat before and after the games, before you had reveled in it, the after...it tasted like dust in my mouth sometimes. You set the fork down pushing the half eaten tray away, but he only pushed it back. "Eat, please." You began to open your mouth in protest, but his jaw ticked. "Eat." A command, "All of it."

You watched his face, bottom lip trembling at the new tone he was using. It was bound to come out, but you had been so kind, always listened. You slowly began eating again forcing each bite until nothing remained, until your chest was tight with a full stomach. You took a sip of water. Always thank him, your mother had whispered on your way out of the door, Even if you are not thankful.’ “Thank you, Mr. President sir."

"You are so good to me, my little bluebell." He leaned forward the darkness engulfing the blue in his eyes. "Can you do something for me?" You made yourself nod even-though fear was trickling down your skin. He motioned with his head, "Go lie down on the bed."

The color drained from your face, "Wh-What?"

Don't stutter.

You cursed inwardly for the slip. ”Be my good girl and go lie down on the bed." His grin widened, “I won’t say it again.”

By the time your knee hit the bed tears had slipped over, you tried to stop them, but they welled anyways as you turned to look at him. He stalked towards you unbuttoning his pants, unzipping them, so you forced your gaze upward taking in the sounds of rustling. His hands pushed the robe down your shoulders letting it pool onto the bed. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to stop him as his fingers trailed along your bare shoulders, along your collarbones, up your neck. "Spit." He held out his hand. You swallowed, pulling the liquid back up and spit into his palm watching him bring it between his legs. You forced yourself to not look down, not look at what his hand was doing with a large length, to not look as he slid his hand along it. His other hand came up to your face, once again dragging across your bottom lip, pushing his finger further in, hooking it onto your bottom teeth. "Suck on it." He growled. You blinked fresh tears out before letting your tongue poke and lick up his finger, swirling around his knuckle listening to his pants. A cry of protest sat in your lungs, but would it matter? Were you always bound to be at his mercy, cursed to obey his whims to exert his power. “You listen so good." His head fell back a little the small groan hiding the sounds of him stroking himself. “Will you take my cock good too?”

"Please." You whimpered against his hand finding the smallest resistance in yourself at his words. "Please sir...I'm a virgin. I-I don't-!"

He shoved you back onto the bed with a growl his knees straddling your thigh as he pumped his hand faster and faster groaning into the air as two fingers invaded your mouth thrusting along your tongue. You felt violated, but all you could do was lie there and take it, let him do whatever he was doing because you were good, because he was the president and you had to obey. You closed your eyes tears burning your skin on the way his movements shook your body, until finally he stilled warmth shooting over your skin.

You finally breathed as he removed his fingers and stepped away. You lied there, listening to him straighten his clothes back on. "Don't change. Sleep in that." You glanced down at the white clumps running down your nightgown, some even drying to your exposed chest.

He stared at you expectantly. Thank him, even when you're not thankful. "Thank you Mr. President, sir.”

His grin was haunting as he left.

The rest of the tour went unbothered. He only occasionally came back to repeat those events, but each time it got a little easier as you began to know what to expect, each time you dared to look a little bit more. Sometimes even getting lost in the way his hand glided across his glistening cock covered in your spit. On the rare nights, you even gazed upward at him, at his hooded eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead, tongue between his teeth. You even began to listen to the noises he made, the heavy grunts, the soft groans and grit of his jaw, his vulgar words at you when his eyes suddenly met yours making you look away with heat in your cheeks.

And then he would cum over your body.

You threw up after the first night only forcing it to stay on your body because he had said so. After that it became easier to withstand the feeling, the warmth, the smell. You realized after a few times it gave off a scent you had only attributed to him, you only knew that because he often stood so close to you. It was so mild and hidden that you could only tell when you brought some close to your nose, and since it was already there you tasted it and you figured his skin might taste like that too.

It was fine, until you finished the tour of District 2. The boy's face stared down at you, and you remembered how it looked covered in blood.

Please!

The crunch of bone.

You could barely get through the reading, crying halfway through before someone had to usher you to the side. Snow was angry; you could see it in his dark eyes but maybe he could find pity. You had been so kind, so good.

It didn't matter by the time he found you curled into the corner of my room you were covered in smeared make up and tears. You couldn't even take off the stupid pink dress they had given you. He stood there for a moment taking you in then he grabbed you by the hair yanking you up onto the bed. Then he reeled back and slapped you across the face so hard your head snapped to the side. "You were very bad today bluebell."

"I-I..."

Another slap the other way. "Don't stutter."

Your cheek was stinging, "I'm sorry." A pause, and then another hard slap stars split your vision. "I'm sorry Mr. President, sir." You closed your eyes waiting for more but then you heard the familiar noise of his pants unbuttoning and your body began to lay itself back like it had registered before you did. He only darkly chuckled as he pulled you back up and shoved you to your knees in front of him, "I know you didn't mean to break the rules. Right?” You nodded, “And why do I know that?”

"Because I'm your good girl, Mr. President, sir." You stared up at him with red cheeks and pouting lips.

He groaned, his hard length pressing against your mouth. You glanced up at him with furrowed brows not knowing how to do what he was asking. “Open your mouth,” You did. “Don’t bite. I'll do the rest." He pushed past your lips, taking ahold off your face and began rocking his hips into you, his cock sliding along your tongue. "Oh fuck," He shivered shoving himself deeper the tip of him touching the back of your throat. You swallowed the gag as he pulled out to slam back into you bring your throat more tears spilling out, spit running down your chin. You squeezed your eyes as he used your mouth for whatever he wanted as he thrusted his cock into your mouth viciously. "Swirl your tongue around it." He hissed and you obeyed running it along the shaft, around the head feeling him stutter his movements, but pick up speed. His hand was rooted in your scalp yanking your face up, pain bubbling up with each abusing stroke, but something else was there too, and you realized his skin didn't taste bad. "You like that? You like when I fuck your mouth?"

You mumbled out incoherently not even sure what your answer was.

