#how to build a turf

[newbusinessideas]

How to Make Money in Backyards with Artificial Turf

Discover how to make money in backyards with artificial turf. Learn the best business ideas, and how to capitalize on this growing landscaping trend. #ArtificialTurfBusiness #HomeBusiness #Entrepreneurship #SideHustle #PassiveIncome #BusinessIdeas

You must have seen many types of turf around you, people like to play cricket and football on them, let me tell you that in the last several years, their demand has continuously increased in the market. And there are two reasons behind the increase in demand, first of all, there are many people who love sports in our country. Secondly, whatever big metro cities are there, some construction has…

[iamlostandinneedofcoffee]

I like to imagine that every once in a while Red Hood just goes off comms for long stretches of time and comes back bruised as shit and exhausted before logging off for the night and the rest of bat brigade is trying to figure out which villain of the week keeps jumping him.

Eventually they, cause communication is a skill no one learned, just start harassing hood’s men to find out whose turf they are invading only to find out they thought the bats were beefing with Red again cause he keeps mumbling about brats.

Now they are trying to find out which one of them is lying about fucking with Jason and no one is owning up, the trackers they keep putting on him are fizzling out, no one as any idea and Jason ain’t saying shit. But like he’s never properly irritated about it or asks for help nor can they find anything out so they let it go for now (read keep trying to track him to no avail).

And then one night Red Robin comes across Red getting chased and then fighting off a feral looking teenager on the roofs of Crime Alley and just when he looks like he is getting the upper hand another drops down from above (how the fuck the nearest taller building is not anywhere near close enough to dive into the fight from what the fuck?!?) and joins the brawl.

Tim is about to rush in to help Jason before the two teens’ heads turn in unison to him with Lazarus green eyes and look like cats when they see a red dot. Jason panics and before he can grab them, they leap and now Tim is in a cartoon brawl dust cloud and all and Jason has joined in and is calling them all brats and how his gunna whop their ass- and there is a foot in his mouth.

And yet through it all Tim never feels afraid. In fact, as he fights he realises they are keeping up and beating him all whilst smiling and punning(?!? They must never meet dick SHIT DUCK) and that won’t fucking do, so he brings out all his tools and tricks and is getting matching by two raccoon twins. 20 minutes later they are all grinning bloody smiles and just as he is about to slam his bo staff up into into the female looking twin, a whistle is blown.

They all freeze and look over in unison as if they all became shining quadruplets at a giant shit house built fucking man. And like Tim has seen big men. Bane is a big mother fucker. Superman is a big mother fucker, and is also shaped like one. Bats is big but this guy even though his is maybe not as large he feels infinitely more terrifying and that’s before you get to the flaming(fucking literally, how does that even work or stay in the pony tail) white hair.

“Alright enough for tonight or foods gunna go cold. Inside.” A voice bellows across the roof before the man disappears??!? At the mention of food the one top of Tim almost starts drooling, gets up and starts dragging Tim’s still prone body across the roof and off of it OH FUCK AND INTO A WALL WHA and they went through it… well

A couple second later Jason and the other dude stumble in. Jason picks Tim up as he is coming down from that mini adrenaline rush at and puts a arm around Tim, half hug half chokehold, saying “say nothing and you get to join once a week. Say shit and you’re haunted.” And walks off to the kitchen and starts bringing out food.

… safe to say the rest of the bats are now confused why Tim of all people is now turning up bruised as well with Jason, cause if it was him to start why has he started loosing all of a sudden??? And he says fuck all but his weapons and fighting style has got more chaotic and terrifying.

Oh and he seems to be eating… well you win some and lose some

[gremlingottoosilly]

Mafia!König x Baker!Reader? It’s a small, self owned business and the only reason it’s still running is because König funds it, but he’s not going to hurt her feelings and confess that.

Konig knows heaven, and it smells like fresh cinnamon rolls at 6 am. He goes to your bakery every day - when he can afford to have a routine, to slip through the glass doors first thing in the morning and the last thing before you're closed. Get himself a set of fresh little pastries that he would throw at whatever poor secretary is going to cover up for his money laundering this day. Gets himself trays worth of cinnamon rolls and imagines smearing the white cream all over your lips. Making you suck his fingers clean. Maybe drop icing over his cock and push it over your mouth until you finally learn how to please a customer properly. He buys the whole building - gives you a hefty discount on rent, and makes sure to harass and beat down any poor fuck who thinks that getting money for protection from his turf is a good idea. Hires new security all around the block, discreet men in hoodies, allowing him to come here almost every day without risking you or himself. You're shit at doing business. Give away free stuff to students, never chastise the occasional workers you hire. They never stay for long - mostly because a lot of them are trying their hardest to rip you off, and Konig doesn't really appreciate the ones who wrong his future wife. It's easy to make the dough guy number three disappear - it's much harder not to stare at you, to stop his fingers from trembling and forgotten anxiety to whisper at his mind whenever you ask if he wants a free cinnamon bun to his order. He says it's a bad way of managing a business, and you giggle. Such a naive, precious little thing. You wouldn't survive without him - and you have absolutely no idea that this man will gladly shoot half of this damned city if you'd ask him. Konig wants nothing more but to press your pretty soft body to the counter and fuck you like it's the last thing he can do. Push you around and get his hands under your pretty skirt. Make you laugh, make you cry - make you whimper and claw at his shoulders as he pushes in, smearing sweet sugar powder all over your face. He was thinking about being just a bit more cruel - demanding something more for his protection. Having your pretty pussy on display for him, fuck you behind the counter. Drag you in his car and make you his sweet little baker back at the mansion. He isn't acting on his fantasies - not yet, at least, content with stealing soft touches and making his men steal your underwear for him. Visit your apartment sometimes, touch your pretty face and make decisions on how exactly he is going to whisk you away.

