#Which you have to PAY MORE FOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[yuyuyukiii]

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[luckkparker]

On Physical Media

When my nan first showed signs of Lewy body dementia, it became obvious that she would need to be moved from her single-story brick home in Fairlight into an aged care home — one with round-the-clock supervision.

It started with collapses in the supermarket. Then came the hallucinations — bugs crawling on the walls of her hospital room — and finally, she began confusing me for my mother. They never had a great relationship, so when I went to embrace her — in that clinically mangled bed — the rejection felt all the more saddening. She spoke to me, believing I was my mother.

“Make sure the kids get $100 from me. I know they’re worried about me.” I cried in that moment — an automatic response — a mixture of ego and a fear of mortality. “I didn’t realise you cared for me this much, Fran.”

A family meeting took place shortly after.

My father, his three sisters (at the time), and his brother discussed money, facilities, and next steps. This was two days after Christmas, 2023. By April, I was told that, as the only person in our family over the age of 18 and without full-time employment (ouch), it would be my responsibility to sift through every item in her bungalow and decide: What was sentimental? What was donatable? And what was trash?

I had inadvertently been training my whole life for this moment. My mother was a spring-cleaning fanatic. Like clockwork, once every three months throughout my entire childhood, I would be tasked with auditing the value of the objects in my possession — having to concretely prove how my pink bubble CD player added to my happiness and thus deserved the 30cm² of space it occupied in my bedroom.

How morbid — years of unknowingly prepping for the eventual collapse of my poor nan’s mind.

September rolled around. The cardboard boxes were ready — as were the jumbo reinforced black garbage bags. I thought I was ready too. How naive.

I started with her chestnut TV chest. 152 vinyls, ranging from Scottish choir hymns to Talking Heads. 65 VHS tapes — every Disney princess I wanted to be, now covered in dust and cockroach dung. Every single PG and G-rated film produced between 1999 and 2009 — the last year I had a sleepover in that single-bed room, adorned with nothing but flannel sheets and a strangely attractive portrait of Mother Mary on the bedside table.

I was sorting through the physical remnants of my childhood, unaware that my nan had curated every like, dislike, and fantasy of my youth. Now I was faced with the impossible task of determining the worth of my memories.

Keep, donate, or throw away.

Her living room, now devoid of most of its furniture and décor, began to flicker with projections of times gone by. I could see my brother and me cuddled up to her on the couch, laughing hysterically at our Pa’s flatulence. This fragment vanished as quickly as it appeared, only to be replaced with another. I saw my nan picking out a CD from her ridiculous collection to play as we tended to her rose garden, which surrounded a clay statue of Mary. Just as I saw my six-year-old self jump in the air at the sound of Mika, surrounded by deep reds in bloom — the vision faded. I was left staring at a now bone-dry garden and a lonely Mary, stained with white bird crap.

What could’ve been accomplished in a day by my mother — unsentimental and practical — was stretching into weeks for me. My father had to stage an intervention.

“Hi, cookie girl. I know this isn’t easy. Carmel’s a hoarder, after all, but we don’t have a lot of time left. We need to sell the house so we can pay for her care.”

My father was right. My nostalgia was delaying the truth: my nan wasn’t going to get better, and these things had no place in our lives anymore.

We hadn’t owned a media player of any kind in eight years, for Christ’s sake. Stan, Binge, Netflix, HBO Max, and Prime now housed my childhood — all for $69.97 a month.

I eventually finished sorting through my nan’s house — every item accounted for and distributed to its proper place. I did, however, keep three things for myself:

An LG 220K20D TV

An LG V8824W DVD & VCR player

Shrek 2 on DVD

A challenge to build my own media collection. A tribute to my nan.

-- Luckk

Nothing like holding my love

[ellewritesx]

guide me slowly

(part four of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: One hand around your throat. The other between your legs. Turns out, Harry's very good at listening.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, talk about kinks, fingering, knee riding, choking, praise kink, some dom!Harry

Based on: this ask!

A/N: this took one took foreverrr to write, sorry lovelies! i've just been so busy, but thankfully i'll have loads of time to write this month. how have you guys been doing? my inbox is open, come talk to me! hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think, love you sm x

Word Count: 3,556

...

You're smiling when he pulls open the heavy wooden door, a hand on the curve of your back over your dress as he gently steers you into the restaurant. There's something so natural about it, about the ease with which you move together now, the unspoken awareness of his fingers grazing your hip as he thanks the hostess.

The glow of candlelight paints the wood-paneled walls in a golden hue, tucked away in one of the more high-end streets of the city. You get the feeling he likes it that way, the quiet, the seclusion. The kind of place that feels like it's pressing pause on the rest of the world.

You settle into the booth Harry reserved for the two of you, and he slides in beside you, thigh brushing yours. He takes the bottle of wine already sitting in a cooler and pours you a glass, then his own.

''Alright, go on,'' he says, voice teasing as he picks up a menu. ''Tell me how charming I am again.''

You raise a brow at him, smiling behind the rim of your wine glass. ''I never said you were charming.''

''No, but you're blushing. That says enough.''

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are a little warm. ''You're lucky I like you.''

He leans in just enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne, and you can't help but squeeze your thighs together under the table. ''You have no idea,'' he murmurs, eyes scanning your face.

The air shifts, as it always does between you two. A joke turns into a moment. A glance turns into a throbbing between your legs. You're still getting used to it, the way he pays attention to you, the way he always puts your needs before his own without hesitation.

The waitress comes and goes with your orders, barely glancing at you once she sees who she's serving. Harry doesn't seem to notice, or he does, but pretends not to, and you watch the side of his face as he orders two bowls of a pasta dish he insists you have to try and thanks her, polite and unbothered, like he's not the most famous man in the restaurant. You wonder how often he's had to pretend not to notice the stares, how it feels when everyone knows your face.

He turns back to you with that familiar, lopsided smile, the one that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, and now that you're alone again, the conversation starts to unravel into something softer. He asks you how your week's been. You tell him about a book you've been reading, a walk you took the other day, the little things that most people don't care about, but he listens to everything you say like it's the most important thing in the world. After a sip of wine you ask him something that's been rolling around your mind.

''Do you ever get tired of being… y'know. Recognized? Looked at?''

Harry tilts his glass in his hand, eyes scanning the table as he contemplates the question. ''Sometimes. Depends.''

''On what?''

He exhales slowly, like he's trying to decide how honest to be. ''On the day. On the mood I'm in. Sometimes it feels harmless, someone smiling at me in a grocery store, or a fan wanting a photo. It's nice. Other times…'' He pauses. ''It makes me feel like I'm in a glass box. Like I'm being watched through it, but I can't touch anything on the other side. It's... isolating, at times. I don't know.''

Your heart twists a little at the image. ''That sounds lonely.''

''It can be,'' he admits. ''But it's part of the deal, right? I asked for this. Not all of it, not the way people think they own you, or the weird entitlement, but the rest of it. The music, the performing, the connection with people. That's the part I couldn't live without.''

You nod slowly, letting his words settle. ''Do you think people ever really see the real you?''

He glances sideways at you, then nudges your foot under the table. ''You do.'' He reaches for your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it like you're some old-Hollywood starlet.

Your breath catches.

''Alright. That was depressing, let's move on,'' he says, looking at you with a conspiratorial smile as he leans in closer, your hand still in his. ''Deep questions or embarrassing childhood stories?''

You laugh. ''Are those my only two options?''

''I mean, I could ask about your thoughts on parallel universes, but we've only had half a glass of wine.''

You pretend to think. ''Embarrassing stories, then. I want to know all your secrets.''

''Dangerous.'' He leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. ''Okay. I had this phase, I reckon I was around nine or ten, where I genuinely believed I was going to be a magician. I made my mum sit through hours of these dreadful performances in the living room. My sister still has the photos, I'm sure.''

''I'm going to need to see those.''

...

Harry fumbles with the keys, and you lean against the doorframe, watching him with your shoes dangling from your fingers and your smile still stuck in place. You're both laughing when you walk through the door, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.

''Remind me to never let you order in Italian again,'' you say, squinting at him. ''Your accent is awful when you're drunk.''

He grins, dimples deep. ''It's called authenticity, darling.''

''It's called cultural appropriation, Harold.''

He lets out a bark of laughter and tosses his keys on the entryway table. ''And I'm not drunk, I'm just... tipsy. Barely. Just like you are.''

''How come you're such a lightweight at, what, 170 pounds of pure muscle?'' you say with a huffed laugh, heading toward the kitchen, ''I'm revoking your wine privileges.''

''You wound me.''

But he's already trailing after you, tugging his rings off one by one and setting them carefully on the counter. The top few buttons of his shirt have come undone over the course of the evening, revealing the slope of his collarbone and the beginning of that stupidly pretty chest you try not to stare at. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, and the tattoos scattered across his skin look like they're moving under the soft kitchen lights. You bite your lip at the sight of the swallows on his collarbones, sinful thoughts flooding your mind.

You turn away quickly, focusing on taking off your earrings.

The silence is comfortable, filled with the occasional clink of jewelry being set down, the soft sloshing of wine as Harry uncorks another bottle behind you and pours two glasses. You send him a disapproving look, but he cuts you off with a smug smile.

''You know,'' he says, passing you a glass and bumping his shoulder into yours. ''You look very beautiful tonight.''

You glance at him. ''Only tonight?''

He grins again, softer this time. ''Especially tonight.''

You roll your eyes fondly but take a sip of wine to hide your smile. ''Flattery will get you everywhere.''

''That's the plan,'' he grins, leaning against the counter beside you.

You both fall quiet for a moment, and you let the hush settle around you. He looks relaxed like this, sleeves rolled up, wine in hand, curls a little unruly from where your fingers kept brushing through them on the drive home. There's something about this version of him, the real him, that makes your chest ache a little.

''Can I ask you something?'' you say eventually, swirling the wine in your glass.

He hum softly, gazing at you intently over the rim of his glass.

''Is it hard pretending to be somebody you're not? Like... in the media?''

The question hangs in the air for a beat. He exhales slowly, setting his glass down on the counter.

''I don't. I show the public a side of myself,'' he says after a moment. ''If I presented myself to be a completely different person... I wouldn't be able to keep up with that. What the public sees, it's... limited, but it's still me. A part of me, anyway.''

You nod. ''That makes sense.''

''It's weird, really, when the entire world thinks they're entitled to knowing everything about you. They want to know all my intimate, dirty secrets while they keep their own hidden. It's invasive, and wildly hypocritical,'' he says, staring at a scratch on the counter, before smiling softly. ''But the view I have from the stage... It's worth all the scrutiny, the speculation, the vile headlines. All of it.''

Your nod softly, and your voice is quieter when you speak. ''For what it's worth, you'll never have to deal with any of it alone as long as I'm here. The highs and the lows.''

''I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. You.''

The words sit heavy in your chest. You take another sip of wine, then shift your weight so your hip bumps lightly against his.

''Hey,'' you say, glancing at him sidelong, wanting to lift his spirits. ''You're not the only one with layers, you know.''

Harry raises an eyebrow. ''Oh?''

''I have hidden depths. Mystery. Intimate, dirty secrets.''

He smirks. ''Any of these dirty secrets you're willing to share?''

You pretend to think. ''Maybe.''

His voice drops a little lower. ''Like what?''

There's a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes now, of interest. That quiet kind of intensity he gets when he's trying to read between your words. You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug, trying to keep your tone light, and you know you have him hooked.

''I don't know. Like… I guess I've thought about certain things. Wondered what I might like.''