He shoved your head back, neck craned against the mattress his hips pinning you as he blatantly fucked into your mouth. ”I wonder what pretty sounds you would make if I fucked you hmm?” His hand bobbed your head against him as you gripped his thighs to hold yourself up as saliva dripped across your chest. "I can't though...too many others want it."

Your eyes shot open just as his thrust turned sporadic and warm liquid shot down your throat. Your face was covered in fluids, covered in drool and cum, dribbling down your chin as he slowly removed himself. ”What?" Your throat was raw and torn.

"I was going to wait to tell you." He sighed tucking himself back in. "But you are very desirable as a Victor, and once you told me you were a virgin...well it made you a lot more desirable." He patted your tears and cum stained cheek, "But you have been so good to me despite this slip up, so I will try to pick someone you will like. Hmm?” You were too stunned to respond. He was selling you to people, selling you to the highest bidder because you had killed a boy. You weren’t even supposed to win everyone had let you know how the tribute from 10 was slated to win, but he got taken out while you were hiding, and they had lost money. Because your life was a bet for them.

"I want to go home." You cried softly his hand cradling your face.

He cocked his head to the side, "Oh bluebell. You can't leave me yet." He stood up and began to walk to the door, "I might just have to keep you."

He left you there on your knees. No he didn't quite taste bad, in fact, you thought maybe you enjoyed the pool of him on your tongue. You cried even harder.

PART TWO here!

(if you care)

[postersofleon]

Wrong Age For A Babysitter

It's winter break. You went to visit your parents after a long time of seeing them. To your surprise, a guy who is your age says he needs to babysit you.

content: fluff and smut

notes: afab fem!reader, mentions of drinking alcohol, reader drinks it with leon. leon and reader are in their twenties. cute sex. second point of view to not have y/n, before the events of raccoon city, no mentions of holiday just winter. non canon lore of leon; this was suppose to be published in december, but I forgot about this.

taglist: @argreion

It was the winter holiday after a long time studying for finals, you went home to your parents home to visit them. At least for a while, but unexpectedly, your parents weren't home. You took off your shoes before entering, the house was dark with very little light. "No even a voice mail." You muttered bitterly. Your eyes looked around to see what you'll respectful steal from your parents. Cookies. Hell yeah. You grabbed from the selection and took a bite. The silent house only heard were the munches of your teeth eating the cookie.

That's when you saw a note from your parents on the fridge.

Hi, we went to dinner with a couple of friends. Sorry we couldn't be with you.

Your eyes narrowed, "But couldn't call." You didn't mean to sound so damn bitter, but how much it hurt to call in. You grabbed a beer and cracked the can open. You steal more cookies from the tray, and your eyes found the thermostat and made it comfortable heat. You grabbed your beer and sat on the couch of the living room.

You attempted to find the remote, but nope. This was getting more and more annoying. You put the beer on the coffee table and put the cookies on top of the fizzy beer. Your hands patted down the couch over and over, your fingers were shoved inside the edges of the couch. You found pocket change and put in your pocket without thinking twice.

But the small lived silence stopped when you heard a knock. Your head snapped to turn to see who it could be. Was it those Christmas singers? No. There's was silence, and those people were loud. You carefully grabbed a cookie and ate a bit of it before walking towards the door.

You checked the peep hole and found a sandy blond guy in the other side. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. "Hi?" He began, "Um, I'm Leon. The babysitter." He knocked again.

Maybe it was a dumb action but you opened the door immediately. "Sorry, wrong house. I'm twenty." It wouldn't make sense why your parents would send a babysitter.

Leon shook his head, "Impossible." He took off his glove and pulled out a piece of paper that read your address. You ate another piece of your cookie before looking at the paper, "You got the wrong house." You knew so. You stepped a bit out of the comfort of your home, "Over there." Leon turned to see, "My neighbors have a daughter. You are probably her babysitter."

Leon shook his head, "I don't mess up my addresses." He exhaled deeply. His eyes almost intimidated you, he looked so damn determined, and with that you felt a bit of second hand embarrassment. You took another bite of your cookie, "Can I see some ID?" You asked him with small levels of impatience. Leon automatically gave you his ID.

What a handsome guy. "Leon Scott Kennedy." You read out his information, "Happy early birthday." You smiled politely at him as you continued to look at it.

You knew your parents were careful around you, but not to give you a babysitter at your age. "Listen," You began, "You seem a nice guy, but I don't need a babysitter. I just got out of college to enjoy the winter break."

Leon sighed softly, the exhale was that looked like that fog, "Listen, I don't break my promises," His blue eyes were focused, "If your parents put me as a twenty year olds babysitter. I'll do it."

"Fuck it. Fine." You pulled away to let him enter. You were being stupid and ignore all the possible red flags of this situation. Once Leon entered, he took off his snow boots and his coat. He turned to see the living room, hoping at least there was children to actually take care of, but it was only you and him.

"Wanna a beer?" You asked him with a tiny awkward smile.

Leon didn't drink beer in his babysitting job. But what is he gonna protect you from? "Yeah, that would be nice." He sat down on the couch and looked around. It was nice and toasty. You looked at him for a second before going to the kitchen and grabbing a beer. "Here ya go." She walked back and handed it to him.

He gladly accepted it. "Appreciate it."

You sat on the other side of the couch. You needed to see why this guy was going to be your babysitter. It was dumb. You are still convinced Leon got the wrong address, but for now, you will just stayed quiet and took a drink.

Your babysitter took a drink of his own beer.

Your head leaned on the couch to see Leon properly. It was unacceptable that this guy was hot. He looked cute and lovely, and unfortunately, it wasn't enough to flirt with him. Leon turned around to see you. He had a small smile, "I'm sorry. I know I seem like a red flag." He whispered.

Without a second, you nodded your head, "Yeah, it hard to think you are... y'know... normal?"

Leon chuckled softly, "I'm going to be a cop." You snorted a laugh, "That doesn't prove anything." A gentle tease.