[transexualbutchfagdyke]

played one (1) anarchy battle w my friend/crush and was sos scared. she's trying to tell me how the game works ans give me pointers and it's so scary :(

[casssmalefantasy]

feel it in your chest - paige bueckers x reader!

s: you’re a senior on uconn’s soccer team, just trying to focus on your first big game. paige bueckers being there and looking stupid good, doesn’t help. especially when everything between you has been casual…at least, it was supposed to be.

w: language, fwb tension, alcohol, jealousy, bar scenes, angst w/ resolution, mutual pining, paige being a cocky menace, reader being emotionally overwhelmed, no smut but heavy tension

word count: 5.7k

you’re trying to warm up, you really are.

the turf’s hot under your cleats, the energy is loud, your body’s dialed in. first home game of the season, tickets sold out this morning. the kind of buzz that makes your legs feel electric. you’re bouncing on your toes at midfield, adjusting your shin guards, mind running through the unc scouting report—

and then it happens.

you hear the crowd shift. the kind of murmur that comes when someone important shows up. not like, coach walked by important. more like… local celebrity walked in.

and when you glance over your shoulder, you know exactly why.

paige fucking bueckers.

blue usa hoodie, gray sweats hanging low, white tee underneath, hair slicked into a ponytail that should be illegal, and those damn glasses on her face like she doesn’t already know what she’s doing.

she’s walking with a purpose. with confidence. like she’s not just there to watch, like she owns the whole damn stadium. fans are clocking her instantly, and it���s not just athletes who notice. she’s paige bueckers. and she looks good.

you blink hard and force yourself to look away. back to the ball at your feet. you’ve got a job to do. and the last thing you need is to spiral about the girl who’s been in your bed multiple times and still hasn’t said shit about it.

you’d hooked up. not once. not twice. multiple nights. always quiet. always intense. always without words after. you were friends, sure, but it was blurred. messy. unspoken.

you hadn’t texted her since the last time. and now she’s here.

you refocus.

first whistle blows. the game kicks off. and it’s a fucking grind.

unc’s midfield is strong. they close space fast, their winger is quick as hell, and your center backs are having to over-communicate like crazy. you’re playing box-to-box, burning through your lungs, threading tight passes, breaking up their build-up play. there’s one moment in the second half you launch a diagonal ball so clean your coach actually yells from the sideline.

you’re exhausted. your body’s sore. but when that final whistle blows and you’re up 2–1, it’s all worth it.

you walk to the sideline for water, heart pounding in your ears, sweat dripping down your back. you just need a second to catch your breath.

but the second you look up, you freeze.

the athletes are walking onto the field to celebrate with your team. and paige’s eyes are locked on you.

she’s smirking. slow. amused. confident. like she knows something you don’t.

your throat goes dry.

“damn,” she says, stepping up beside you. “you looked good out there.”

you pretend your pulse doesn’t spike. “thanks,” you say, wiping your face with your jersey. “needed that win.”

her eyes drag down your body like she’s seeing something way more than just a good match. her hand finds your waist—low, subtle, nothing scandalous from the outside. to everyone else it probably looks like a normal congratulatory hug between friends.

but her fingers? they’re warm. possessive. sliding just enough under your jersey to remind you this isn’t just a hug.

“first win of the season,” she murmurs in your ear. “you celebrating at ted’s tonight?”

you glance at her, trying to be chill. “probably. depends if the team’s down.”

she’s already nodding. “we’ll be there.”

and then she licks her lips.

like she knows what that does to you. like she’s trying to see how far she can push it. and you want to say something—anything, but your teammate grabs your arm and pulls you toward a group photo, and all you can do is look back over your shoulder as paige watches you walk away, eyes trailing after you like she’s memorizing the view.

—

you don’t text her.

you don’t need to.

you know she knows you’re going.

your hair’s slicked back, your makeup’s subtle but intentional. you keep it casual—white tube top, light blue baggy jeans, fresh white air forces. simple. clean. enough to make her look twice.

ted’s is already packed when you walk in with your teammates. neon lights reflecting off too many sweaty bodies. the music’s loud. someone’s already spilled a drink near the door. classic.

and then you feel it, that pull. that weird, magnetic thing that always happens when she’s in the room.

you don’t even have to scan the crowd. you know where she is.

your eyes meet hers across the bar, and she’s already smirking.

because of course she is.

you look away fast, straight to the bar, ordering the strongest drink you can think of—vodka red bull. because if there’s ever a night to be on edge, it’s this one.

but just as you’re pulling out your card, a hand beats you to it.

hers.

“put it on my tab,” paige tells the bartender, smooth as hell.

you turn, brow raised. “you didn’t have to do that. i can pay for my own.”

“yeah, but you’re with me.” her voice is low, barely audible over the music. “you don’t pay for anything when you’re with me.”

you stare at her.

“that’s bold,” you say.

“so am i,” she says, not missing a beat.

the air between you goes thick. heavy. like it could snap at any second. her eyes flick down to your mouth. yours do the same. your pulse is going crazy.