''You can tell me,'' he says, softer now. ''No pressure.''

You glance down into your wineglass, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how warm the air feels around you. ''Okay,'' you say, half-laughing at yourself. ''But only if you go first.''

He lets out a low chuckle and sets his glass aside completely, folding his arms loosely across his chest. ''Alright. Let's see…'' There's a thoughtful pause before he continues. ''I like being in control. I like guiding things. Making someone feel safe while still pushing a little. Watching them fall apart and knowing I'm the reason.''

Your stomach flips.

''And I like praise,'' he adds. ''Giving it, mostly. I like letting someone know when they're doing well. When they're being good for me.''

You don't realize you're holding your breath until you exhale.

He smiles, a little smug. ''Too much?''

''No,'' you say quickly, ''Not at all. I just… I didn't expect you to say all that so easily.''

He shrugs, playful. ''You asked.''

There's another pause. He doesn't press, just waits. His patience is almost worse than pressure, because you want to tell him. You want him to know. But the words seem to be stuck in your chest, the weight of them making it a little harder to breathe.

You take another sip of wine and then clear your throat.

''I guess I've always liked the idea of… being told what to do,'' you admit. ''Not in a 'do my laundry' way. Just in bed. I like the thought of someone being a little more dominant. Someone guiding me.''

Harry nods, gaze soft but focused. ''That makes sense, especially when it's your first time.''

''Exactly why I'd want someone to take control, take some of the pressure off me. And maybe…'' You hesitate, and then decide to hell with it. ''I'd like to be blindfolded? To surrender control to another person like that... I don't know, the mutual trust, it excites me.''

His smile deepens, slow, pleased. ''That can definitely be arranged.''

''Stop,'' you say, flustered, nudging his arm. ''We're just talking.''

''I know,'' he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. ''But I'm taking notes. So, guidance. Trust. A little control. Anything else?''

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. You run your hands through your hair, debating on your choice of words. ''I think... I'd like to try, um, having your hand around my throat?''

''How?'' he asks breathlessly, taking a step closer and brushing your hair over your shoulder. He takes off your necklace with reverence, fingers deliberately brushing along your collarbone.

You swallow. ''Not like… suffocating. But enough to feel lightheaded, to feel the power you have over me in that moment. I don't know.''

''Like this?'' His voice is almost a whisper as his hand slowly slides up your body to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just... there. You tilt your head back to lean on his shoulder, trying to ignore the undeniable throbbing between your thighs.

You nod once, barely able to move your head with his grip on your neck, but he's not satisfied. He gives your throat a gentle squeeze, just enough to make your lips part and your breath hitch. ''I asked you a question, baby. Be a good girl and answer it for me.''

Your eyes flutter shut, heartbeat thrumming in your ears. ''Yeah... Yeah, um, exactly like this.''

He hums appreciatively, pressing a kiss to your temple.

''We're still just talking?'' you ask, teasing but shaky.

He smiles, softer now. ''For now.''

...

By the time you make it to the bedroom, the air is thick with anticipation, with desire. Harry shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and while you don't turn to look at him, pretending to be focused on the glow of the bedside lamp, the way it spills light across the sheets, your entire body is aware of his presence.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks up behind you, slow and steady, like he's giving you a chance to back away if you change your mind. But you don't. You stand still, letting the heat of his body press against your back, and when he dips his mouth down to kiss your shoulder, your breath catches like it always does.

''So brave,'' he murmurs, lips dragging up your neck. ''Telling me what you want.''

He turns you around then, hands firm on your waist, and his eyes, half-lidded from wine and want, flick across your face. The veins on his forearms, running through the inked skin, stand out as he holds you. His thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the warm skin just above your waistband.

''Tell me again,'' he says, voice low. ''Tell me what you want.''

You inhale, shaky. ''I want you to touch me. Guide me, Harry.''

The groan he lets out is quiet and restrained, but it curls hot in your belly. ''Good girl,'' he says, kissing you hard, quick. ''Get on the bed.''

You do. You sit first, then scoot back until you're in the middle of the bed. He follows, nudging your legs open with his knee and climbing between them as he crashes his lip into yours. You reach for his shirt, undoing the last few buttons while he watches you, the heat in his eyes dark and undivided. He shrugs it off his shoulders and tosses it aside, and for a second all you can do is stare at him.

You've seen him shirtless before, but it never fails to take your breath away. His chest is rising and falling in anticipation, his skin flushed and glistening in the lamp light, his eyes drinking you in.

He leans down and kisses you again, slower now, deeper. The kind of kiss that sinks into your bloodstream, lighting up every part of your body with lust. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your waist, palming your breasts over your dress. And then, without warning, he shifts forward and presses his knee right between your legs.

The pressure is instant. Your hips twitch toward it.

''Oh,'' you breathe, gripping his shoulders.

He smiles against your mouth. ''Feel good?''

You nod. ''Yeah. Really good.''

''Ride it, baby,'' he says, kissing down your jaw. ''Wanna watch you fall apart.''

You do, slowly, rhythmically, grinding against his knee as his lips work down your throat. He worships your skin, kissing, biting, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. One hand finds its way back to your throat, resting there like a promise, not squeezing yet, just reminding you of what you confessed to moments ago.

You moan softly, the sound catching in your throat when he shifts again and bumps his knee into you harder.

''Fuck,'' you gasp, hands twisting in the sheets.

''You're soaked already, aren't you?'' His voice is rough, your eyes nearly rolling back at the sinful sound. ''Just from a bit of pressure.''

You nod again, this time more desperately.

''Good,'' he says. ''God, you're perfect.''

He keeps his knee pressed against your throbbing cunt, letting you grind against it, letting you whimper and gasp and beg. Eventually, he pulls back slightly, just enough to drag his fingers down your chest, bunching your dress further up your hips.

''Can I?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you say instantly, breathless.

''Want to hear you beg next time,'' he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. ''Just so we're clear.'' You whine at the promise in his voice.

His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and he groans. ''Fuck. You're soaked, baby.''

You bite your lip.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, right above where his hand is still pinning your neck down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he slides a finger inside. You gasp, clenching instinctively, still getting used to the foreign feeling of it, and he stills.

''You okay?'' he asks gently.

You nod. ''More. Please.''

He gives you exactly that, one finger at first, slow and steady, curling up inside you with expert precision, then two, pumping into you while his mouth never leaves your skin.

''Doing so good for me,'' he whispers. ''So fucking good.''

You're dizzy with it. The rhythm, the praise, the tension coiling low in your belly. His fingers still work inside you, his palm grazing your clit deliciously, and his other hand experimentally squeezes your throat.

Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to send a jolt of something new down your spine. It's not fear, it's a powerless sort of pleasure, the heady thrill of giving in completely.

''Is this okay?'' he asks, even as his grip tightens slightly.

You can't speak. Not because of his hand around your throat, but because you're too blissed out to think clearly, so you just nod, eyes glassy as your hands twist into the sheets, gripping the fabric.

''Good girl,'' he says again. ''You tell me if it's too much, yeah?''

You manage a small noise of assent.

The pressure of his fingers, the drag of his thumb against your clit, the weight of his palm at your throat, pressing you into the mattress as you moan beneath him. He's watching you, utterly focused, eyes fixed on your mouth as it falls open, your chest as it rises and falls in short, gasping breaths, your hips as they twitch, chasing his touch.

''You're so fucking pretty like this, love,'' he mutters. ''Don't think you even realize what you do to me.''

You whine faintly, overwhelmed.

''Prettiest thing I've ever seen,'' he insists, voice strained. ''My sweet girl. Letting me in. Letting me take care of you.''

You're close, he can feel it. Your walls flutter around his fingers, your legs twitch, your back arches. His hand squeezes a little tighter, constricting your airflow for just a second, and that's all it takes.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, blinding and white-hot. You cry out, throat strained beneath his hand, body convulsing around his fingers as he keeps moving them, drawing every last tremor from your core until you whine in overstimulation.

Then, slowly, gently, he eases off. His grip on your throat loosens. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring soft praises as you come back to yourself.

''Breathe, baby,'' he says. ''There she is. There's my girl.''

You blink up at him, dazed. He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead.

''You okay?'' he whispers.

You nod, slow and heavy. ''Yeah. I'm… yeah.''

''And this... it was okay?''

''It was perfect,'' you sigh contently, stretching leisurely and sinking into the mattress, feeling like you're floating above the clouds.

''Good,'' he smiles softly and reaches over you for his phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing your body as he moves. He lights up the screen, just checking the time, you assume.

You feel his body still on top of you, and look up in confusion just in time to see his smile fade instantly. He goes quiet.

You blink up at him, the haze of satisfaction still blurring your thoughts. ''What is it?''

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the phone, jaw tightening, brows pinching together in frustration.

''Harry?'' you press, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Finally, he glances down at you, eyes unreadable, the softness from moments ago returning when he sees your worried face.

''We need to talk, love.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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...

[kitkatscabinet]

FEEL SO CLOSE

requested by: @pixxievomit <3 based on this ask

pairings: guy gardner, kyle rayner, hal jordan, jason todd + bonus clark kent x fem! reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, vague superman spoilers in clark's part.

GUY GARDNER

You nuzzle into his neck, lips seeking purchase against his skin as your teeth scrape against his collarbone, only to jolt when he gives your ass a light warning smack.

"Guy—" You whine, throwing him your best puppy dog pout.

"I'm busy, darlin'" he doesn't even look down at you, though you can tell by the way the muscles in his jaw twitch that he's not as unaffected as he's trying to appear. "No teeth."

"Guy, I need—"

"Y'told me you could do it yourself, just like this, you didn't lie to me, did ya?"

"No!" You protest, clinging to his shirt in fear he'll remove you from his thigh, which is already soaked from your desperate grinding. "No, I can! I just need a little more."

The muscles in your thighs and abdomen were starting to burn from the strain of rocking against his thigh with no leverage, toes cramping and tingly from keeping the same position so long. No touching, he'd said, he was busy and you couldn't distract him.

You'd eagerly agreed, just wanting anything you could get from him after your conflicting schedules had sabotaged your sex life. A large part of you had assumed he'd give in; he clearly wanted to touch you, but his annoying brand of willpower was getting in the way.

"A little more? You'll cum like this or not at all, baby girl." He huffed, finally looking down at you with feigned disinterest.

Time to switch tactics. Sliding your palms up his chest, you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing up against him. "Please, honey, you've been working so hard, you deserve a little break, a reward even."

He scoffs, but you can feel the way his pulse hammers unsteadily as he adjusts his position, swallowing the lump in his throat as he attempts to remain nonchalant. Guy's a being of great willpower, but he's still just a man, and you can tell your advances are slowly chipping away at his resolve.

"A reward, huh? S'pose you think that's you." It's your turn to scowl up at him, leaning back with crossed arms, a deadly glare that lets Guy know he's treading on thin ice.

"Don't give me that look, sugar." Calloused hands reach for your hips, manhandling you until you're straddling his waist. Instinctively, you ground down, making him hiss and grip your hips firmly.

"Ah, none of that now." He chided, reaching to free his admittedly aching cock from the confines of the pants he now sorely regretted wearing.

You reach for him eagerly, desperate to touch him, only to pout when he gently smacks your hands away. Tears of frustration start to burn unwillingly in the corners of your eyes, but Guy doesn’t let them stay there for long before he’s gripping your hips once more and sliding you down on his cock.

Your fingers clench his shirt with a white knuckled grip as you adjust to the sudden stretch. Guy groans, hands running up and down your sides before he tucks your head to rest against his shoulder.