Leon laughed a bit louder, "I guess you are right." He took a small drink of his beer. "But I wanted to become a cop to protect people. I grew up poor with my grandma after my parents died so..." Leon brushed his hair behind his ear. "I want to be good."

"It's a noble wish." You whispered softly.

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be chosen to work for Raccoon City." Leon leaned on the couch as he looked at your eyes. He swallowed, "It's... it's a nice place to start." You nodded your head as you listened to him speak; he had a lovely voice.

You two took a drink. You leaned closer to him, "It's nice." You confirmed.

Leon sighed softly, his cheeks redden from the warm place, "Listen," Leon rubbed gently his wrist, "Maybe I was... too stubborn." He couldn't even look at your eyes from the simple idea of him being wrong. Thinking his stuff more clearly, Leon sighed again, "I was wrong. Maybe you are right."

A small laugh appeared from your lips, "No way? Really?" You finished your beer and placed it between your thighs. Leon scowled, "I, I know." But he didn't seem offended by it. Immediately, he laughed softly, "I'm sorry." A small pause between you two, Leon looked down your thighs.

"Sorry." He whispered again.

Yeah, your own thoughts were infected at the idea so quickly. It was amusing that you first thought this dork wasn't worth it until his eyes traveled down at your thighs.

"It's, um," You cleared your throat, "Fine." Your hands grabbed the can of beer and put it on the coffee table. Leon's cheeks were redder before leaning completely forward. His lips were still a bit cold, but your warm lips didn't mind it. Gently, Leon got on top of you. His knees were side to side of your thighs, his lips tasted awful with the beer and the coldness. Yet it didn't stop you. Your lips moved with his, your lips gently sucked on his, and slowly, your tongue was inside of his mouth.

Leon's hands grabbed your hips against his, pulling them ever so gently. Leon's hips gently began to hump against you. You dropped the kiss, "L-leon..." You mumbled weakly, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he continued to hump you.

His humps were desperately slowly in attempts to get his erection, and certainly, you began to feel the bulge. Leon looked at you shyly.

God, who is this guy looking shy after grinding against you? "Are you wet?" He asked you.

Your cheeks burned up, "Um, a bit," You admitted softly, "But, I'm..." Your eyes were finally full-on focused into Leon. His cheeks were red, his bulge continued to grind against you. What kind of one night stand is this?

"Need more?" Leon whispered softly.

You nodded. Leon nodded his head and slowly got between your legs. "May I?" Leon asked. You nodded your head, "Yeah." Leon pressed his nose against your crotch, gently licking you. You gasped very weakly. His hands grabbed your hips so gently, holding you tightly. Even though you had pants on, you could feel how his hot breath felt.

"I'm ready." You whispered softly. Leon looked up at you, "You sure?" You knew it was too fast, but it was definitely worth it already. Another nod.

Leon sat up and undid your jean's button and slid them down. His eyes were focused on your thighs and your face, darting them up and down, "I, okay." He took off his own jeans. Your cheeks burned even more when you saw his dick. Your hands covered your face, "Um, I-" You laughed nervously.

"Don't laugh at it." Leon faked a pout.

His hand gently rubbed his dick and pumped it gently, "It has feelings." Slowly, the tip brushed your clit, you chewed on your lip as it slowly went inside. "Oh, fuck..." You muttered so ever weakly. Leon groaned weakly, his hips gently pushed more and more until he was completely in. His blue eyes met yours for a second and laughed, "I, I-" His dick twitched happily, he leaned close and began to kiss you. So gently and kindly. You followed behind him. Small pecks of kisses that slowly, little by little grew.

You held him tightly, his hands caressed your cheeks, "Mm, I, I could ask you on a date..." Leon mumbled against your lips. His hips slowly began to move, small little thrusts, "I don't, I don't usually do this..." Leon groaned weakly, "In the first date-" Leon rested his head on your neck and his hips went faster.

His tongue licked your neck and bite on your skin. Trying to be quiet. You gasped weakly as you felt him enter you in and out. His hands gently grabbed your breasts through your shirt, squeezing them gently.

Another weak whine, "L-Leon..." Leon lifted your shirt and shoved his face between your breasts as he thrusted deeper and deeper. He kissed your breasts gently and sucked your nipples.

Was this really all the attempts to keep quiet? To make you feel that you'll be loud. He gently nibbled on them, he growled weakly as he thrusts went faster and faster. "I, I need to..." Leon mumbled softly.

He groaned weakly, trying to hold in his release. You pulled him away from your breasts, his lips were covered with drool- his eyes were empty. He looked so pretty. You leaned weakly towards him and kissed him. He whined weakly, "Fu-Fuck, fuck..." Leon's hands travel down your lines, holding your thighs.

You were making this harder and harder for Leon.

Leon kissed your jaw as he continued to groan. His thrusts went into a bit harsher pounding, "C'mon, c'mon..."

He needed your release more than ever.

You felt how his cock just twitched over and over. His length moved in and out, the desperation in the two of you grew. His fingers found your clit and rubbed it. He whined. He finally whined with those grunts, it was just a mix of him rubbing it over and over.

You cried weakly, "Leon!"

His thrusts turned a bit sloppier, Leon groaned louder as he focused only, only in your pleasure. Soon enough, his cum exploded inside of you. Leon cursed softly as he felt your cunt hold him, your warmth was so nice. Inviting. Leon held your face. Giving you more and more kisses around your cheeks and lips. You gasped softly, trying to catch your breath, "Leon..." You mumbled weakly.

Leon pulled out of you and his cum slide down. His heart fluttered. He should have worn a condom, but all he could do is look at your face.

Leon laughed softly again and kissed you over and over, "I'm- I'm sorry." He was even more lovable. You laughed weakly, "Stop, stop it." Leon's eyes were so bright, and it made your heart melt even more.

Your hand gently held his, sharing a small moment until you heard your parents open the door. You two attempted to fix each other up, it was fast, but the smell of sex ruined the lovely winter joy. You fixed Leon's hair, his cheeks were still red, and he was met with another kiss. "I owe you the date." Leon whispered softly. He caressed your cheek before kissing you again.