“i’ll be back,” you mutter, stepping away. “need to freshen up.”

you lie.

you’re not going to the bathroom for any real reason, you just need to breathe. to get away before you do something reckless in front of the entire athletic department. because she’s too fucking attractive and too fucking smooth and you’re two seconds away from dragging her into a corner.

the bathroom’s empty. you stare at yourself in the mirror, trying to calm down.

when you come out, you aren’t surprised.

a girl’s already flirting with her. brunette. hand on paige’s arm. laughing at something she said.

you look away.

you know how it goes. paige is hot. charismatic. everyone wants a piece of her. and honestly? you can’t even blame them.

so instead of sulking, you do the same. you find a pretty girl near the dance floor, flash her a smile, start a conversation. light, flirty. you’re laughing. she’s cute.

but it’s not the same.

and the second you glance toward the bar, paige is staring at you.

she doesn’t hesitate.

she walks right over. fast. determined.

you barely get a word out before she grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the girl and straight out the side door, the cold night air hitting you hard.

“what the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, letting go.

you laugh. loud. sarcastic. “me? what the fuck are you doing paige.

she glares at you. “you’re the one flirting like it’s a competition.”

“because it is, apparently!” you shoot back. “you show up to my game, buy my drinks, flirt with some random girl and expect me to just stand there?”

“i wasn’t flirting,” she says, jaw tight.

“could’ve fooled me.”

she steps closer. “what, you jealous?”

you scoff. “no,” you lie. “i’m confused. because you act like this is something, but then we never talk about it. you only hit me up when you want something and then pretend it didn’t happen.”

she’s quiet. just staring. lips parted.

you keep going. “you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to pull me out here like you care when you never fucking say anything.”

“i do care,” she says, voice low.

“really?” your laugh is bitter. “because it doesn’t look like it.”

she looks at you—really looks at you. and then she says, “you think i’m sleeping with anyone else?”

you blink.

“what?”

“you think i’m fucking around with other people?”

you don’t answer.

“i’m not,” she says, stepping even closer. “i haven’t been with anyone, but you. since the first time. i thought—i thought it was obvious.”

“well it’s not,” you say, arms crossed. “you’re paige bueckers. people throw themselves at you every night. and you let them.”

“i don’t do shit with them,” she says, exasperated. “maybe i flirt. maybe it’s fun. but it’s not real. it’s not like this.”

you look at her. your voice drops. “what is this?”

she goes quiet.

for a second, all you can hear is your breathing. the music inside. someone laughing near the curb.

then she steps in. puts her hand on your face. and kisses you.

it’s slow. sure. way deeper than anything you’ve done in the dark, drunk, behind closed doors. this kiss is different.

this one means something.

when you pull back, your voice is barely a whisper.

“what is this, paige?”

she exhales. “i don’t know. but i know i don’t want to be just… friends who fuck.”

you nod. “yeah. me either.”

she smiles, just a little. “so we talk about it?”

you smile back. “we talk about it.”

and then she kisses you again.

and this time, you let yourself feel it.

[invincibledc]

ꫂৎ𝐃𝐂 𝐗 𝐖𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂!𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

info!☆ Wynorrific, the word of being visually beautiful.. but being horrific at the same times. This is Yandere batfam, but I got lazy putting Yandere and batfam into the font. But reader is a monster in human form, trying to mimick humans for their/her own amusement. This is my first time writing something like this, so let me know if it’s a little shitty lol.

☆warnings: disturbing description, body horror, sickening applied of attempted 🍇, along ignoring how reader is a red flag

正気は決して選択肢ではありませんでした。

standing with a bloody mouth, a young woman with a beautiful figure and beautiful aura stood above a dead corpse. Its ribs showing out as if a deer has been mauled by a bear.

The woman’s face shifted with a crunches, a shadow, making her face looked blacked out expect her dilated eyes and white around the pupil. She walked from the carcass, the blood had ruined the cute frilly white dress she wore. It was a date. A blind date that she stole from another girl who she murdered with her cold hands. Going as “her”.

But why did the man grab her into an alley and try to force himself onto her? Cover her mouth, with such darkness into his eyes. Whatever that was, she didn’t have time for it as her mouth had enlarged, showing rows of sharp teeth and a crack of her neck.

Dislocating it, showing a bone, the man screamed and got of her, but it was too late when her eyes rolled back to show blood dripping down and grabbing the man with a dark tendril and dragging him back. As he was dragged back, her mouth widened. Gulping the man down with sickening chews. Bones shattered, screams muffled. She spit him out, showing the mangled body, his limbs all distorted.

But the smell of blood was so enticing. She couldn’t help but plunge into his stomach and get his organs, especially his guts and heart.

That’s where it all began as the woman walked out the alley with a deranged stare. Shifting to look more human, she appeared as the siren she is. Wiping the blood from her mouth, her face completely human and stable.

It’s just her bloody clothes that will draw attention, especially that the fact that the dress is white. What could be the issue to the fact that maybe just maybe..she could find another victim.

It was a new day, Bruce is in his batcave, looking at the bat computer. Detective Gordon had informed Batman of this “cannibalism case” he called when seeing an unidentified body that resembles a man. His ribcage open and all his organs taken out as if he was the turkey to a thanksgiving dinner.

No person like this in Gotham could make a disturbing scene unless it’s a something instead. Bruce narrowed his eyes at the picture uncensored. If there’s one thing he’s not surprised about, is that the abnormal nature of this.

This has been going on for five months, and no surprising update on who’s doing this.

Jason came down the cave, his eyes looking at the screen with hum. “Is the manic still on the loose? Thought you could catch them old man.” Jason said, clicking his tongue. Bruce didn’t glance at him, but acknowledged as he spoke.