The elation at finally having Guy touch you is devastatingly short-lived, as the second you attempt to grind your hips down, to gain any sort of friction, Guy restrains you once more.

A hoarse whine is ripped from your throat that he quickly hushes, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I know, baby, promise I'll pay attention to ya soon. But you can be good and wait for me, can't you?"

"Guy—"

"You can be good, can't you?" His fingers flex against your hips in warning, and you're powerless to do anything but nod meekly against his neck.

HAL JORDAN

You’re fuming. You know it’s not Hal’s fault, honestly, you couldn’t even fault the waitress for being attracted to him. Hal was a fine man, and you liked showing him off, letting people know that he was yours and you were his.

What you could blame her for was continuing to flirt with him whilst you were clearly on a date. You'd been about two seconds from ripping her head off when Hal had stood abruptly, pulling you up from your seat and brushing past the waitress like she didn't even exist.

The bedroom door slams shut with a flick of your foot as you shove a grinning Hal against the mattress, the springs squeaking a little in protest. A smart ass remark dying on his lips when you pounce, straddling one of his thighs and tug his hair, exposing more of his skin. Teeth find their mark, nipping against the expanse of his neck and collarbones.

"Look at you, marking your territory." He smirks, and you want nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Shut the fuck up." You snarled, wrapping a hand around his throat and applying just an ounce of pressure, your thumb caressing his hammering pulse.

Hal shudders beneath you, bucking his hips up with a whine, a far cry from his previous cockiness. Usually, you'd tease him a little more, draw it out until he was whimpering beneath you, but you were too riled up yourself.

You part from him just long enough to discard the rest of your suddenly unwelcome clothes along with his before you're grinding down against the corded muscles of his thigh with single-minded purpose.

It's with your tongue in his mouth, nails digging crescent moons into his back and Hal's body littered with bite marks and bruises that you cum.

The tension leaves your frame, kisses turning gentler as you come back to reality. Hal's patient, allowing you the time to recover, even though you can feel him trembling with need.

Taking pity on your beautiful, patient partner, you get him to slide further up the mattress until he's lying comfortably against the pillows and headboard, and you settle in his lap lethargically, feeling him twitch against your belly.

Hal barely lasts a few seconds before he's squirming, gasping, "Baby, move, please."

"Hmmm, no." Humming, you idly lean your chin on his shoulder as your fingers trace shapes on his scratch-covered back. "Think I'll stay right here. S'comfy, you don't mind, do you, baby?" You blink up at him innocently, relishing in the way he holds back a sob as he shakes his head unconvincingly.

KYLE RAYNER

Soft whimpers breach your ears, pulling you from the depths of sleep as you instinctively reach for Kyle. Even in the low lighting, you can see the furrow in his sweat-dotted brow, indicating his distress.

"Kyle, Kyle, honey, wake up." It takes a little more coaxing, but eventually he stirs awake, eyes snapping open and searching desperately for something before they settle on you.

His trembling hands reach for you, grasping you gently before you're pulled into his chest. "You're ok," he gasped, smoothing a shaky hand down the back of your head.

"I'm ok," you confirm, "it was just a dream, I'm safe, you're safe, we're at home, in bed." Kyle shudders against you, inhaling deeply as he fights to ground himself in the present moment. You hold him through it, whispering soothing reassurances as you press soft kisses to his chest and press your palm over his hammering heart. Your own aches in tandem with his, wishing for nothing more than to soothe his pain.

"How can I help? What do you need?" You try to keep your voice calm and steady as you trail a hand up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking his cheek reverently.

"You," he gasped, "need you, need to feel you." Well, how could you deny him that?

The kiss you pull him into is gentle, but deep as you slot your lips together, one hand tangling in his locks to better angle his lips against yours.

Though you try to keep things slow, Kyle is of a different mind, desperation fuelling his movements. Still, his touch remains near devout, softly worshipful as he flips you, draping himself over you from behind.

One of his biceps acts as a pillow, arm crooked so he can hold one of your hands as the other hikes your thigh over his. Kyle peppers kisses over the back of your neck and shoulders as he slowly sinks into your heat.

Your fingers scramble for purchase against his forearm as his free hand slides up your body and curls around your waist, trying to pull you closer.

"Love you," his voice cracks, "don't know what I'd do without you."

Tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes at how small he sounds, but you force yourself to stay strong, for Kyle. "You'll never find out, baby."

"Promise?" He practically whimpers, squeezing you tighter as if afraid you'll disappear at any second.

"I promise." You declare fiercely.

JASON TODD

From the moment Jason shut the front door, you could tell he was in a mood.

Jason hated bringing his anger home. When you'd first moved in together, he wouldn't, only remembering to send you a warning text half the time leaving you to simmer in your worry as he spent the night elsewhere.

Until you put your foot down. He didn't want to burden you, didn't want to risk snapping and God forbid, taking it out on you. After all, Jason wasn't exactly the best at regulating strong emotions, especially anger. Nor did he have the healthiest relationships, especially when it came to communicating.

That was the Batclans real weakness.

But you never gave up on him because you were partners, and you loved him, all of him, even "the ugly parts" as Jason insisted on calling them.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” A huff, followed by a shake of the head as he collapses on top of you, burying his face in your belly.

Bruce.

“Mmkay, how about a shower?” Another shake of his head, his arms squeezing your waist as if to emphasise the point: I’m staying right here.

“Can I at least get you out of those clothes? It’ll be comfier. You’ve still got your boots on, Jay.” A groan, but he slowly rolls off you, lifting his hips and torso when you need a little help.

His clothes and yours fall in a pile on the far side of the room to be dealt with later as he settles you on his lap, letting out a sigh of contentment at the feel of your bare skin on his.

"Better?" You chuckle when he dips his face to rest between your tits, his hair tickling your nose.

"Much." His arms snake around your hips, calloused palms stroking the skin of your back. Grinning softly, your fingers tangle in his curly black locks, nails scraping gently over his scalp, drawing a moan from Jason that reverberates through your ribcage.

"Let me take care of you?" You whisper, almost afraid to shatter the soft atmosphere.

"Please," he gasps, lifting his face to finally look you in the eyes. Cupping his cheeks, your thumb gently caresses the angry scar he could barely bring himself to look at. Jason leans into your hand, gripping your wrist to keep you in place as he nuzzles desperately into your affectionate touch.

There's nothing hurried about the moment, both you and Jay taking your time caressing each other. It's a well-practised dance, you've spent years memorising Jason's body, his likes and the areas you know to avoid.

So when you finally sink down on his flushed cock, sighing in pleasure as he fills you, only for his fingers to flex against your hips, not enough to bruise, but enough to halt your movement, you panic. Instantly, you stop, pulling back in alarm as you search his face for a hint of discomfort or any clues as to what you've done wrong.

He reads your panic and is quick to shush you, "nothing's wrong, darling, just wanna stay like this." Exhaling in relief, the tension drains from your muscles as you settle in his lap.

A hand cradles the back of your neck as he lies back against the mattress, fiddling with the blanket to pull it up and over both of you.

"Thank you." He croaks.

"What for?" Your brow furrows in confusion.

"Taking such good care of me, loving me." There's a vulnerable rasp to his voice that makes your heart crack and your head shake before he even finishes speaking.

"None of that now." You scold softly. It's an argument you'd rehashed frequently in the beginning of your relationship; nowadays, you'd mostly hammered it into his skull that yes, you loved him and yes, he deserved that love, though there were instances where the old demons crept in.

"Yes, ma'am."

CLARK KENT

"You gonna let me up anytime soon?" Clark's voice echoes through your bones, a pleasant buzz still thrumming through your body in post sex bliss.

You shake your head fiercely, squeezing him tighter as you bury your face in his chest, lightly biting down on his pec to not break your teeth. "No."

You're aware it's petulant, but you think you're entitled to that and a little more. You'd nearly lost him; he'd almost died. He'd almost died, and you would've been none the wiser until it was far too late.

The very thought makes you cling tighter to him, thighs squeezing his hips as you attempt to burrow even closer into him. Your muscles have started to burn a little from the stretch. Nothing about your partner is exactly small; still, the thought of being parted from him in any capacity is distressing.

Clark softens, tilting your head up to look at him as he cradles your face with a gentleness that shouldn't come so naturally to a being of such incredible strength. Yet Clark's never touched you with anything but gentle care. "I'm sorry, love, didn't mean to worry you."

Remorse colours his features, and you feel the leftover remnants of your anger born of fear dissipate. Your lower lip wobbles dangerously, causing a flare of panic to rise in his chest, "Please don't cry, I'm ok, I promise, I'm ok."

He almost wasn't. But you don't want to upset either of you any further, nor do you want to ruin the moment with an argument. "Promise?" Your voice cracks a little.

"I promise, love."

You sniffle once, before burying your face in his chest again, "mmkay, still wanna stay like this though."

"We can stay like this as long as you like."

[puckpocketed]

Excerpts from ‘They control everything’: How the Dallas Stars monopolized Texas youth hockey (archived) by Kenny Jacoby for USA TODAY, published August 1, 2025.

(Note: this is the final frame of an interactive graphic available on the live article. It shows the Stars' acquisition of rinks over the years)

Lisa Bry expected a standard meet-and-greet when she visited the manager of the local ice rink. Instead, she says that a front-office executive for a $2 billion National Hockey League team threatened her.  Bry had just been elected president of Frisco Ice Hockey Association, a nonprofit hockey club for middle and high school students in Frisco, Texas. One of its board’s first actions under her leadership was to cancel the contracts of two coaches who had received dismal reviews from parent feedback surveys. But at the April 2023 meeting, Bry said Dallas Stars executive Keith Andresen told her that the Stars, which ran the rink where the club practices, wanted those coaches to stay.  His next words are seared in her memory:  “Let me remind you where you get your ice from.”

In the face of Andresen’s threat, Bry stood her ground. The club did not renew the two coaches’ contracts. Emails, meeting audio, internal documents and dozens of interviews detail what happened next. That summer, the Stars informed all two-dozen local high school hockey clubs that the NHL team would be taking over their operations. No longer would the clubs set and collect their own fees, negotiate their own practice ice time, hire and pay their own coaches or sign sponsors without the Stars’ approval. All players would now pay the Stars directly. All coaches would now be Stars hires and employees. Immediately, the Stars imposed a new fee structure that raised registration fees for many players while reducing the number of ice hours their teams received. All teams would now get two preseason games – one fewer than in years past – and no more than one hour of practice ice a week. The Stars later reduced the regular-season schedule from 18 games to 16. That’s less than half the number of weekly ice hours that USA Hockey’s American Development Model recommends for teenagers to improve. Bry and the other club leaders were stunned. The Stars stripped the clubs of their agency, practically overnight. The Stars reinstated the two coaches. And there was nothing Bry or the club leaders could do – because the Stars controlled the ice.

Pierce, who runs a Facebook group called Texas Hockey Parents with more than 4,000 members, criticized the Stars in a 2021 post after a game in which her son sustained a concussion. That post landed her in hot water with Todd Cochran, then the StarCenter McKinney general manager and president of the McKinney North Stars. According to Pierce, a SafeSport complaint she later filed and her typed notes memorializing the conversation, Cochran instructed Pierce not to post in her Facebook group for at least six months “if your son wants any future here in Dallas hockey.” Cochran, who no longer works for the Stars or McKinney North Stars, did not respond to phone and email messages seeking comment. Pierce said Cochran also instructed her to remove other “negative” posts from the Facebook group. Many times, Pierce complied. “I definitely made myself small for a period of time out of fear,” she said. “You get so beaten down, and you see your kid get screwed over for opportunities, and you decide, ‘You know what? Maybe I do have to play by their rules to get where I want to be.’”