"Oh, hi," It was your dad, "Um, who is the guy?" You gently pulled away, "He's.. he's my boyfriend." Leon blushed heavily. Babysitting isn't as tough, but Leon did have to remember he accidentally forgot his job. "Um, well," Leon forced a smile, "Hi."

[genericpuff]

CHAD ANON-

Alright so I've been meaning to post about this for a couple days, but we gotta talk about what's been going on in the /r/webtoons subreddit the last couple days.

Every now and then, the heavens part and an anonymous creator will descend with their experiences with Webtoons. And they're almost never good. And that's good in the long run, because that means we have more ammunition to support Webtoons being an ass platform that benefits no one :))

Obviously the anons here are risking a lot posting this sort of stuff, so before I go ahead, let it be known that I'm gonna try and keep speculating to a minimum and just touch on what anon has provided. When it comes down to it, this post hasn't been verified in any way, so it might not even be 100% real, though there's a lot of evidence to suggest it is based on the responses from other users that validate many of the points anon makes.

I will also mention that any opinion I have regarding the contract outside of what's been provided by anon is from reading other accounts from creators who have spoken up and just generally being a community member for a long time who's been around the bend and heard a lot of shit from Originals creators. I am not an Originals creator and I have never been offered any of these contracts.

So let's get into this!

The contract 'evolving' over time was definitely something that a lot of us were at least semi-aware of, as it seems that a lot has changed since 2020 as verified by many creators who have spoken up on their contracts (or at least said what they could in light of the NDA's that WT uses to prevent them from saying anything). But I had no idea the extent to how far WT was going with it, how much they were trying to get away with. Automatically having the ability to buy 100% of the creator's IP? That is a huge, massive no-no. I've had some creators heavily imply to me in the past that they've sold off portions of their IP, but WT being given the automatic pass to buy 100% is severely unethical.

For anyone out of the loop, IP means Intellectual Property. It means whatever content is being made, it belongs to the person making it. Lore Olympus is Rachel Smythe's IP. City of Blank is 66's IP. Of course, copyright law gets dicier when it comes to stuff like fair use, trademarking, etc. but for the sake of this topic, IP just means "if you made it, you own it". Webtoons typically buys digital print rights, meaning if you sign on as an Originals, that means you can only post that comic that you sold to the Originals section. It doesn't mean you can't use other platforms for other comics, just that for the comic you sold, you have to post exclusively to Webtoons.

Webtoons is essentially trying to take that from creators by going "if you sign on as an Originals creator, you don't just lose your distribution rights, you lose all of your rights." They might still be able to run Canvas comics separate from Originals, but whatever they sold to Originals is no longer theirs to own. And the kicker is that it's, of course, for a very low fee. Buying out 100% of someone's IP should NOT come cheap, but WT is undoubtedly offering pennies in the hope that someone bites for that 'exclusive' Originals offer.

This. This is a big one. I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure this is massively ILLEGAL.

Just like with the IP rights, creators should not automatically have their printing rights taken from them by a digital publisher. They can make offers, sure, but they can't force creators into giving up their rights for physical publishing when they themselves are not a physical publishing house. Some series do get physical prints through other publishers like Random House (ex. LO) but a digital printing platform should NOT be able to restrict the printing rights of a creator who has only sold their series for the purpose of digital distribution. Especially because, again, printing rights are usually sold for massive gains for the person selling them - not a portion of month's rent for people living in a shitty New York apartment in 2024. That is what Webtoons thinks your printing rights are worth.

This is one that I've been very certain of for the past little while, particularly due to my past discussions regarding LO's merch. Because let's face it... it isn't good.

But I don't hold Rachel accountable for this shit because she's not the one making it, it's almost certainly some in-house designer at Webtoons or some other third party through Random House Worlds. Sure, it says "By Rachel Smythe" but that's more so just for marketing at this point, because no one wants to buy merch made by Chuck the Penguin House merch guy.

Remember when I said LO's partnership with Inklore / Random House Worlds was gonna be purely for cheap merchandise in the realm of cookbooks and card decks?

Yeah.

Point is, it's clear a lot of creators who are part of Webtoons' merch program may not even have any say or choice in the matter. Of course, I don't know what Rachel's contracts specifically are like, so I won't speculate on that too much, but there's a lot of evidence to suggest that she may not own as much of LO as she used to. She was definitely a part of the older contracts from 2018 at one point that didn't have the more predatory tacked on bullshit like the Minimum Revenue Threshold, but... she's renewed her contract since then. So it begs the question of how much LO has suffered not just on her account of being bad at managing a team and writing a long-form story, but at the hands of Webtoons dipping too much of their hands into her work.

Oh look, another highly unethical if not outright illegal thing! Digital print publishers can't be your agent! Repeat after me -digital print publishers CANNOT be your agent! As anon explains here, it would make it far too easy for publishers to steer their creators into directions that only benefit the company. Agents are like lawyers for artists, their job is to protect writers, actors, artists, anyone who's trying to enter some kind of media industry. Most publishing agencies won't take unsolicited manuscripts for publishing, which means writers need agents who are willing to vouch for them and help them connect with publishers. Webtoons being the publisher AND the agent for creators... seriously, that's fucked up. It means Webtoons can direct creators to do whatever benefits the company itself, not the creator. But hey, we already knew that was the case as soon as we saw "Webtoon would be able to automatically buy 100% of your IP" LOL But if you needed more to support the sheer predatory audacity of Webtoons as a company, there it is.

This is the sad reality for a lot of content creators. Comics aren't a new industry, but webcomics are and a lot of the people going into them are either extremely young or just never learned how to navigate the professional world. We talked about this issue last week and now here it is in action - a lot of creators don't even realize they're supposed to hire lawyers for contracts like these, and those who do... can't afford them.