“All prisoners in Arkham Asylum have passed the test to not even knocking who cause this circumstance. Not even joker.” The green eyed male rolled his eyes as he walked to his father. “Well, guess we gotta find this bastard by person to person.”

This made Bruce turn around with seriousness, “Jason. This is no matter for you to act reckless. We don’t know how capable this person, or something is.” Jason clicked his tongue again and walked off. “I’m Jason fucking Todd. Being reckless is my thing Bruce.”

With that he left, he knew he should see more of what this thing could do or be. But seeing how it’s slowly creeping toward crime alley, his turf. It’s not best to wait around in his eyes.

It was now night, Jason as Red hood is patrolling crime alley. He looked over a building to see a woman with bloodied clothes, eyes widening behind his helmet, he got down to see if she needed any help. The monster, the woman, the thing that has made its performance of carcasses, was in crime alley, hearing about a lot of bad things.

She thought, “why not come here.. and eat?” With that, she walked without a care. Her heels clacking, her hair shining with the moonlight, her eyes still. But hearing heavy feet behind her, her face shifted. She paused, her head tilting to a deep voice.

“Hey, miss? You alright?” She turned slowly, but it wasn’t her body. But her head. Her neck looking rung out, her blacked out face showing red eyes with black full pupils. She started to walk towards Jason.

Jason stood still, he couldn’t decide whether to just shoot her down… or see what she might do. She’s walking backwards with her head twisted back as if she was some possessed person in a horror movie.

“Fuck it.” Jason pulled his gun out, aiming it at the woman who made these gargling noise as if she was chocking on her own tongue. Before he could aim it at her, a black tendril swung at him. Jason moved back only to get his leg snatched up and dragged.

He gritted his teeth, seeing those eyes piercing into his skull. It felt like she could see who he really was. But what he didn’t expect was for her face to morph to look more human. Her features… were beautiful. Her lashes matched her eyes perfectly, it was like she didn’t need anything to look more beautiful. Stunned by the beauty, he was then flung.

A pained moan leaves his body when hitting a brick wall. He has fallen onto his face, getting up to see the woman was gone. Going to find another that wasn’t.. infected. But the face of the woman… the monster, whatever she is, has been engraved into his brain.

[foldingfittedsheets]

Waiting for my wife to be done with PT and chatting with some of the folks and there’s Beef going on between the clinic and the brewery next door because the brewery is putting outdoor tables out in front of the only ADA accessible entrance to the clinic.

Like, how shitty do you have to be to not care you’re blocking all the mobility aid users from getting into the physical therapy building?

Siding with the PT building in the turf war.

[holyblonded]

baby’s first red | stargirl

pairings: ona batlle x teen!reader, barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: you get your first red card

warnings: non serious injuries, pissed off alexia

notes: lucy was kind of the devil on estrella’s shoulder 😭

The impact sent you crashing to the ground once more, the sharp sting radiating from your ankle as you clenched your jaw. You stayed down for a second, trying to steady your breathing, trying to stop the fire building inside you. But then you heard it again.

“Keep up, stargirl,” the Atlético player sneered, barely glancing down at you before resetting.

That was it. You pushed yourself up with a fury burning behind your eyes, but before you could make a move, a body slammed into yours, holding you back.

“Ella no val la pena, d’acord?” Ona’s voice was firm in your ear, her arms briefly tightening before she let go. You took a deep breath, trying to let her words settle, but the rage still bubbled beneath the surface. (She’s not worth it, okay?)

The game continued, your muscles tight with frustration, your mind stuck on the lack of calls, on the smirk that player kept flashing at you like they knew they could get away with it. And then it happened again.

A swift kick to your shin followed by a hard shove to your side, and suddenly, you were hitting the pitch harder than before. Your hands scraped against the turf as you tried to catch yourself, your knee throbbing from the impact. The ref’s whistle remained silent.

Nothing. Again. The stadium roared in outrage, but the official waved it off. You could feel your teammates stiffening around you, their frustration mirroring yours.

Then, the whistle blew for halftime. You stormed off the pitch, your jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. In the locker room, the atmosphere was thick with tension, the anger in your chest growing with every passing second.

“Calma,” Alexia said, stepping in front of you, her voice measured but firm. “We need you in the second half. Don’t let them get in your head.”

You didn’t respond, just yanked off your shin guards and tossed them onto the bench beside you. She crouched down in front of you, lowering her voice.

“I know what you’re thinking. I know how much you want to hit back, but that’s exactly what they want,” she continued. “They want you to lose control. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

You nodded, but your hands were still balled into fists. You weren’t sure you could just let it go.

Lucy plopped down next to you with a knowing smirk.

“Alright, screw the ‘be the bigger person’ thing,” she muttered. “If she knocks you down again, you get up and push her back. Hard. And if the ref isn’t looking, elbow to the ribs, maybe a little tug on the hair if you’re feeling spicy.”

You snorted despite yourself, and Lucy grinned. “What? Just saying, if you’re gonna get a card, might as well make it worth it.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it down, nodding as you took a deep breath. Maybe Alexia was right. Maybe you could handle this the right way…or maybe not.

The second half started, and you tried. You really did. You focused on the game, on moving the ball, on not reacting. But then, the Atlético player struck again except this time, it wasn’t you.

It was Ona.

You saw it happen in slow motion. The crunch of the foul, the way Ona’s legs got swept out from under her, the way she hit the ground hard, clutching her knee. The whistle blew, but it was too late.

Something inside you snapped. You didn’t think, you just moved. You were in the player’s face before you even registered it, shoving them with all the force you could muster. They barely had time to react before you pushed them again, sending them stumbling back.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snarled, your voice dripping with rage.