Anyone who has a problem with the way the Stars do business can take it up with the Texas Amateur Hockey Association, the USA Hockey affiliate that regulates the sport in the region. The problem: Its board has long been filled with Stars executives, some of whom used their positions to enrich themselves.  USA Hockey, recognized by federal law as the sport’s national governing body, delegates much of its authority to its 34 regional nonprofit affiliates, including the Texas Amateur Hockey Association, which oversees amateur hockey in Texas and Oklahoma. The association’s board members are elected by the region’s clubs and leagues. But their votes are weighted by the number of players they register – a structure that gives the Stars a colossal advantage. Of 13,700 players in the two states, more than 5,000 were registered with the Stars’ for-profit adult, house and high school hockey leagues, membership data from midway through the 2024-25 season show – 37%. The players themselves don’t cast votes; a Stars representative casts votes on their behalf. Roughly 2,800 more players – another 20% – registered with travel clubs that rent Stars ice or played in the Dallas Stars Travel Hockey League, which used Stars rinks for tournaments and games. Voting against the NHL team’s interests comes with the implicit risk that the Stars could stop selling them ice or oust them from the league. Until recently, Stars employees held four of the 11 Texas Amateur Hockey Association voting board seats, including president and secretary. That changed after a USA TODAY investigation in March revealed that President Lucas Reid and Secretary Brad Buckland – both of whom served as Stars executives – used their positions for personal gain.  For years, Reid, Buckland and Stars vice president Damon Boettcher organized Stars tournaments that required out-of-town participants to book minimum three-night stays at select hotels – or risk their teams being kicked out of the tournaments without a refund. At the same time, the three executives ran their own for-profit company that took a cut of the revenue from each hotel booking.

[yeagersss]

Popular!Sukuna x Quiet!Reader (Part 2)

<- Previous

"Library sciences?"

You watched your father go through the brochure you had handed him. You had interrupted him in the middle of his precious TV time. But... you're glad, he atleast decided to talk to you.

"You're switching from business to... this?"

You nodded, playing with the string of your hoodie.

"...It's not that bad."

"Not to you because you're not the one paying for it."

You pursed your lips at that response. "I'll get a part time job."

But your dad eyed you warily, completely unconvinced. "I doubt that completely." And then he let out a frustrated sigh. "What the hell is even the scope of this degree?"

You could tell him your plans. You had researched and thought it through during summer break. You wanted to be an archivist. And a degree in library sciences with a minor in history was definitely enough to pave your path.

It was so much more interesting than business to you. The thing you chose because your older brother chose it. The thing that screwed you over in the first semester after you had a panic attack during your final presentation. You failed miserably to the point that it affected your performance in every other courses.

But you knew telling your father meant even more criticism—more mockery, more 'you don't know any better' so you just shrugged.

And your father merely sighed, tossing the brochure away and running a hand across his face.

"Whatever, just—" He waved at you, signaling that this conversation was over and for you to leave. He was tired, frustrated... so tired of how much you have done... nothing.

You merely picked up the brochure and left the room quietly.

You adjusted your headphones, letting the music overcome your senses as you walked through the campus. You were trying to stay calm.

Because Monday morning meant that you had Classical Japanese History and Culture Studies.

Which meant... Ryomen Sukuna.

In a way, you convinced yourself that Sukuna has probably forgotten about it. It's not like people really gave you that much thought and knowing the kind of person that man is, you were pretty sure getting slapped by some random girl on a Friday night is like the least of his problems.

You entered the classroom and took your seat. You took off your headphones and gently placed them on your desk before rummaging through your bag for your notebook and pens.

That's when you felt someone stand next to you.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

You flinched and looked up, heart leaping to your throat at the sight of Sukuna standing at your desk, face scrunched up in absolute confusion at your presence.

No way.

He remembers you.

You opened your mouth and closed it before clearing your throat and softly replying. "I, uh... I'm in this class too."

"You sit behind me?"

"... Yes."

He genuinely looked like he had experienced some sort of revelation, gazing at you with an intense look that made you squirm. He didn't reply further and just plopped down on his seat. Like he always did.

The difference this time was that he actually noticed you and spared you a second glance and a few words.

You stared at his back for a while, holding your breath, wondering what he'll do next.

But a few girls walked over to his desk to talk to him. So you decided, this was your cue to calm down. You opened your notebook and quietly went through your notes.

"I heard the professor's assigning us a project this semester. Sukuna, do you want to group with us?" One of the girls asked, excitedly, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Pass."

"Aw! Come on, Ryomen. We worked together in Intro to Literature." She leaned closer, resting her hand on his shoulder, a sultry smile on her face. "We could do it again but this time... It'll be a group of three."

You were really thankful that you didn't have to listen to that further because the professor walked in at that very moment.

The girls pouted and walked away.

Turns out, the girls were right about the project. But the only thing that they weren't right about was the fact that it was a group of two.

"I'm tired of getting complaints of students free-riding. So groups of two it is." The professor said strictly as she handed a paper to the student on the first row. "Now, write down your name, the name of the person you'll work with and your roll numbers. That's all for today."

You sighed softly, quietly packing your stuff. You knew there wasn't anyone you could ask. So you decided to ask the professor to assign you with another unlucky person who doesn't know anyone else in this course.

"Oi, quiet girl. Tch, are you deaf?"

You flinched out of your thoughts and stared wide eyed at Sukuna. When the hell did he turn around?

"Uh..."

"You have anyone to group with?"

Why the hell does he want to know that?

Your eyes darted around nervously and then... You noticed the girls from before.

They were glaring at you.

"No—I, uh—" You stammered out.

Sukuna looked satisfied with your answer. He placed the paper on your table and tapped at the empty space... right below his name.

What.

"You know what to do." He said.

"Y-You want to group together... with me?"

"No, I want your fucking autograph—Obviously." He said in sarcasm. But you were still looking at him in utter disbelief. And he sighed, his gaze softening at you—for some reason.

"You seem sensible enough to not screw me and my scholarship over. Now—" He slid the paper closer to you. "Write."

But you weren't convinced one bit. Because in all your years of living, why would someone want to genuinely pair up with you without a hidden motive? Like the girl you thought was your friend, who used you for a free ride and ditched you at the party.

Why would Ryomen Sukuna be any different? Especially after Friday night? Especially after you literally slapped him.

You pursed your lips and shook your head, sliding the paper back to him quietly.

You gathered your stuff and left the classroom, not daring to look back at him.

"Lemme guess. She didn't budge?" Gojo grinned at Sukuna. Both of them walking through the hallway with their other friend, Nanami.

"No." Sukuna simply said.

"Can't believe you finally found a girl who can resist your bad boy charm." Gojo sighed dramatically. "A miracle! I'd die if someone actually did that to me, honestly."

"I knew her from marketing." Nanami spoke up, ignoring Gojo's antics as usual. "Quiet, studious... Although, she has bad experience with participation and... presentations." Sukuna noticed a hint of pity in his voice at the last word.

"So you weren't wrong to ask her. As a group member, she's quite serious about her studies like you are." Nanami said while adjusting his glasses. "Although, I thought she had left."

Sukuna turned his attention to him. "How so?"

"She never showed up for her final exams and failed all her courses in the last semester." Nanami stated which made Sukuna frown.

"Perhaps she switched to another program. There's no need for a business student to take history and culture." Nanami stated.

"Or maybe she's taking it as a free elective." Gojo spoke up, popping open a cherry soda can. "I mean—I'm doing it. Take an easy course. Get free credits."

Sukuna narrowed his eyes. "Watch it, Gojo. You wouldn't even last a second in my program."

Gojo smirked. "Try taking Experimental Physics and then we'll talk, buddy."

But Nanami interrupted them. "May I ask why you want to work with her, Ryomen?"

Sukuna's response was a smirk. "No reason."

Nanami shook his head. Gojo snorted. They both knew that look.

"You wanna toy with her, don't you?" Gojo stated.

Sukuna grinned. "Why the fuck not?" He hummed. "This place is boring as hell. Finally found something to keep me entertained. Her being a good, little student? A plus point."

Nanami sighed tiredly. "Unbelievable..."

You had emailed your professor, asking her if she could assign you a project partner if you failed to find someone. She agreed and said that she'll announce the groups during the lecture next week.

And when next week came, you were nervous. Not only because of whoever it was you were paired up with but also because of what happened with Sukuna last week.

You almost decided to skip class. Almost.

But you won't do that anymore. You had to push on. You had to change and become a better person. You can't keep running away from every miniscule problem you were faced with.

But then...

"You will work with Ryomen Sukuna."

You stared with wide eyes as Sukuna turned around, smirking arrogantly your way.

"Hey."

You should have skipped the lecture today.

[aphroditelovesu]

⸻ The Lost Queen - XXIII ⸻

— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.— genre: yandere, dark!au. — warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, eventual smut, pregnancy. — word count: 3,252. — tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @elvinapandra, @jennifer0305 , @his0kaswife, @animetye-23, @leathesimp, @dostoevsskij, @meheheasasa, @jsprien213, @lammys-thinking, @cheriecelestial. —the lost queen series masterlist. — ko-fi (please, consider donating ^^)

Chapter 23

With each step toward the immense gates of Babylon, Alexander's heart pounded — a painful mix of hope, longing, and silent fury. The golden walls that once represented conquest and glory now seemed to symbolize only one thing: reunion. He was about to see (Y/N) again, his wife. His Queen.

How many months had passed since she'd been torn from his arms? He'd lost count. Time had become a blurred line of alcohol, sleepless nights, and long marches, all guided by a single desire: to have her back.

Her absence was like a physical pain. It hurt not to see the subtle judgment she always carried in her eyes when he returned from battle covered in blood and soot, that mixture of censure and concern she never put into words, but which said it all. It hurt not to hear the suppressed, almost shy laugh she let out when he praised her, as if unsure how to react to so much attention. Alexander remembered every touch — hesitant at first, as if she were testing her own courage, but gradually becoming bolder, more confident. Every caress, every kiss shared between silk sheets.

He missed holding her in his arms. Lacing his fingers with hers in the silence of the early morning. He missed her scent lingering on his clothes. He missed the comfort only she could give him when the weight of his conquests became unbearable.

Alexander missed her. Deeply. Devastatingly.

And along with this burning longing came anger — a constant flame that burned beneath his skin. His generals pressured him day and night. They wanted him to take another wife. To choose a Macedonian or Persian princess, to seal alliances, to secure an heir as soon as possible. They spoke of Roxanna, of so many other women with titles and dowries. He ignored them. One by one. He rejected their advice, their alliances, their strategies. He didn't want a second wife. He didn't want seven, like his father had.

He wanted her. Only her.

(Y/N), his Queen.

The only one who mattered.

And she was already carrying his child in her womb. She was already pregnant when she was taken. When they stole her from him. It hurt him in a way he could barely explain. Not being by her side during her pregnancy, not feeling her belly grow beneath his hands, not hearing the first heartbeats of the child she carried, not being there to protect her... It was torture.

He should have been the first to feel the baby's kicks. He should have been the one whispering promises to her belly in the quiet early mornings. But all of that was ripped away from him. Stolen.

And this loss — this brutal kidnapping of the woman who was part of his soul — had a name. It had a face. It began with Perdiccas.

Alexander clenched his fists tightly until his knuckles turned white. He had made a promise to himself since the day he discovered who was involved.

All those responsible for taking his Queen from him would pay.