And again, I'm very aware that this reddit post isn't exactly substantiated by anything beyond anon anecdote (such as a copy of the actual contract) but a couple other people in the thread who were offered contracts also came forward to express the similarities - and differences - between what they were offered and what OP was offered.

(these responses are actually gone now but that's why we have the power of screenshotting as the thread was happening LMAO yay me)

This thread is also being discussed on Twitter:

For those who are as old and falling apart as I am (/hj) and remember when Youtube was still coming into its own as a platform, what Webtoons is doing to webcomic creators is very similar to what businesses like MakerStudios did to Youtubers back in the day - signing creators into predatory contracts with the promise of fame and fortune, just to pull the rug out from under them with shit pay, shit management, and less perks than they had just doing it all on their own time and dime.

Webcomics, as a blooming industry, are now going through the same problem as Youtube did back in the late 2000's/early 2010's. No one knows how to navigate the industry. A lot of people and businesses don't even know how to profit off it, at least not sustainably (and for some platforms definitely not ethically). Very few people have come out of this industry with the money and fame they were seeking in the long-term, both because it's easy to burn out quickly but also because there is no long-term yet due to this being such a new industry... and those who have come out with those victories are often people who are still just pursuing the traditional comic publishing ways of glory, by seeking out agents, signing print deals, and doing everything that any other freelance or contracted comic creator would do, because it's safer and offers more structure than what webcomics are offering on their own. There are no regulations, no protections in place looking out for creators, it's basically just a free for all of young people looking to monetize their creations and businesses willing to take advantage of those people for a quick buck.

I don't think any of this means that webcomics have to be exclusively relegated to being a "stepping stone" for traditional print comics or grander media like film and television. They're a medium in and of themselves, a very accessible medium to boot, that welcomes anyone regardless of their status, technical skills, or background. They're wonderful for that and I think more people should be willing to give webcomics a try as a medium if they want to express themselves on their own terms.

But as I've talked about in the past time and time again, there's still going to be a separation between doing webcomics as a passion project or a hobby, and doing them as a profession. When it comes to the latter, you have to be willing to treat it professionally. You have to recognize that there will be those out there who will take advantage of you for money, because that's what the professional world is all about. This is unfortunately something a lot of creators just don't realize, because we're going through those same growing pains a lot of Youtubers have gone through (and still go through) - learning how to navigate our passion as a job, with all of the legal mess, dotted lines, and legal stipulations that come with it. And we're in the midst of that learning now, by seeing the actions of companies like Webtoons that only seek to exploit creators rather than foster them. It unfortunately will take more creators getting screwed over before anything changes. But we have to be willing to talk about it, every single time. We have to be willing to separate the creator and their own faults from the faults of the platform that's hosting them - a creator can be both lacking in their own skills as a creator as well as lacking in support which makes it impossible for them to hone those skills.

And yes, I say all of this because it concerns the criticisms I make of creators like Rachel Smythe. I think there are a lot of things she does that are indicative of her as a creator and her inability to act professionally in this industry, from LO's rampant misogyny and objectification of women to her own misfires when interacting with her fandom. But there are also just as many things that can be potentially traced back to the platform - it's hard to make better content when you're constantly being exploited and hung out to dry.

Like anon, I too hope that more creators will be willing to stand up and speak on behalf of themselves and their peers, to push back against these contracts. It's gonna suck. It's gonna be hard to want to make those moves when just about every creator is just trying to put food on the table. But for every anonymous creator who stands up and speaks, for every person who isn't willing to sign those contracts and talk about the reasons why, for every storyteller who uses their skills to spread the message, the power they have grows. We have to make it impossible for Webtoons to continue to ignore.

After all, it would be a real shame for more of these stories to come to light just as Webtoons is seeking an initial public offering in the stock market. Wouldn't that just be so unfortunate for them? :)

[the-kr8tor]

Hobie nurses you back to health.

Feat: the cats

Pairing: Hobie Brown x f!reader / Spider-Punk x f!reader

Word count: 2.2k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, fluff, description of sickness, established relationship.

My Masterlist

A continuation of this fic but you don't need to read it to understand this one.

*I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms*

Carefully swinging from building to building, Hobie clutches the fragile bag in his hand, careful not to spill a drop of the precious chicken soup from your favourite deli.

Before he left for patrol in the morning, you already felt the sickness crawling in your throat, so much so you didn't kiss Hobie goodbye that morning, in case you got him sick. He didn't want to leave you alone at first, but you insisted that it's probably just hay fever. And you're not alone, you've got your three little gremlins with you to keep you company.

You know that the city needed Spider-Punk more than you needed your boyfriend. That's why Hobie's so adamant in taking care of you now that his patrol is over, and all seems to be quiet around the city. All his attention is now on you, and making you better.

Hobie finally reaches your flat, he perches himself on your fire escape, peeking through your dimly lit bedroom, he sees your folded form buried under a mountain of blankets. Your air purifier puffs out clouds directly at your contorted face. He hates seeing you like this, he should've taken a break in his patrol, if it weren't for this week's villain, he would've had the time to check up on you.

He feels bad leaving you alone in this state.

Hobie opens your window, a gust of much needed fresh air enters your room, an orange glow hits your face directly.

You groan in your bed when the late afternoon sun shines directly at your sensitive eyes; shielding yourself from the light, you turn around lifting the heavy blankets over your head.

Hobie lifts his mask over his head "Hey, I bought you chicken soup" he softly says in case your ears are also sensitive.

" 'm not hungry" your voice muffled by the blankets over your face.

Hobie looks at the discarded bottle of medicine, empty packets of paracetamol, and a moist rag next to your bed. But no dirty plates or glass near you, you haven't eaten anything since he left.

Hobie sits down next to you, before he settles down, he hears a hiss on top of your body.

Crowley opens his bright emerald eyes, the only thing that Hobie sees of the cat; with the dark blankets and dimly lit room, Crowley's fur perfectly camouflages on top of you. The little dark void stands up as if he's challenging Hobie.

"Oi, we're on the same side, I'm gonna take care of her" Hobie scolds the hell spawn.