They smirked again, and it was all you needed. Your body moved on its own, shoving them once more. This time, they went down.

The referee’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and immediate. Straight red.

The crowd gasped. Your teammates groaned. You barely heard any of it over the roaring in your ears.

You turned back to Ona, who was still on the ground but waving off the medical staff, trying to get up. When she met your eyes, hers were filled with frustration and gratitude all at once.

Alexia reached you before anyone else, gripping your jersey and pulling you away. “Are you serious right now?” she hissed.

“She deserved it,” you shot back.

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’ll talk later. Go.”

You walked off the pitch with your head high, unapologetic, the chants of the crowd ringing in your ears. You’d take the suspension. You’d take whatever fine they gave you. Because no one hurt your teammates and got away with it.

The celebration was still raging on the pitch. The cheers, hugs, the echoes of victory filling the stadium. But you weren’t out there. You were in the locker room, sitting on the bench, staring at the floor, the weight of the red card still pressing on your chest.

Alexia paced in front of you, her hands on her hips, her jaw tight with frustration.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she finally snapped, breaking the silence. “You got yourself sent off, you left us a player down, and now you’re suspended. Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

You kept your head down, hands gripping your hair. You could feel Olga’s eyes on you too, but her disappointment was softer, less sharp than Alexia’s fury.

“She was fouling me the whole game. She fouled Onita, hard,” you muttered, voice low.

“I don’t care,” Alexia shot back. “You know better than to react like that. You let her get to you, Estrella. And now what? You miss the next game. You put yourself in that position instead of trusting us to handle it.”

Olga sighed, placing a hand on Alexia’s shoulder. “Ale, enough.”

Alexia huffed but didn’t say anything else, running a hand through her hair as she turned away from you.

Olga crouched down in front of you, her voice softer. “We know why you did it,” she said. “And I get it. But you can’t do that, Estrella. You’re too important to this team to get yourself sent off over something like that.”

You nodded, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to look up.

Olga exhaled, glancing at Alexia before standing up. “Come on, Ale,” she said, tugging on her arm. “Give her space.”

“I don’t—”

“Now.”

Alexia let out a frustrated breath but let Olga pull her toward the door. Before leaving, Olga turned back to you. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

You just nodded again. The locker room fell silent once they were gone, the distant sounds of celebration muffled through the walls. You sat there, hands gripping your face, the regret settling in now that the adrenaline had worn off.

The door creaked open again, and you felt someone sit down next to you.

“I don’t need another lecture,” you mumbled into your hands.

“I know,” Ona said quietly.

You finally lifted your head, glancing at her. She was still in her kit, her knee wrapped, the bruise from the foul already forming. But her expression was nothing like Alexia’s— it was warm, grateful, understanding.

“You were right,” she said simply. “She was a dirty player. And I should’ve been the one to push her.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “No, I shouldn’t have lost my head. Ale’s right. I just… when I saw her foul you like that, I couldn’t—”

Ona nudged your shoulder. “I know. And I appreciate it.”

You exhaled, finally leaning back against the bench. Ona stayed beside you, neither of you speaking for a moment.

Then she bumped you again, softer this time. “But next time, let me handle it, yeah?”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

She smirked. “Good. Because I don’t want to visit you in a prison cell for murder.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tension eased, just a little.

Ona nudged you one last time. “You’re a good little sister, Estrella. Even if you’re an idiot sometimes.”

A small smile finally tugged at your lips. “Thanks, Onita.”

She grinned. “Now, let’s go before they start drinking all the champagne without us.”

“I can’t have champagne, do they have my sparking

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 15

Don't really have anything to say 🫠 thank y'all for the attention, for reading etc, ch 16 is done, ch 17 may take longer cuz I think I'm catching a cold so uhhh- enjoy and stay safe!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 15 >>next

Jason was having a terrible week, starting with Ms. “I wouldn’t have been as forgiving if you didn’t die and came back kinder to me” Wayne- well- Grayson? He doesn’t know anymore- he’s close enough to just forging papers that say you’re his biological little sister just to fuck with Bruce.

Speaking of- Jason hasn’t turned on his coms and the phone specifically for the bats since the night the family found out. He’s seriously debating throwing those devices out the window, but he finds it more entertaining how everyone is in shambles.

Granted, while the others have tried cornering him to- politely ask questions- Jason is more paranoid about Damian and Cassandra. Cassandra not speaking wasn’t something he worried about, but her not texting him nonsense throughout the day made him antsy. Adding to that the fact that the demon brat didn’t even try to knife him down once? Yeah, no, Jason was on edge. Either those two were planning something or they knew something the others didn’t- frankly, he didn’t like either option.

He and the other rogues have been upping the attack on the rich to try and exhaust the bats, take their attention from you- but with each attack the bats seemed to care less and less. And if they did show up, they were starting to punch harder, to break more bones, to use those “only when necessary” blades more and more. They were getting angrier, desperate, and dangerous.

Good. It was about time they saw what they’d been pushing to the side, what they all did at one point. However, Red Hood was getting angrier at the pure audacity they had to just snoop around his turf every 13th of the month, they’ve been doing it for a while, sure, but they got sloppier with their stealth. It was making everyone nervous, the kids especially.