One by one. No exceptions.

And Perdiccas...

Perdiccas would be the first to bleed.

The imposing walls of Babylon finally appeared on the horizon, their golden outlines and ornate towers rising like a silent warning of the Macedonian army's approach. The sun, still high, made the stones of the wall gleam, and the heat seemed to amplify the weight of expectation. Every soldier, every commander, every scout knew: the invasion was near.

The movement was swift, almost rehearsed. Alexander's orders were obeyed with precision: tents began to be erected at a safe distance, yet still close enough for the city to see the number of soldiers and weapons gathering outside. It was a clear message: we are prepared.

Battering rams, siege towers, catapults — all the devices of destruction took shape under calloused and coordinated hands. Horses were fed, swords sharpened, and watchful eyes scanned the gates as if they could, with sheer will, force them open.

In the center of the camp, inside the royal tent, Alexander's generals gathered. It was customary before a major battle: to discuss, disagree, advise... And, in the end, to abide by the king's decision. After all, he was the one in charge.

Alexander stood, leaning against the central table covered in maps and charcoal markings. His face was a mixture of tension and restraint. The city was home to Darius, yes — the enemy he needed to defeat to finally complete his conquest of Persia. But it also housed something infinitely more precious: (Y/N).

It was Ptolemy who spoke first, with the firm posture of someone accustomed to taking the lead in council discussions.

"Should we send a messenger?" His voice cut through the heavy air like a blade, drawing all eyes.

Alexander remained silent for a moment. His eyes wandered to Hephaestion, standing nearby, as calm as the king's own shadow. They exchanged no words — they didn't need to. Hephaestion's curt nod sufficed.

"Yes," Alexander finally replied, his voice low but firm. His eyes scanned the faces around the table, gauging reactions.

Cassander was the first to answer, his expression thick with skepticism and his voice sharper than usual. "Babylon won't surrender. Darius won't surrender."

He crossed his arms, his jaw tense, "It will only put the messenger's life at risk. I don't think it's a good idea."

Ptolemy glanced briefly at his colleague, nodding with a barely perceptible nod. He shared the same doubts, though he knew it wouldn't be easy to dissuade Alexander from his decision. Especially with Hephaestion's support.

"A peaceful resolution is worth trying," Hephaestion interjected, with the soft, diplomatic tone that always balanced tempers. "Even if it's unlikely, perhaps Darius realizes what's at stake. He knows that refusal will mean the end of this city. Perhaps he'll see reason, if we give him the chance."

Alexander walked slowly to the edge of the tent, parting the curtain to gaze, in the distance, at the silhouette of Babylon. Behind the walls, somewhere invisible to his view, stood her. The woman carrying his child. The Queen who had been taken from him.

He couldn't attack without trying. He had to try. Although he wanted to inflict pain on all those who participated, even the Persian people, he knew he should at least attempt a surrender without shedding blood.

"Let them send a messenger," He repeated, his eyes never leaving the city. "Let them deliver the warning: if they hand over Darius... And if my Queen is returned unharmed, there will be no destruction. Otherwise..."

He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need. Everyone there knew what would happen.

The city would fall.

And it would fall in fire and blood.

Night fell over the camp like a thick blanket. The silence was broken only by the sound of soldiers drinking and the distant blowing of the wind between the tents. Babylon shone in the distance, its walls lit by torches, as if pretending there was peace within.

But everyone knew. There was no peace, only the promise of blood and death for all.

In the royal tent, most of the generals had already retired. Only Alexander remained, sitting on the edge of a chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground as if there he could find the answers to everything he felt.

Hephaestion entered silently. He knew Alexander's silence as well as his words. He knew there were times when his friend needed no advice, no orders, no plans — just presence, friendship, and familiarity.

"You're shivering," He said, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he approached.

Alexander looked up, exhausted. "It's not the cold."

Hephaestion crouched down in front of him, level with him, his pale blue eyes meeting his friend's mismatched ones. Carefully, he took Alexander's hands in his. "It's her, isn't it?"

Alexander took a deep breath, his chest heavy.

"She's so close, Hephaestion." His voice broke for a moment. "So close... And yet, I can't touch her. I can't protect her. I can only imagine what they did to her. If she's scared, in pain. If... If she loves me."

He had never told her he loved her, and she had never told him the same. There was so much to talk about between them.

"Alexander," Hephaestion began, firmly but gently, squeezing his friend's hands, "she's yours. Always has been. She's carrying your child. And she survived because she believes you will find her. Because she knows you."

Hephaestion knew about the pregnancy because Alexander told him shortly after receiving the news from Aslan. It was a shock, and it only complicated matters further. He was the only one who knew, since Alexander wanted to keep it a secret.

Alexander looked away for a moment.

"They stole her from me. Stole... My future. I wasn't there when she discovered she was pregnant. I didn't feel her skin changing, or hear her silly laugh when the baby kicked for the first time." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I should be with her. I'm a conqueror, a damned king, and yet... I can't get my own wife back."

Hephaestion rose slowly and sat beside him. For a moment, they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, as they had so many times since their youth in Pella. The complicity between them was as old as Alexander's own ambition.

"You will have her back," Hephaestion murmured, his voice calm. "But not as a king who burns cities... But as the man she loves. That's why we must try to speak to Darius first. For her. For your child."

Alexander turned to him, his gaze softer now. "Do you think it's weakness?"

"I think it's love. And love, Alexander... It's what makes you stronger than any king before you."

For a moment, Alexander just watched him. Then, without saying anything, he rested his head on Hephaestion's shoulder — just for a few seconds. A silent, intimate gesture, reserved only for those moments when he stopped being the conqueror... And returned to being just a man in love, lost in the absence of the woman who gave meaning to it all.

"Thank you," He murmured. "For never letting me forget who I am."

Hephaestion smiled, a small smile but full of nostalgia and devotion.

"I'll follow you wherever you go, Alexander. To the ends of the earth, remember?"

Alexander didn't answer, just closed his eyes because yes, he remembered and knew it. Hephaestion would never abandon him, never leave him.

The next morning, the Macedonian camp awoke early. The sun was still rising on the horizon when the man chosen to carry the message walked to the royal tent. His name was Lysandros, a middle-aged man, experienced, dignified, having served as ambassador in other campaigns.

He wore a simple white chiton and carried a parchment sealed with Alexander's coat of arms: a golden lion. The letter had been written by Alexander himself, with the help of Hephaestion, the night before, his words chosen carefully, with hope — but also with the firmness of a king who did not plead, only offered a chance for redemption.

Hephaestion was the one who handed the parchment to Lysandros, squeezing his shoulder.

"You are the voice of reason before the sword. May the gods be with you."

Lysandros merely nodded. His gaze met Alexander's for a moment—a silent look of mutual respect — before mounting his horse and heading for the city gates.

Time seemed suspended as the messenger approached the immense bronze doors of Babylon. The wall was silent, guarded only by motionless sentries. But they saw him. And when he announced himself in the name of Alexander III, King of Macedon, the gate opened... Just enough to let him in.

Then, silence fell again over the countryside.

Hours passed.

Alexander stood before his army, his helmet under his arm, his eyes fixed on the walls. He waited. He waited for the signal of peaceful surrender, for Lysandros's return, or at least for a response.

But what came... Was blood.

A loud, shrill blast of war horns erupted from the towers, causing the Macedonian soldiers to glance at one another. Immediately afterward, a movement at the gates drew their attention.

Up above — at the top of the walls, where the winds blew strongest — two Persian soldiers appeared.

Carrying Lysandros's body.

He was already dead. A clean cut across his throat betrayed a summary execution. And then, with brutal theatricality, his body was thrown over the wall like a sandbag, landing heavily on the other side. His white chiton was stained with blood, the royal seal still attached to his belt.

Screams of indignation erupted among the Macedonian soldiers.

Hephaestion took a step forward, but Alexander raised his hand. His face was still. Frozen. A cruel silence fell around him.

"They responded," He said finally, his voice low and icy.

"With contempt," Cassander muttered, his jaw clenched with hatred.

"With scorn." Ptolemy finished, his light brown eyes filled with rage.

But Alexander didn't move. He walked over to the body, now surrounded by soldiers, and knelt beside it. Gently, he closed its eyes and, after taking a simple coin from his chiton, placed it on Lysandros's tongue. Then he removed the seal from his belt and attached it to his own. A gesture of honor.

Then he stood up.

His gaze met the city. He found Darius. Even without seeing him, Alexander knew he was there, watching. Waiting. Provoking.

And it was in that instant that the conqueror of empires cast aside all traces of diplomacy. Any possible peaceful surrender, any chance of sparing the city's people, was gone.

"Babylon will fall."

And with it, all who dared touch it.

All who dared take his Queen from him.

The stone hall inside the royal palace of Babylon was dark, stifling from the heat and the tension that rose like poison between the columns. The guards stood back, their eyes fixed on the ground, as if sensing what was approaching.

Darius paced back and forth, his Tyrian purple-embroidered tunic disheveled, his thick beard unshaven. His once proud eyes were tired — but not weak. He still carried the bearing of a king, even as the weight of reality crushed his shoulders.

"It's past time to end this, Bessus," He said, stopping before the satrap of Bactria, his voice firm but weary. "We will not win this war. As much as it pains me to admit it, we are weak, and although the city's defenses are good, the chance of winning is slim, and we are only condemning innocent people to death. For she is not here."

Bessus crossed his arms, impassive.

"And why, exactly, did she disappear, Your Majesty? Who was responsible for her safety? You? Or your Persian servants, who can barely guard a gate?"

"She's no longer here, Bessus!" Darius repeated, slamming his palm on the stone table in the center of the hall. "We don't know if she fled, if she was taken, if she's still alive! And that puts us at a total disadvantage! The one thing Alexander wants most is her. And we don't have that to offer."

"Then send him word, Your Majesty," Bessus replied, his voice thick with mockery. "Send him a nice letter, 'Your wife is missing, but still, please don't burn us alive.'" He gave a short, disdainful laugh. "You've lost your mind, Darius."

"It's not surrender I propose. It's strategy." Darius's tone hardened. "He gave us a chance. A chance! He sent a messenger, he extended his hand — however arrogantly — and we could have responded honorably. But you..."

He turned slowly to Perdiccas, who stood quietly in the corner of the room, his expression hard, shadows beneath his eyes.

"You were the one who let her escape, weren't you?"

Perdiccas pressed his lips together, but didn't respond. He wasn't impressed by the accusation, nor did he care.

"You were responsible for her safety," Darius continued, taking a step forward. "And now it seems you want to hide behind Bessus, as if nothing happened."

"I didn't let her escape," Perdiccas finally said dryly. "She was taken from me. And no, I don't hide behind anyone. I'm still a commander."

Darius eyed him suspiciously.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" It was a stupid question, but he wanted confirmation all the same. Perdiccas had never been clear about what he wanted to achieve when he kidnapped Alexander's wife and allied himself with them.

Silence fell like a stone.

Perdiccas looked away angrily.

"I protected her. When everyone was wary and distant, I treated her as she deserved, with care and kindness. When he decided to marry her out of the blue and nearly killed Cleitus, I was the one who stood by her. And yet... Yet she'd rather die than look at me. Than acknowledge me."

There was resentment in Perdiccas's words. (Y/N) didn't seem to realize what he'd thrown away for her. But she'd never asked him for anything.

"Because she's not yours," Darius replied. "Never was. And no matter how much you cage her, she never will be. And now, your pathetic desire has put us all at risk!"

"Shut up!" Perdiccas growled, taking a step forward, his hand going to the dagger at his waist.