Your arm reaches out of the mountain of blankets to pet Crowley, calming him down.

Hobie grabs the end of the blanket, pulling it down to see your face. He touches your forehead lightly to feel your temperature. You're hot, dangerously so, even with his glove he still feels the warmth.

"Fuck lovey, you're burning up" Hobie's voice echoes with concern.

"Hmm?" You look at him with your half lidded eyes. "Hey baby, when'd you get here?" You're delirious, you feel like your mouth's full of cotton, hot air comes out of your nose.

"Shit, we need to lower your temperature" he leaves the soup on top of your side table, tissues and bottles fall on the floor to make room for the warm soup.

He leaves briefly to go to your bathroom, filling up your bathtub with cold water. Crowley makes biscuits on your blanket covered chest.

Hobie comes back, seeing the scene in front of him he stops for a moment to take a mental picture of it. He rushes to you flipping your blankets away from you, Hobie sees in his peripheral that Crowley moved away before getting smacked in the face. That's definitely gonna bite him back, literally and figuratively. He'll apologize to him later, right now he needs to get you to your bathtub ASAP.

When the blankets are pulled away from you, a chill runs through you, a second later heat rushes throughout your body. You feel hot and cold at the same time. The fever clouds your mind; you mumble in Hobie's chest as he carries you.

Hobie carefully sits you down on the edge of the tub, he crouches down next to you with a wet rug in his hand. You can hear the loud rush of water behind you.

"Hnng" You cover your sensitive ears, Hobie sees your reaction, he quickly shuts off the tap, concern on his face.

He carefully holds your chin up so you're facing him. "This is gonna be cold, I'm sorry" he dabs the cloth on your forehead, testing your reaction.

You instinctively flinch away from the cold, "oww" Your joints cry out in pain, every muscle in your body protests against the cold rag. But you don't flinch away when he lays the cold rag against your collarbone.

"That's it, lovey, taking it like a champ"

Hobie opens a couple of buttons on your pajama shirt so he could wipe your chest. He hears a mewl from behind him, Crowley sits elegantly on your countertop, eyes judging Hobie.

Hobie looks over his shoulder, "yeah, yeah I'm being careful" He talks to your cat like he understands his meows.

Crowley answers with a louder meow "Yes, I will wipe behind her bloody ears, d' you think you could do any better?" Hobie raises the rag towards Crowley.

Crowley scrunches his nose at the rag, "I didn't think so" Hobie squares off with your cat, Hobie continues to carefully wipe your arms as Crowley stares daggers at his back.

You stare at Hobie curiously, in your state you have no idea if you're just imagining your boyfriend having an argument with your cat.

You hold on to Hobie's strong shoulder, getting his attention. "Are you fighting with Crowley?" You tilt your head questioningly.

Hobie smiles that you're finally aware of your surroundings, "There's my girl," he pecks your sweaty forehead. "He's being a little shit, that's why"

Your eyes widen "you can understand him?! Is that part of your spidey powers?" You shake his shoulder weakly.

"Love," He pinches the bridge of his nose "I don't even know how to answer that" he squeezes out the excess water from the rag to trickle down on your head.

"Ack! Hobie!" You glare daggers at him, mimicking what Crowley might look like behind him.

"Just a little bit of water," he wipes little droplets off your eye lids with his thumb. "How do you feel? Better, yeah?"

You drop your head on his shoulder with a thud, "tired" you sigh, snuggling further into the crook of his neck.

Hobie hugs you, he kisses the side of your head affectionately, rubbing your back he feels your fever sweat through your thin pajama shirt.

You cringe when you feel him tugging up at your drenched shirt, "I'm sorry, I'm such a mess" your voice vibrates against Hobie's skin.

"Don't be, this is nothing compared to what I've seen 'round pubs" he cradles your head, moving stray hairs away from your tacky skin. "I need to change you out of those clothes, yeah?"

"If you wanted to rip my clothes off, you should have said so" you teasingly said with your hoarse voice.

Hobie chuckles at your sense of humor, despite your sickness. "When you're better, I'll do just that"

Lifting your head away from his shoulder, you stare at him lovingly "I better get… better then" fumbling over your words. You give him your sickenly sweet smile.

After a change of clothes, a much needed toothbrush and change of linens; Hobie guides you back to bed, with Crowley following closely behind.

"Good, the soup's still hot"

Recognizing the packaging of the soup, you instantly perk up "Is that from Tom's deli?"

"Yeah, you should have seen old Tom's face when I came in as Spider-Punk" he sits down next to you as you prop yourself up to a sitting position.

"Did he look giddy?" You make grabbing hands towards the tupperware. You feel a little bit better, still feverish though.

"Giddy as a school girl, he even asked for a bloody selfie" Hobie opens the lid, the familiar savory smell wafts through your room, relaxing your muscles.

You giggle at the mental image, "did he get it? The picture with you?"

"Yeah, in exchange he didn't let me pay for it, even though I was shoving him money"

You imagine the entire interaction between the two, both being stubborn as they are, you would pay money to see it.

Hobie takes a spoonful of the soup, blowing on it carefully before he feeds it to you. You don't protest, even though you feel good enough to feed yourself. Hobie's being so sweet and sensitive you let it slide this time.

You haven't seen this side of him before, sure he's always sweet on you, but this? He's been so attentive to your needs and your pain, you can't help but love him even more. You never heard a single complaint or scolding for making him take care of you, just for that you're already thankful for. You feel his love shine through with every caress, and concerned look.

As you swallow the soup, you can't help when a sob breaks through, fat tears slide down your cheeks.

"Shit, was it still hot?" Crowley loudly meows at Hobie, as if to say: what did you do now? Hobie ignores the cat. "Love, are you okay? Where are you hurting?"

You shake your head, "nothing hurts, it's silly, I'm sorry" you wipe your tears with your sleeves as you avoid eye contact.