And now the gall of him to show up as Bruce Wayne, with that blasted fake smile, and that sweet, sweet food from Alfred. “Bruce. What are you doing here?” Harvey’s voice broke Jason from drooling over the buffet Pennyworth had made. “I-…” Bruce took in a shaky breath. Batman knew he should have rehearsed something, but lately, he’s only done impulsive things. “I’ve been a terrible father to my youngest daughter. I’m sure you all know that- I’m trying to slowly see the great achievements she made despite that and to try and understand her better.”

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” Waylon growled, tail tapping the asphalt anxiously. Harley backed Croc up, grinding into the ground the fact that he’d never tried before, that it’s been years. But one of the kids ignored the tension, coming up to the man and just grabbing his hand, smiling brightly at him.

“She always told us that some people are worth giving second chances.” The little girl looks back at the others. “He’s seeing he did bad and trying to fix it.” She shrugged and the rogues couldn’t argue. Without those second chances they wouldn’t be here, but that doesn’t mean they’ll make it easy for the trust fund baby. “Well, Mr. Wayne. Better get to work.” Two-face cackled as Cobblepot started directing the man to start carrying old, unusable furniture out of the buildings, giving the goons a break.

Jason turned to look at the little girl, his hands on his hips. “You stole his watch.” It wasn’t a question, it was very much a statement, a statement at which the little kid just smiled brightly. “She always said to rob the rich blind, too, and that man is too trusting of little kids. I got his ring too.” Jay couldn’t argue with that, so he just ruffled the little rascal’s hair and went on his way.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“I’m sorry- You have to marry a fish?!” You almost yelled into the com as you stopped a car from splatting a woman. “And C is just letting that happen? I’m telling you, he’ll become enemy number one.” Setting the car down, ignoring Cecil saying he could hear you, you quickly grabbed the woman and flew to the protective dome where most civilians were staying safe. Your eyes met hers and you immediately complimented the bright green color. “Wha- not you two morons! I was talking to somebody else- Yes, I’m on the job.” You sigh as you set her down before getting back to action.

“Robot wanted me on the scene to take care of the civis, said something about Immortal needing the win, but uh…” You watch as the man gets overwhelmed and decapitated, his body going limp while Dupli-Kate and Black Samson try to get to him. “It’s kinda pathetic. They’re not fighting like a team. Robot, Shrinking Rae, and Moster Girl seem to be the only ones able to keep up.”

Cecil just sighs, turning on the coms for everyone. “Sorceress. End it, now.” While Robot tried to argue against it you just acted, getting tired of this mess. Getting higher in the air your hands raised, eyes glowing as you muttered some of the new spells Zatanna and John taught you.

Most of the aliens fell to the ground lured into a deep sleep state while the ones who could fight against the magic were quickly chained- all, with a wave of your hands, fell through a portal straight to their home planet. Landing you grabbed the Immortal’s head, moving closer and sticking it close enough that the skin started reattaching on its own. When you got up Kate was quick to tell you off and take your place, pulling the man onto her lap.

You just shrugged making your way to Robot and Amanda. “What’s her problem?” You mutter while subtly checking everyone out for injuries. Rex almost crashed onto you as he groaned, arm swinging over your shoulder. “She’s pissy because you and the ass were a thing, and she thinks he still likes you.” You frown, hand hovering over his face to fix the bloody mess. “That’s stupid. We weren’t. And if we were and he was still after me she should put herself first and find someone who won’t make her feel like that.”

“Wait- they are together? Like for real?” You look at the others as they get closer, most nodding. “You two weren’t? You really expect me to believe that-agh! You did that knowingly!” Rex cried as a bone set back in place quite painfully while you simply answered with a yes.

“Most of the heroes thought that. You two were pretty friendly for a while.” Black Samson shrugs. “Yeah, because we’re both immortal. We were venting about that, we understood each other, and then… Omni-Man happened, and he called me and my brother ticking bombs. Too dangerous to be helping.” Amanda hissed at that, face cringing. “Damn, that’s such an asshole thing of him to say.”

“I don’t hold that against him. But we are not our father, he should know better, and I won’t hang around him until he apologizes and means it.” You looked over your shoulder as the man in question groaned. “Speaking of- time for me to go.” You let go of the healed Rex, pat Robot’s head, and high-five Amanda. “See you later, losers.” Rudy looks at Amanda. “Why did she pat my head?” Monster girl snorts. “It’s called affection- don’t!” she slapped his hand away. “Don’t do that to me, I’ll break your legs.”

Before you could lift off the ground once you were far enough the woman you saved before quickly stopped you, calling you over. “I just wanted to thank you. Have you eaten? Perhaps I can buy you something? There’s this café down this street, they make amazing toast sandwiches and milkshakes.” You just laughed; not like you could say no to free food. “You don’t have to thank me or pay for-“ You tried to be a lady and politely refuse, but the woman insisted, urging you to take her and have a little break.

“Alright, ma’am, you won.” You smirked as you picked her up before taking flight. “May I know the name of who’s paying for my meal, at least? I mean, I may start thinking you’re an assassin or something if you keep being so mysterious and pushy.” You teased while following her directions, but she just gave you a smirk. “I’m Talia.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bruce was sitting next to Jason, looking at the kids and rogues, but his eyes couldn’t help but drift to the murals. “She really did all of this?” Jason just nodded at his question. “She did a lot. This is a small thing. Your foundations can only do so much, Bruce. Sometimes people need community, need love, and support, and to feel like they belong. She gave that to a lot of people here.”

He nods to the murals. “When she was painting those, some kids tagged it. She caught them and asked them to join, telling them she’d pay. And she did. It was enough for those kids to keep a roof over their heads while we were building the affordable housing building down the block, and it was enough for them to put towards education.”