But Bessus stopped him with a quick gesture, "Put that down. Not now."

Bessus turned back to Darius, his eyes narrowed, his patience finally wearing thin.

"You've lost control. You've lost our prisoner. You've lost the army. And now you want to lose the empire to a foreigner. I, at least, still have the courage to fight."

"Fight for what?" Darius spat in frustration. "For pride? For vanity? Are you willing to watch this city — and all the children, women, and men who live in it — burn alive just to maintain this illusion of power?"

"At least I won't die on my knees, like a fucking coward." Bessus growled.

And then, without hesitation, he drew the dagger he kept tucked under the sleeve of his tunic.

Darius tried to retreat, but it was too late.

The blade pierced his abdomen with brutal precision. He grunted in pain, the wet sound of breath leaking between his lips, and fell backward, knocking over a tapestry bearing the symbol of Persia in its glory days.

Blood dripped onto the stone floor, staining it. Darius fell to the ground, blood streaming from his lips, agonizing in pain.

Perdiccas froze, taken aback by the suddenness of the attack.

"You... You stabbed him."

"Now I am the only legitimate leader here," Bessus said, wiping the blade on his own tunic. "Alexander will find the corpse of the last Persian king. I will say it was I who punished him for weakness. And the people will believe it."

He looked at Perdiccas, assessing him.

"Take whatever is useful and come with me. There is a secret exit through the tunnels beneath the palace. Only the Kings know it. And now... I am the King."

Perdiccas hesitated for a second. Then he looked at Darius’s body, sprawled on the floor like a forgotten shadow of past glory. And then, silently, he followed.

Bessus pulled back the tapestry at the back of the hall, revealing a stone trapdoor. The mechanism creaked as he opened it. A dark tunnel stretched beyond — an ancient escape route, built for royal emergencies.

Without a backward glance, Bessus stepped into the shadows.

And with him, betrayal.

And the promise that the city was doomed to fall.

— lady l: ...yeah, well... I'll miss Darius but he needed to die 😔

Sorry it took me a while to update but my life is crazy and difficult financially at the moment (I'm trying to get a job but it's difficult where I live), but I'm getting back to writing and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. ❤️

Forgive me for any mistakes (it's 4am), and as always, feedback is always welcome! If you'd like to chat, you can send me a message, either via DM or inbox, and I'll answer everything! ❤️❤️

Love you all!! <333

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

Well Fed

BangChan x Reader.

9th Member.

Word Count: 3,587.

Characters: 19,040.

Characters without spaces: 15,526

Taglist.

Masterlist.

Progress Update.

MamaBear Collection.

Summary: You like making sure your boys are fed.

You enjoyed making sure your boys were all well fed. If that meant cooking or buying them food, you’d happily do it. You and Chan tended to take turns when it came to buying food and drinks for the guys. That being said, that didn’t mean the boys didn’t pay. Of course, they paid. But you and Chan tended to offer more often, or you’d do it without even asking.  

You and the boys worked long days. Dancing, singing, working out, filming, photoshoots, and tours. During all of that, it could be sometimes hard to remember to do simple things, like taking a break or eating. But you were always there with a smile on your face and ready to give out food to your boys.

—----------

Chan was standing in the booth recording his lines. Changbin and Han were giving him feedback, but Chan just wasn’t satisfied with how he had done so far. You knocked on the studio door and walked inside. Han and Changbin immediately turned to look at you.

“Hi, my lovies.” You said as you walked over to Han to hug him.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. “Hi, Mama Bear.” His voice came out a little muffled as he pressed his face into your stomach. You pulled away and giggled before going over to Binnie.

Binnie hugged you, pulling you close. “Hello, Honey.” He said with a smile before pulling away. You looked through the window into the booth and smiled, seeing your boyfriend. You both waved at each other. You walked over to the booth door and opened it. 

“Hi, my love.” You spoke happily as you walked over to Chris.

 

“Hi, baby.” He cupped your cheeks in his hands, and the two of you shared a sweet kiss.

You both pulled away after a few moments.

“Come on. You men need a break, and I brought food.” You told him.

“You’re the best. I knew I fell in love with you for some reason.” Chan gave you a cheeky grin as you let out a playful gasp. 

“Wow, only with me because I feed you, I feel used.” Chan hugged you as you both laughed. That laugh was later used in a track. 

Chan took off his headphones, and the two of you walked out of the booth. You set your bag down and opened it. You pulled out three bento boxes. “You three were my last stop. I already gave the others their food. Danceracha are in the dance studio. Vocalracha are both home.” They had thankfully gotten done today. Having only needed to do their lines and vocal lessons. So your youngest two were currently at home, eating what you made them and watching YouTube. 

“Thank you. You’re an angel.” Changbin said as he stood up, taking his box from you. He knew which was his. You had a different colour box for each guy. Chan’s is black. Leeknow’s is green. Changbin’s is a deep pink. Hyunjin’s is red. Han’s is blue. Felix’s is yellow. Seungmin’s is purple and I.N.’s is beige. Yours is white.

“I made brownies and cupcakes with Lixie and Minnie yesterday, so you have one of each in there. They came out really well.” You were proud of the boys for both focusing on the baking. “And whilst they did cause chaos, the treats all came out pretty yummy.” You told them with a bright smile on your face. 

You sat down on the couch, and Chan came to sit next to you as you took out your own box. You smiled brightly at the male. You turned to look at Han and Binnie, already seeing them tucking into their food. You leaned back in your seat a little as you and Chan opened your boxes and began to eat. 

The four of you sat there happily eating and talking. 

—----------

Minho, you and Chan were once again cooking together. You had your hair up. You had on your favourite apron that Seungmin and I.N. got for you. It had Winnie the Pooh on it eating a jar of honey. It was incredibly adorable. 

Minho was focused on the soup and the dumplings. You were focused on the rice and the vegetables. Chan had all his attention on the meat. In the background, music was playing quietly. Currently playing was ‘Mountains’. 

So there you are bopping your head as you focus on cooking. Minho looked over at you and chuckled, causing you to look at the male. You smile.

“What?” You asked curiously with a giggle. 

Minho shrugged. “Bop your head any harder and you'll probably drop to the floor from dizziness.” 

You let out a mocking gasp. “I would not.”

A laugh from your other side caught Minho's attention. You both turned to look at Chan who was flipping all the meat over.

“Hate to break it to you Honey, but Minho is right. Remember when you got dizzy whilst folding laundry because you were bopping a little too hard to Thunderous with Han?” He asked you.

You froze for a moment, darn. He was right. You looked between Chan who had a knowing smile on his face and Minho, who was smirking at you like he knew you had just lost. 

You let out a huff. “Thunderous is a certified bop. It's illegal not to jam out to it.” You lifted your head high, having no shame whatsoever.  “The fact you two don't know that is actually embarrassing for both of you. Your fake fans of yourself. That's sad.” Your voice was giggly and full of teasing. 

Chan raised an eyebrow at you. He put down the tongs and looked at Minho who put his wooden spoon to the side. The two nodded at each other. The two backed you up away from the food.

“What are you planning?” You asked them as you back up.

Chan lunged and lifted you, throwing you over his shoulder. Minho then began slapping your ass repeatedly. 

You let out a dramatic scream. “Stop! You can't do this to me!” 

Minho laughed. “Yeah? Watch me.” He smacked your ass again. 

Chan grinned. “All you have to do is apologise, my sweet.” 

You thought for a moment. “Or, I can do this. CHANGBINNIE! SAVE ME!’

Chan flinched slightly when you screamed. 

Footsteps were heard. Changbin came into the room, quickly followed by Han, I.N. and Hyunjin. Felix and Seungmin weren't far behind. 

“Save me, these monsters won't let me go. I'm being held captive.” You told the six men. 

Changbin and I.N. both stepped forward. Changbin began to make his way to Chan. I.N. was ready to make a move if need be. 

Hyunjin began heading towards Minho but immediately stopped when the older male glared at him and picked up his wooden spoon. 

Hyunjin screamed and jumped behind Felix and Seungmin. “He's going to kill me!” 

Seungmin rolled his eyes. “Have fun dying.” He spoke dryly, making Hyunjin look at him with wide eyes.

Changbin tried to reach for you, only for Chan to back away. “She's mine.” Chan spoke challengingly. 

Changbin grunted. “Yeah, you wanna bet?” He moved to try to grab you again.

I.N. seized his opportunity. He grabbed your hands and pulled you to him. Thankfully, you slipped out of Chan's grip, he should have held you tighter. I.N. held your bridal style and sprinted to the kitchen door.

“Move! I got her! Our Mother is safe!” The others moved out of his way, letting I.N. run past. Seungmin immediately followed after the two of you. The whole time you laughed loudly as you held onto the Maknae. 

Minho turned his attention to Chan. “Seriously?” He asked him.

Chan raised his hands in defence. “He came out of nowhere.” 

Minho threw his hands in the air. “Ya! Bring her back! She needs to finish helping us cook!”

The group faintly all heard a ‘No Thank You!” From both Seungmin and I.N.

—----------

Changbin laid on the floor of the dance practice room. Your phone in his hand as he tried deciding what he wanted to eat. Felix was laying on Changbin's back, fast asleep. Yes, you did get a picture. 

Everyone had ordered what they wanted. You were just waiting on Changbin. 

Chan was snuggled on the couch getting a small nap in. I.N, Seungmin and Han were all playing with a deck of cards from your bag. You, Minho and Hyunjin were slowly going through the next section of the dance. You wanted to get it ready for the boys once everyone had eaten.

Changbin finally decided and placed the order. “You sure you're okay with buying, Honey?’ He called out to you.

You nodded as you worked on your foot placement. “I'm always sure about paying for my boys.” You said without a single second of hesitation. 

Changbin nodded and placed the order. “Food should be here in 30 minutes.” He said and began to scroll through the pictures on your phone. 

You continued the dance. You, Minho and Hyunjin were in perfect sync. Felix was meant to be joining you. But his back was playing up, so you demanded that he sit out for just this practice. He could mark the routine but that was all. Which he did. He marked the routine at different points before sitting down. It was only when everyone called for a break did he let his tiredness take over. So he went to Changbin, who was on the floor. He had just wanted a hug, only to fall asleep on Changbin's back. The older male didn't mind too much. 

Han watched the three of you move. Not noticing Seungmin checking his cards or how Han's round had been skipped over four times now. I.N. and Seungmin just grinned at each other. 

Eventually food came. By now everyone who was awake was playing cards. Minho got up to get the food whilst you woke up Chan and Felix. You started with Felix. You brushed his blonde locked out of his face. 

“Lixie, Baby. Food is here. You gotta eat, Sunshine.” Felix slowly blinked away and let out a small whine. 

“I don't wanna wake up.” He mumbled out. 

You giggled. “I know poppet, but you gotta. Come on, angel.” You helped him sit up. Chanbin sat up and stretched. 

As Minho and Han began passing out the food you went over to Chan. You moved his hat out of his face. “Chris, my love. Food is here.” You leant down and kissed the corner of his lips.

“Kiss me properly.” Chan pouted, his eyes still closed.

You shook your head but kissed him anyway. You could feel him smiling into the kiss. 

“Ya! When you two are done, food is here.” Minho spoke, getting your attention. 

You shook your head as Chan sat up and stretched. “Alright. Let's eat.” 

—----------

Hyunjin was happily cooking beside you. The two of you were having a lot of fun trying out some different recipes. You made some skewers, kimbaps, dumplings and some ramen for everyone. You also had a peach pie cooking and a quiche. 