Hobie puts down the bowl on the nightstand to carefully cup your tear stained cheeks. "Hey, it's not silly, please tell me. Y'know you can tell me anything" his heart hurts with every tear you let out, "if you're not ready to tell me it's okay, just know I'm here, yeah?"

You finally look at him with a brave face, you exhale and finally let it go "I love you" you feel heat behind your eyes, the fever's crawling up again. "So much Hobie Brown, and it's not the fever talking. It's okay if you don't say it back, just wanted you to know"

Saying it loudly for the first time turns your arms and legs into jelly, the three words send shivers down your spine. And yet you stare at him directly, waiting for his reaction.

He feels slightly offended at your last comment, how dare you think he doesn't love you enough to not say it back to you. "You're a bloody idiot"

Your face falls, before you could think of the worst, he kisses you suddenly, it's messy and fast, your teeth clashing with his, you feel his lip ring against your lips. Pulling away first, breathlessness clings to you, if it wasn't for the flu affecting your lungs you would've lasted longer.

Hobie holds your face tenderly "Fuck you for ever thinking that I won't say it back," He swipes at the beads of sweat on your forehead, "Because I've said it a hundred times in my head. I love you" he kisses your tacky cheeks, "I love you," he pecks your nose, you chuckle at his kisses. "I love you," he kisses the corner of your eye "I love you, so fucking much" he confesses.

You let out a sigh of relief, holding the back of his neck as you guide him towards your shoulder, hugging him tightly you feel the roughness of his suit. He sighs into your hug, he feels a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders. You wish you could hold him in your arms forever, protected and loved.

The other two cats trudge in your room nonchalantly. Hobie feels eyes on his back, he cranes his neck to look at Crowley.

Crowley stares at Hobie, he moves his tail from side to side before he curls against himself. While Crumpet and Teacup jump over to your nightstand to smell your soup.

"He's warming up to you" you sniff while caressing his cheek.

"He watched over you, while I was gone. Can't say the same thing to those two though" Hobie moves his head towards the couple sniffing at your food. "Oi bloody leeches, couldn't even bother watching over your sick mum, huh"

Teacup jumps at Hobie's raised voice, while Crumpet's paw wipes at her face. Hobie translates that action to being ashamed from his scolding.

"Yeah, you better be ashamed" Hobie glares at the two cats.

"Stop picking fights with them" you giggle.

He reluctantly pulls away from your warmth, "they deserve a scolding" Hobie grabs the bowl again "now let's get you up and running again, yeah?"

You nod, grinning ear to ear.

—

A few weeks later, with Hobie's help you're finally strong enough to go jogging again. After your run, you head towards Tom's deli to grab your usual. To your surprise, you see Spider-Punk and Tom's picture above the stove, Hobie holding your soup in his hand while his free arm hangs over Tom's shoulders,Tom widely smiles making a peace sign. Tom sees you staring at the picture, he skips over to you, telling the story behind the picture while he shows it off, pride coating his voice. Your smile gets bigger with every wild gesture he makes.

A/n: hope you liked it! And yes Crowley is named after Neil Gaiman's Crowley. As always likes and reblogs are appreciated ❤️❤️❤️

*picture above is from pinterest*

[theoccultz]

Why do people crush on you ?

A reading on what attract others to you ?

General reading ,take what resonates leave what doesn't

Psychic reading

LGBTQIA+ friendly

Pics not mine credits to their rightful owners

Take a deep breath and select your pile !!

Posted on : Sep 26,2023

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✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩

Pile l . Cake

Let me know which pile you selected!! your likes ,comments,reblogs & feedbacks are appreciated (:

People find you exciting to be around,i'm getting saggitarius vibe its a giddy feeling like others know its gonna be a fun and stimulating night in your presence ,others can feel you have a great sense of fashion and that you hold a lot of knowledge and wisdom within you , you have androgenous vibe to you, you attract different kinds of people, people find you really endearing pile 1 they see you as someone courageous someone who'll stand up for them , someone who's a great companion to be around.others could talk about you A LOT ,you remind them of various things ,People find you relatable you could post things that can relate to many or you say certain things which in this age is obvious but oblivious to recognise at the same time and it could put others into a reflective mode . people feel like you've got it all like you never back down from challenges you show an enormous amount of resilience , i'm getting cloudy rainy day vibes that's how comforting it is .

You could show compassion to " yourself" and others could know abt it or they pick up from your vibe there's a really comforting vibe to you ,you could heal depths of others subconscious just by sharing your energy and experiences with them , very interesting i'm picking up that people want to fight you because they wanna prove to you , gain your approval anyhow, they're really persistent on the idea of wanting your validation now there's a catch either you are really intelligent & articulate on many levels or either its people feeling they need to match upto certain standards of reality. Others could see you as someone who's peaceful like you will find a solution you have an impact on others idealistic view i feel like you have a real take on things you could have felt like growing up you're alienated , different from others where they see 6 you see 9 and now you're proud of the fact that you dont go about things one-way. Your kindness is deeply appreciated.

Others see that you remember little things about them you are the person who they can sit in silence without feeling uncomfortable . Others think you have a really unique face like those who look like birds *SOME PEOPLE DO LOOK LIKE BIRDS *lol overall appealing to look at ,others feel like you have manners like you just dont talk the talk you have gone through it yourself , others could feel sad if they loose you because you're a great person and it'd be upsetting to losea great part of yourself y'know something that makes you happy ...i feel like you can shift energy of the room you're giving me really sweet lover vibes like that friend who's leaning in to hug , tugging your hairs , lookin' into your eyes 👁️ . Thats really sweet honestly.

You could suffer from imposter syndrome feel like you're not valued enough or you're invisible to others but no others defend you in your absence😤you're really important to them, believe that you're a good person pile one you heal many hearts. Yeah i could go on & on there's just a lot to say ,lets stop here(:

Things that could resonate w/you :

Mars in 6th house ,chappy lios ,butch , classy ,cindy ,ground nuts , foil , childlike spirit , ballon ,dior , pet parrot , orange car, authentic, relient ,new jersey , authoritive, sweet lemon , sharp confused eye look , malfunction , delivery, 5 months , loca shakira, night owl , city lights movie , late night drive ,writer , publisher , braids ? , europe , Amsterdam ,south africa , onethek? One take? Switzerland, Syria , Manchester , India ,russia , messi, serpamt tatto or ring , sportsmanship,pretty woman ~mino , sappho ,lauren ,R - 5- 9 -2 , 6:00 clock ,rap jazz , attended a show fest .