“One is aiming to be an engineer and the other two are going for art subjects.” Jason looks at the man. “Many of the goons Batman was fighting quickly quit and started working at the orphanage or the hospital once they found out they could afford to live and their wants with the salary offered. You can’t always solve shit by paying for buildings, sometimes that does the opposite. It just makes shit more expensive when it has the name of some billionaire attached to it.”

“This? Helping each other, creating things they can afford while opening job opportunities everyone is qualified for, and nobody will have to break their backs only to decide if they should pay for groceries or rent that month- that helped. It brought the crime rate down. Sure, I still sell drugs, crimes still happen, but surprisingly that has gone down for my zone too.”

“She has a job now, a well-paying one. So, the allowance you send mostly goes to this- I think she even sends some of her actual salary here. I began adding to it, and Penguin started doing similar on his turf.” Jason shrugs. “We gather it all and split it so everyone can pay bills, can have money for groceries, and clothes, and even have some extra on the side. Some still don't get paid enough due to the government not wanting to fund us, but what we put together helps make what is a 7-dollar-per-hour job into a 20-25-30-dollar-per-hour job. When she sends too much, we either give bonuses or put it to vote and repair something. It usually ends up being that, it’s how we repaired the local kindergarten and school. It’s how we repaired a lot.”

“I never knew-“ Jason just laughs at Bruce. “Yeah, I didn’t either. I was a little shit like you, too, remember? It took me dying to see that.” The young crime lord looks Bruce in the eyes. “That’s why I won’t tell you where she is, what she does, who she is now.” Bruce looks at his son, the tiredness in him shining through now more than ever. “She’s in Chicago, lived in NYC for a bit.” The older man mutters.

“I’m… I’m afraid of how she’d react, of what I will find out if I go looking for her.” He whispers and Jason simply shakes his head. “You’re afraid she’ll reject you, brush you off like you did. You’d deserve it. Everyone in this blasted family would.”

Bruce nods. He wasn’t able to sleep for a while after finding out one of his kids was missing and he didn't even know. He mostly sat in his office, in front of his parents' portraits. Every single one looked more disappointed in him than the other- he knew that wasn’t possible, they were paintings… but a part of him also remembers those portraits being- happier.

“Have you gone in her room yet?” Bruce shakes his head, his question waking him from his thoughts. Nobody did, not even Alfred, the guilt was eating everyone alive, he was sure Dick would cry or break something if he even looked at her door. “You should.” Jason insisted. “Call the others, you all are going to look into her room, into her life, and see what hell we all put her through.” The young man nudged the older man to get up when Cobblepot came closer, trying to put Bruce to more work. He wasn’t doing this to better them, Jason wanted the family to be broken. It was selfish, but being selfish is what made him your favorite rogue.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“So, how was everyone’s day?” Debbie’s nightly question was asked again as she set her drink down.

“Well, instead of marrying a fish I ended up fighting a sea monster and then I finally moved into my dorm with William.” Mark said as he ate. “I have hella parental issues, and I think everyone should compliment my achievements more because I almost cried when this lady I ate lunch with said she was proud of how quickly I grew in my powers.”

“You almost cried?” Debbie asked, worry on her face at the revelation. Maybe they should have put you in therapy the first time you came clean with Bruce’s neglect. Mark, however, was more fixated on the unnamed lady, knowing you were mostly joking. “…You went on a date?” You sigh. “No. Stop doing that overprotective older brother BS, you look like a mangy Chihuahua acting like that.” He just pouted.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou @asillysimp @aalunar @cxcilla @sirenetheblogger @pinkluv29

[kxsagi]

Hello hello! I'm the menace who sent the sae x Shidou!reader req a while back! 😈

Part two pls but this time Shidou!reader got hired as bllk manager 👀 oh dear how will the bllk guys react with this menace lock in the same facility as them. Also also sae being grumpy that he has to get his dose of gf only through the bltv lmao

“𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫”

a/n: LMAO I LOVE THIS ENERGY

“who the hell hired that?” 

“you mean the gremlin doing cartwheels across the field at 6 AM?” 

“the one who challenged shidou to a headbutting contest and won?” 

“the one who tried to pants kaiser during his interview?” 

ego turns from the control room with the slow, empty gaze of a man who has seen things. “yes.” 

you, the newest blue lock manager and certified agent of chaos, stretch on the turf like a track star hyped up on energy drinks and poor life choices. 

“ALRIGHT, LOSERS!” you grin, twirling a clipboard like a baton. “i’ve been hired to manage you psychos into proper, functioning humans! we’re gonna clean! we’re gonna hydrate! we’re gonna team build until someone snaps!” 

bachira is already on board. “do we get to play dodgeball with fireballs?” 

“hell yeah, fire safety is for cowards!” 

rin looks ready to walk into traffic. kaiser’s trauma has been reactivated. karasu actually claps. “finally, someone with vision.” 

“if you touch my ass again, i will kill you,” kaiser mutters, inching away. 

you grin. “no promises, blondie.” 

cut to blue lock TV, aka BLTV, where the nation watches weekly updates of japan’s hottest soccer chaos factory. 

currently, the screen displays you standing on a bench, yelling through a megaphone: “WHOEVER STOLE MY PINK GATORADE, YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES TO RETURN IT OR I’M HIDING SARDINES IN YOUR SHIN GUARDS.” 

in madrid, sae itoshi is slouched on the couch, jaw clenched, remote in a death grip. 

“... i miss her,” he mutters like a war widow. 

his teammates glance over. 