You had never made a quiche before, but you wanted to try. You carefully got it out of the oven and set it on the counter. You took off one of your oven gloves and cut a slice of the quiche, placing it on a plate.

“It looks really good, Honey. Smells yummy.” He was bouncing in excitement. 

You looked up at Hyunjin and smiled brightly. “Yeah, it does. Can you please get Channie for me real quick? I want him to try the quiche with us. He seemed excited about trying. Quickly now, you can have the first bite, but not until he's here.” You explained.

Hyunjin practically bounced into the living room, where the rest of the boys were happily sitting playing cards. 

“Channie-Hyung. Honey wants you to try the quickie in the kitchen.” He said confidently and full of excitement.

Chan's mouth dropped as he froze.

Minho and Changbin both let out loud cackles of laughter.

Han choked on his drink, causing Felix to pat his back.

Seungmin was trying to figure out if he had heard Hyunjin correctly. 

Jeongin looked horrified. 

“W…what?” Chan asked in shock.

“The quickie is the kitchen that she told you about? She sent me in here to get you so you could try it with us?” Hyunjin was now very confused. Why were they laughing, and why was Chan so confused?

“Us? You're joining them?” Minho asked after calming down from his laughing fit.

Hyunjin nodded. “Well, yeah. I did help. Honey said it's only fair that I get the first taste.” That had Minho, Changbin, Seungmin and Han all rolling on the floor with laughter. 

I.N. shook his head in disbelief. “Out of all of us, I didn't think Hyunjin would be the first one to be offered. I'm almost offended.”

You walked into the living room after hearing the laughter. You had on your favourite apron.

“What's going on here?” You asked the boys curiously. 

Seungmin pointed at Hyunjin. “Ask him.”

Hyunjin shrugged. “I just came to get Chan for the quickie like you asked.”

“I said quiche, not quickie!” You gasped out. Your face is going red. You shook your head.

The group all laughed as you and Hyunjin looked at each other, a warm smile shared between you both.

“So no quickie then?” Jeongin asked curiously from his spot on the ground.

—----------

Jisung sat in the 3Racha room. He was alone. He was in writer mode, trying to get this song right. No one had seen him much that day other than Chan and Changbin. 

So you took it upon yourself to check on him. Minho would have gone but he was going over a section of the new dance with I.N. and Seungmin. There were some hand movements they were struggling with.

You walked into the room to see Han sitting on the couch, writing down in his book. 

 ‘Hi, Hannie.” You spoke softly. 

He looked up at you and smiled slightly. “Hi.” He looked back at his book.

You frowned. “Han, I brought you some food. I thought you could use some.” You told him as you pulled out his bento box from your bag. You held it out to you.

“Thanks.” He didn't look up or move. 

“Ji. It's time to take a break.” Your voice was soft but stern. 

Han glared up at you. “I'm busy, okay? Go bother someone else! I don't need you hovering around me” Oh, he very rarely spoke to you like that.

“Jisung. You are going to take a break. You are going to eat. If you step away from the song and come back to it with fresh eyes, it might work. You will close that book and you will eat. I don't care how much. But from what I've heard, you've only had breakfast today.” You pulled out his travel cup. “And an ice americano for you as well.” You watched him closely. 

Chan and Changbin had both told you that the three hadn't eaten in the studio that day, having all been so focused.

Han's stomach growled. He closed his book and set it to the side. He took the food and drink from you. “Thank you.” 

You nodded. “You're welcome.” You adjusted your bag. “Minho should be here to join you in about twenty minutes. He's teaching right now.” You walked to the door, ready to leave. “Enjoy the food.” 

Han reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Stay, please? You're not a bother and you don't hover. I'm sorry. I can't get the song right and it's making me so angry and I just… I'm sorry. Please stay with me.” His big eyes looked at you, slowly tearing up. 

You placed your bag down and cupped his cheeks in your hands. “We all need a break sometimes, Ji. We've all lashed out at each other before. I forgive you. I'll stay here for as long as you need me to.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, his face buried in your stomach as you stroked his hair.

—----------

Felix stood beside you as the two of you looked at the two batches of brownies you had both made. Felix's famous brownies and a new caramel one with a gooey centre. They looked and smelt good. 

“So, how are we dividing these up?’ Felix asked you. 

You shrugged. The brownies were really big.  “There should be enough for five each. But there'll be two left over. You can have the extra two since you did make them.”

Felix shook his head. “You made them too.” He thought for a moment before going to the freezer and pulling out the ice cream. “What if we share the extra two now? With ice cream? No one has to know.” He suggested to you. 

You smiled brightly at Felix who smiled back at you. “Have I ever told you, I love you?” 

Felix nodded happily. “Every day.” He said as he watched you grab two dishes. You cut the two spare brownies in half and set them in the dishes. You then gave then to Felix to put the ice cream as syrups and whatever else he wanted on them.

Meanwhile you got out nine treat boxes. Each had something on the lid to show it was theirs. Like Felix, his had the sun on it. Minho's had a cat. Hyunjin had a flower on his. 

You divided up the brownies so everyone got an even amount. You then put the boxes away, ready to be given to the others when they get back. You then put the trays into the sink, letting them cool down.

You and Felix grabbed your dishes and walked to the living room. You sat down together and happily ate while you watched Eastenders together. 

—----------

Seungmin sat at the kitchen counter as he watched you make breakfast. He was still waking up as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He watched you move about the kitchen.

You were all on holiday for the weekend. You were awake early due to not being able to sleep. 

Seungmin had found you in the kitchen after he had woken up. He had greeted you before sitting to watch you. 

You picked up a piece of bacon and handed it to Seungmin to try. He bit into it and chewed. “It's so yummy.” He told you.

You smiled and quickly made his coffee. You handed it to him. “Careful it's hot. Food won't be long now.” 

Seungmin nodded his head. “Thank you.” 

Every so often you would feed him but of food to taste test. He always gave you his honest opinion. And then, a plate appeared in front of him. He perked up. “It's done?” He asked you.

You nodded. “Yours is done. The rest should be ready by the time some of the others wake up.” You knew everyone was gonna be waking up at different times, so you wanted everything ready for whoever comes down. 

Seungmin patted the seat next to him. “Eat with me? Please?” His big eyes looked at you with so much hope. How could you possibly refuse him anything?

You made yourself a plate and sat down beside Seungmin. You both ate together. You got up to check on the food every so often. It was quiet but comfortable. It was something you both had needed. 

—----------

Jeongin was recording his lines as you walked into the Studio. You spotted Han sleeping on the couch. You walked over to Chan and kissed his cheek. You looked at Changbin and smiled at him. 

“Hello.” You spoke happily. 

Chan smiled up at you and took your hand in his and kissed your palm. Changbin just smiled and shook his head. 

Chan pressed the button to the booth. “Alright Yena. You're finished for the day.” 

I.N. grabbed his stuff and left the booth. He bounced over to you. 

“You ready to go, sweet pea?” You asked him curiously.

I.N. nodded his head. “Yeah, I'm ready.”

Chan and Changbin looked at you both in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I'm taking Innie out for lunch. Everyone else is busy today, so we decided to make a day of it.” You explained excitedly. 

Chan smiled. “I hope you both have fun.” He took out his wallet and put his card in your hand. ‘It's on me. Go spoil yourselves.” 

You shook your head. “Chris. I can't.’ 

Chan chuckled. “Please? Let me spoil my girl a little. Go out, eat lots of food, bring back desserts and go have fun.” He took the card and placed it in your pocket. 

“Alright. I'll text you when we're heading home. I love you.” You both shared a kiss. “Thank you.” 

“I love you too.” Chan spoke and waved as he watched you and I.N. leave the room, ready to go for lunch. Changbin smirked. “She has you wrapped around her little finger and she doesn't even know it.”

Safe to say, you and Jeongin had a lovely lunch. You took home enough desserts for all the boys. But you did get an extra dessert for Chris and I.N.. When you both got home, you fell asleep on the couch together, both stuffed full from all the delicious food you had shared.

------

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[clowneryplusftf1]

Oscar Piastri x reader

Oscar is whipped the moment he sees you playing video games at the middle of a crowded club.

All Oscar wants is to go home and fall into his bed face first. 

And that’s coming from someone who only arrived at the party twenty-four minutes ago, from which he spent seven minutes trying to get rid of his jacket at the coat check. 

He pushes through the crowd, looking for a familiar face, but he can’t spot anyone. Lando’s supposed to show up, he was invited too, although he mentioned that he might have to be back at base despite this being a sponsor event. Guess he got a get out of jail free card. 

Lucky bastard. 

So, he gives up looking and heads to the bar, hoping a glass or two can make him forget about the upcoming series of hello and nice to meet you that will fill the rest of the night. Boring people at a boring and predictable party. It was designed to be a trendy event, at a trendy club, probably with some famous musician showing up too to entertain the masses. 

At first, he believes he’s imagining the whole scene, that you’re nothing more but a vision, a fragment of his imagination. Because why would anyone in their right mind let someone sit on the bar table with her heels resting comfortably where people put their drinks? What’s more important, though, is why are you playing video games at a party? 

Before he could stop himself, he begins to walk towards you, as if you were a siren, a beacon that’s calling out for him. There are many gamer girls in the world, sure, but you’re quite a sight in your short sequin dress and those sparkly high heels.

“Never expected to see someone bring a Steam Deck to a club,” he says casually when he stops next to you and rests his forearms on the back of a stool. 

There’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes when you look up at him, but then you quickly return your attention to the game without speaking up. For a moment he even begins to question if you’ve registered that he's standing there, talking to you. 

Oscar can’t help but wonder why you’re not putting the game aside to chat. He’s not full of himself, it’s nothing like that, you don’t have to pay attention to him just because an F1 driver–who currently leads the championship, but who cares–yet it would be nice if you looked at him for more than a second. 

Yes, he’s surprisingly craving your attention. Why, he can’t tell, but he knows that he needs it badly. Like a drug that he can’t let go–or rather one that doesn’t let go of him. Either way, it’s a dangerous thing, and a voice in the back of his mind keeps telling him to turn around and let you be.

“What are you playing?” he asks you, although there’s no need for you to tell him as he already knows. 

It would be hard not to recognize the game, especially after the scandal around its release a few years back. Welcome to Night City, everyone. 

He watches you pause the game, then place the handheld console on your thighs with a tired sigh. “Is there something you want from me?” you ask, your voice not rude or annoyed, just bored and flat. 

He points at the device. “Why do you have MaxTac breathing down your neck?”

With a raised brow, as if you were surprised he knew what was happening in the game, you look down at the screen, then shrug. “Well, you know, I might have raised some hell, then things escalated quickly. During my last playthrough, I pissed off Militech during an NCPD scan hustle.”

“Badlands?” You nod with a small smile. A little, adorable smile that melts his heart. “Fuck Militech,” he says with a huff, forcing himself not to smile. 

Why he wants to avoid smiling is beyond him at this point. If he’s flirting with you, the least he can do is smile, right? 

You turn off the screen, put the device behind you, then move to be sitting on the edge of the bar table, your legs mere inches from his knees. “An Arasaka fan, I take it,” you say as you let out a quiet laugh. 

It’s hard to resist the urge to put his hands on your knees, or two just brush them with his knuckles, so, instead of doing something reckless, he simply builds some distance by sitting on the closest stool. It’s still close, but definitely far enough to keep things safe for now. 

“Wouldn’t call myself that,” Oscar admits as he takes a closer look at the clear and yellow gradient shell that lets you see the inside of the machine. “Why are you here if you’re so bored you’d rather play games instead of partying.”