Song that matches your vibe: new moon

Thanks for reading!!

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Pile ll -Zero

Let me know which pile you selected!! your likes ,comments,reblogs & feedbacks are appreciated (:

Ah don't underestimate the power of zero , everything begins with zero

You remind people of nostalgic memories mostly joyful one's ...when others was experiencing life and not surviving it , people could really find your presence to be enticing you could be sassy and upfront , you guys could be my witches i see you hate wasting your time on surface level relationships, you are remembered by others for a really long time for instance ..oh this person was so mischevious and playful when they were little yeah i really feel like others miss being in your presence a lot

Others really love to tease you a lot they think behind that tough macho exterior there's a really gentle spirit wanting to unleash its potential, i heard smoking mirrors others could not meet you or see you around a lot there's a need to get to know you or want to spend time with you like others cant get enough you could find yourself feeling quite overwhelmed at times because of this , i found myself stutering others could really feel the energy of do not mess with me ,do not project your shit on me lol

I feel like there were some people in your life who didn't treated you right and you found yourself securing little aspects that others really love ..that could surprise you pile 2 but even if you're quirky , weird , mysterious you're still worth it and others do tend to lookout for you a lot. Others feel like nothing can escape from you ,you are keen on little things ,others feel like they can build a lot with you like people think longterm with you , congrats 👏 pile 2 not many of us trigger that within people to settle down or appreciate things as they are not constantly worrying about realigning things , being okay with enough. Others see that you work on yourself and you're unafraid of judgements ,thats so powerful pile2. Keep going.

I feel like you have seen a lot in your life you know how to go about things now but it wasn't always like this and i respect your patience and your ability to have faith in yourself, you value little to little things and others tend to be drawn by these little yet impactful habits of yours ...lol its cute. Others really see you as moving forward than backwards you are not stuck in your way ,you are sure competitive and a builder of your own world but there's always space for everyone who's seeking home, people remember you for a long time pile2 you're not a forgetten memory . You remind me very much of "libra energy and octopus" because they have these sensitive touch and they are so intelligent with sense of boundaries its amazing.

I honestly cant describe you in words i'm being reminded of water panther (mishipeshu) and i honestly dont know how to describe that energy . I feel like i said too much but didn't said enough.

Random things i heard:

Eros , literature, mathodical, coffee , strangers from hell , darren , sensitivity,sweet , melancholic, Mariposa Ave, suite , deligent , bambii , casanova , tone , sprite , notorious, horror ,trivia ,story , m , 7 ,5 ,8 ,2 , master manipulator , kinky , nest think of it more as a message and monkey Chinese.

Song that matches your vibe: tempted

Thanks for reading !!

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Pile lll-Hypnotise

Let me know which pile you selected!! your likes ,comments,reblogs & feedbacks are appreciated (:

There's a lot of emphasize on energy ,you are reminding me of an introverted actress who looks like she's anxious but oh the way she talks and presents herself she's so charming,she always give me the energy of looking for more not underestimating herself she's someone who's searching to play vital role in others life , she's soulsearching .

People could just feel a lot around you you could notice others kind of reorganising their stuff or trying to get things in order as if they are creating space in their energy for you yeah fuck this is so beautiful , others find you interesting usually in the first meeting Others can see how hardworking and interesting you are to the core , people recognise you deeply you can open anyones vulnerable heart ,you are comfortable to be around but not easy you could look a certain way but you're not all that there's a depth in you that's unreachable , your spirit reminds me of cobra and starfish its really sweet ,looks untouchable something interesting but like hurting you this much was worth it ? Its like people feel like you're a good person and that you are right for defending yourself against all odds .

You could be outcasted at a young age ,criticised for behaving like how a child is suppose to behave, others could have really pressursed you into taking responsibility or felt ircked by not having you lured into their shadow yeah i feel as though you despise this part of you in the early stages of development but now you understand its not you its ' them ' ,you have this i'm here to start a revolution not afraid to get things messed up and just be myself and that's really attractive you are the typa person who i'd tell my friend to bring again for the meet-up there's just so much to unfold,your energy speaks for itself and you dont need to be ashamed of that ,you know how to discipline others there's authority to you .

Others feel overprotective and sometimes underwhelmed as well because its frustrating to just feel things and not discover anything any soon it raises a lot of questions i'd even go as far to say others could find your vulnerable self beautiful cause how dare i be in your presence i feel less uff

That was intense its like i was walking on eggshells i didn't wanted to hurt you

People like you cause you're " heartless " lol in a sarcastic way ,you are not what they hear ,you are just like others though more intense ,more honest with yourself , with others ....thence sparking curiousity . honestly i feel like others really dont fuck with your inner child experience . There's a different side to you that seems decieving i mean ofc everyone is but no ones honest abt it .you remind me those moms who didn't wanted pet but hey look who's children it is now... lol cute .

Extra messages i heard:

Pretty little liar , cant get enough of you ,need morr time , lacking patience ,seeks reliability, advanced technology, do your own research ,like you better ,mars in 5th house , recent solar return, pluto 3rd4th house , stigma , give him first, courtesy, merry , jeremy , lisa , kristoffer , present, love , invention ,555,909, 812 lesson , extraordinary*saas* universal experience, heritage ,albania , not Usually seen or known , athletic, overpowering, educated , seek for deeper understanding, not cold but cool , defense mechanism, s ,y ,aquarius , light :the healer ,maron , wareen warning? Tag, archive. Your piles messages was so random .

Song that matches your vibe: fuck my life

Thanks for reading!!