“I don’t see you partying hard either,” you point out as you reach behind the bar to pull out a glass of mojito that you probably hid there. 

He smiles for the first time, letting himself go for a moment. “I just got here, I’m still warming up,” he responds. You tilt your head to the side a little. “What is it?”

You lean closer, then conspiratorally signaling him to do the same. “You don’t take me as the party guy type,” you whisper to him. “Also, you have a reputation to uphold. Although…”

“Although what?”

Letting out a long, thoughtful hum, you edge a little closer to him. “A lot of people joke that you’re like Kimi. Räikkönen, not Antonelli. So, if you are, then you know how to party,” you say with a wicked smile. 

“Would you like to party with me?”

“I would like to hide under the blanket and have a nice long sleep,” you inform him. 

A part of him finds it amusing that this was his first thought as well when he got here, that he’d rather be in bed now. But now there’s another part, and he really doesn’t want to say what it wants him to say. Because he’s not like that, he’s a good guy–at least he tries to be–acting like this, saying this is not like him. Maybe Lando’s style is rubbing off on him. 

“I have a bed not far from here,” he offers, mentally slapping himself right away. 

“Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy,” you say with a heartfelt laugh. “We’ve just met, why would I jump into your bed right away? Jesus, what do you take me for?”

Humiliating. 

That’s the only word that comes to his mind now. 

And holy fuck. 

Yes, that too. 

“I’m sorry, it came out wrong, it was supposed to be a joke,” he starts to ramble. 

And then it just happens. You slide off the bar table, right into his lap, then wrap your arms around his neck as you take a closer look at his face. “You’re actually really handsome in person,” you blurt out. 

“In person? Oh, wow, thanks, good to know I’m not that good-looking on TV,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “What are you doing, babygirl, hmm?” he asks with his lips already hovering inches from yours. 

“Your boss was heading this way after noticing you’re talking to me. Thought you might want to avoid him,” you tell him with a smile. 

Oscar can’t help but wonder about what you just said. “What’s so special about you?” 

It’s a miracle you can hear him, because his lips are busy placing kisses all over your jawline and neck, while his hands are holding you firmly in place. But how could he resist when you offer yourself to him like this? What’s wrong with acting reckless and losing control just once? You can have as much control tonight as you want, he knows that by now. 

But you don’t let him get too lost in the taste of you, because you put a finger under his chin to make him look up at you. “My dad’s company is one of your bigger sponsors,” you explain. 

“Shit.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Zak’s gonna kill me for this. Sorry, I’m so sorry, I–”

“Oscar?”

“I shouldn’t have–”

“Hey, focus!” you snap as you grab his chin. “No one’s gonna kill you. I bury hatchets and don’t burn bridges, so even if this is nothing more but a one-night stand, the sponsorship is safe. I won’t be mad if we don’t meet again,” you explain with a kind smile. 

For the first time that night, he takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs completely, then blows it out slowly to calm himself. It’s been a long time since he last panicked like this. Damn, he didn’t miss it. Losing control truly sucks. 

Instead he decides to focus on you again, closing out the possibility of his boss giving him a lecture about how to act around sponsors and their daughters. (He’s actually pretty sure Lando heard this lecture at one point.) You’re still watching him, waiting patiently for the moment when he’s ready to return to this little bubble of yours. 

“You sure?” he asks, and your nod is all he needs. “Good.”

And with that, he kisses you again, this time not worrying about the possible consequences. 

[joelletwo]

Just want to read a thread that mentions phones fitting in pockets to see if other ppl are actually living lifestyles w their giant ass phones u can only find nowadays or if everyones lying to me <- was pissing me off phone shopping again. Find out its reddit party line to go um women dont actually want clothes w pockets if they did theyd just Buy Them smh women be wanting their asses to look too good its all they care about 🙄 hey can i kill you?

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)

[skyberia]

here's a list of programs/sites/whatever that were helpful to me when i was moving away from using spotify & back to downloading music:

soulseek - peer to peer downloading program, has most music you'd want. there's "rules" to it though and the UI is a little confusing, but you can figure it out. there's tutorials. i believe in you

cobalt.tools, ytiz.xyz, yt-dlp - mp3 downloaders, for the songs that you can't find on soulseek

musicbee - music player, extremely customiseable. reminds me of when i used itunes back in the day. has a lot of good features, including syncing music over to your phone

lastfm & listenbrainz - sites that keep track of your listening stats. i'd recommend this even if you still choose to use a music streaming service

syncedlyrics - cmd thing that gets you timed song lyrics, like the ones spotify has. there's no UI but it's easy enough to use. just grab the lyrics and timestamps it spits out and paste it into musicbee

music presence - program that shows what song you're listening to in your discord status, in case you use discord and enjoy the thought of other people seeing what you're listening to, which i do for some reason

i'm not going to lie to you and say that switching away from spotify/streaming services is an effortless task, it took me half a whole day of nonstop Work to get all my music downloaded and sorted out, but i will say that it was worth it!! and you should do it 👍 if you want to

ETA: for more resources, check the reblogs! Plenty of different people have pitched in more sites/programs/etc that i didn't mention here that might be helpful to you as well

[abandoned-quiche]

I LOVE ALL OF THESE CHARACTERS BTW. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOUR HATE FOR THEM ON MY POST

[damianito]

Before i decided on the triples i toyed with the idea of skk have one daughter. This are old-ish doodles of it

|COMMISSIONS OPEN!!|

[clumsypuppy]

horrible truth bomb dropped on my head 20 min ago

[bennetsbonnet]

In that post about Joe Wright avoiding bonnets in p&p 2005 for being “too clichéd” (wtf), you said “and the disdain he clearly has for said author which manifests in various ways”. Could you elaborate on that? (asking only out of interest, not disagreement)

Absolutely (the post anon refers to) it's always a pleasure! Though I will say before starting, I'm not bashing 2005 for the sake of it and no one is "wrong" for enjoying it. For me, it's not about fan wars/arguing about which adaptation is best... I just really care about Pride and Prejudice as a novel and I get frustrated when the beautiful, timeless story is distorted!

My main problem with the 2005 adaptation is how much it misrepresents the characters and changes the speech from the snappy, witty dialogue that Jane Austen wrote into something entirely different. Not only do I believe that it does not need updating for C21st audiences (though it might sound a little strange to the modern ear at first,you quickly get used to it) but that dialogue is what really stood out to me and charmed me when I first read it and I don't care for it being rewritten into either something that is either worse than what is found in the novel, or entirely changes the characterisation.

The one that particularly irks me is Darcy's 'bewitched me body and soul' dialogue as, to me, book!Darcy's confession to Elizabeth of when he fell in love with her:

'I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.'

is so beautiful and romantic. Why change that? Additionally, this man is not awkward, he can make romantic speeches, he doesn't need to trip over telling her he loves her. And I've previously discussed here why I think Darcy saying he is bewitched by Elizabeth is out of character.

There are many such cases in the film, but that is amongst the worst to me, perhaps only alongside Darcy's first proposal and how much Lady Catherine's visit and confrontation was watered down (and why did it take place in the middle of the night???).

I suppose he didn't write the script so perhaps I cannot blame him entirely for that... but it goes beyond dialogue, to how the actors were directed and the contempt shown for the period it was set in, which is bizarre when making a period drama.

I think it's quite apparent that JW desperately wanted to make Pride and Prejudice into a Brontësque romance with sweeping landscapes and dramatic weather. I suppose you can argue he did that successfully, but it came entirely at the expense of it being the story that Jane Austen wrote. There are lighthearted, humorous moments too but very few of them feature dialogue actually written by Austen ('what excellent boiled potatoes' springs to mind).

He misunderstood and consequently misrepresented Elizabeth and Darcy's dynamic to the point that they are hardly recognisable to the characters Jane Austen created. 2005!Darcy is so painfully shy and pathetic, that when contrasted with such an impertinent and sarcastic Elizabeth, it just seems like she's bullying a smol bean who struggles in social situations. You cannot emphasise Elizabeth's sassiness while making Darcy such a pathetic specimen, it just doesn't work. She isn't the witty, charming character from the novel anymore.

The period inaccuracy is absolutely baffling in ways beyond costumes, beyond the lack of bonnets and that one scene where one of the sisters is having her corset tied so tightly. For me, the worst offences are:

The bleachers at the Meryton assembly. Not only wildly historically inaccurate but makes Elizabeth look like a gossip and an eavesdropper, rather than an innocent party insulted by a rich snob.

The pig running through Longbourn and generally everything about Longbourn itself. The Bennets are not on the same level of wealth as Darcy and Bingley but they are not some poor farmers, with a scruffy house. Elizabeth is very much of the same class as Darcy.

Chatsworth is absolutely, definitively NOT Pemberley. It is explicitly mentioned in the text as featuring in their tour of the Peaks so consequently it CANNOT be Pemberley. It's far too grand an estate for an untitled gentleman. Darcy is rich but Chatsworth is another level.

I care about this because the landscaping is not at all correct as it's very artificial, whereas Pemberley is renowned for its natural beauty. It might not seem like much but it really is a huge part of why Elizabeth fell for him!

Another reason Chatsworth shouldn't have been used is because Elizabeth seeing a portrait of Darcy and looking into his eyes rather than a bust with holes is crucial, as I explained here.

This is all disappointing but I do feel like I could get over it if the characterisation was adequate. Unfortunately, I barely recognise any of them.

Mr Bennet is not a cute fatherly figure. Him not accompanying them to the Meryton assembly is a plot point to underscore his bone idleness. Yes, his relationship with Elizabeth is very sweet and he loves her a lot... but that does not a good father make!

The total character assassination of Mr Bingley... who is not a clueless himbo. As if Jane Bennet would ever fall for a man like that, or Jane Austen would ever write a character like that (except to be the object of ridiculue).

I do not know in what universe Charlotte Lucas, the pragmatic voice of reason would say 'we are all fools in love.' And the 'I'm 27 years old' monologue is just not something I can ever picture her saying... she wasn't a frightened, timid little creature whatsoever.

Wickham isn't bad enough. What he did to Georgiana is blink and you'll miss it, and when he returns with Lydia, Elizabeth glares at him a bit and that's it? The elopement is also resolved very quickly, there is no real tension with it.

The key story beats are butchered too. Especially the letter, not just in how short it is but in the way Darcy hands it to Elizabeth. I think I remember reading something about how JW couldn't imagine how Darcy would be in the room with her, so he just made it like a dream sequence... aka he put his own creative desires over what's in the novel, when Darcy seeking Elizabeth out to hand it to her is very important. Not least, because it shows the length he's prepared to go to in order to set the record straight as it was breaking social convention for a man to write a letter like that to a woman he wasn't related to or engaged to.

That quote, among others, just shows he had a desire to do things differently and it seems to be because he thinks he can do it 'better.' It's bizarre because why bother adapting a classic which is anchored to its time when you blatantly have disdain for it? It's like doing a war film without army uniforms and guns.

Everything I've read from him, he just seems like a smug film bro that believes that he got it 'right' and people had been Missing The Point the entire until he came along. No, you weren't onto anything new. There are certain things, like bonnets, that tend to be in period dramas. And Jane Austen is very literal with her meanings, for the most part. There isn't a new way to interpret her works.

For a film entitled Pride and Prejudice there isn't a great deal of pride or prejudice... it's really just a poor shy boi, who stands there and fidgets with his gloves while not saying anything, and his girlboss, who uses towels that have been getting wet on the line outside to dry herself after coming in from a rainstorm.