“you mean your girlfriend who just tried to fight don lorenzo for doing pushups in her ‘zone’?” 

“she’s not even looking at the camera,” sae hisses. “i can’t even get eye contact. all i get is BLTV crumbs.” 

on the screen, you lock eyes with the nearest camera, smirk, and blow a kiss. 

“that one was for my sexy red-haired husband in madrid,” you say cheerfully before throwing a shoe at isagi. 

sae flinches like he got hit. “she’s so hot. gosh, i hate this.” 

back at blue lock, shidou tries to bite you again. 

“do it and i’m putting you on litter box duty.” 

“worth it,” he purrs. 

rin has locked himself in the weight room. reo and nagi are betting on who cries first this week. niko follows you around like a confused duckling. yukimiya offered you tea once and you barked at him. 

“who needs therapy when you can just... be her?” reo whispers. 

somewhere in the chaos, ego watches it all unfold and sighs. “perfect. just what blue lock needed.” 

a menace to tame the menaces. 

but sae, grumpily watching from afar, whispers into his phone: “just wait. i’m pulling up next week and taking you home. permanently.” 

he pauses as you get tackled by a squad of blue lock players mid-game and cackle like a villain. 

“… or i’ll just join the madness.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[madridnoora]

can u write one comforting pedri after the nations league final maybe with some smut ( seeing him look upset about it is making me sad 😭 )

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Pedri - I Hate Losing

⋆｡˚Pairing - pedri x fem!reader

౨ৎ Summary - Pedri comes home to Spain after losing the nations league final and you're there to pick up the pieces.

⋆｡˚Word Count - 1.8k

౨ৎ Warnings - suggestive content!

Hope you enjoy!!

⋆｡˚

You're apartment was quiet, the late afternoon sun poured through the balcony doors like a tired sigh. Golden light crossed the scuffed wooden floor and climbed the chipped sage green paint of the french doors. A faint breeze nudged the white linen curtains which served as the only protection from the open outside.

The streets below were only alive with a gentle hum, a signs of the countries defeat. There should have been parades, but there wasn't. Instead the only noise is the distant honking of cars, and the clinking of ceramic cups from the mellow cafe tucked away across the narrow street.

Your place was old, and hidden in a shy corner of the city. One of those unspoken gems where the world always seemed to be on pause. A peaceful sanctuary framed by simple clutter, trinkets and towers of old literature.

You were waiting for his text that he had landed back from Germany as you sat on a balcony chair looking out at the cluttered skyline of the near by buildings. Last night, he had lost and you weren't used to him losing. Everything about the day seemed like uncharted territory, but you had a plan.

You would wait for his text to say he was home, then you would shower and throw on some comfy clothes, head to the corner shop and pick up the gummy bears he loved and catch a bus to his house (well, as near as you could get and walk the rest of the distance)

But as the day went on, you heard from him less and less.

You knew he was upset, you saw that from the television pictures alone. The way he sat deflated on the gleaming green turf, the way he walked up to the podium to grab his second place medal with no smile or show of any emotion. He looked numb, and exhausted. It made your heart hurt, the ache of being so far away and unable to comfort him.

All you could do is send texts, and exchange calls until he was back an in your arms.

Another hour passed.

Or maybe it was more than that.

You lay in the baby pink sheets of your bed in the cramp bedroom of your apartment, the late pink hues the only light seeping through. That and a single candle on your wood bedside table. You read a book to try and stop yourself from checking your phone every three seconds, although the attempt was only half working.

Anxiety kept crawling up your spine, the slight swirl of nausea in your empty stomach. Why hadn't he text? Why hadn't he called?

You were about the give up, as the last light began to shine through your windows.

But then, you heard a knock at the wood of your apartment door.

You jumped, confused on who could be knocking. Probably your neighbour, Juana, an sweet old lady who lived with her three cats and was always running out of sugar for her nightly teas.

You got up with a sigh, shutting your book and chucking it on the duvet while running a hand through your long unkept hair. You put some fluffy slippers on your feet and then walk to the door, pulling at the brass handle.

"Hola Jua-" You start before you're stuck with shock, because it's not the sweet old lady but rather your boyfriend -- with dark circles and a tired expression.

The corners of his mouth curl slightly upon seeing you.

"Juan?," He joked, but you cut him off by pulling him into a strong armed embrace. You only just realised how much you had missed him while he had been away. How much you had missed the sweet musk of cardamon and grapefruit, and how much you missed the feeling of his hands wrapped around your back.

'Te extrañé, cariño," (I missed you, baby), you say before you press a slow and delicate kiss on his pink lips. A kiss he reciprocates eagerly.

"Prometo que te extrañé más," (I promise I missed you more), He said hushed and breathless.

You moved out of his grip and pulled open the apartment door more so he could walk through. He looked around because he never usually came here, there was more space at his house in the Barcelona outskirts. Your place was much smaller, much much smaller and had a weird smell that explained the lower price per month.

"Este lugar es para ti," (This place is so you), He said as he walked around on the creaking floorboards glancing at the potted plants and the various paintings on the walls that you had bought as the local markets.

You blush, shutting the apartment door behind you.

"jugaste bien," (you played well) You say, hoping to lift his mood.

"No quiero hablar de eso," (I don't want to talk about it), He says as he spins back around to look at you. His eyes glancing up and down the casual clothes on your body, "Solo quiero estar contigo" (I just want to be with you)

From the moment Pedri saw you in the late light of your apartment, he felt better. The light reentering his system, and the loss of the nations league fading into the back of his mind. That's the impact you had on all parts of his life. When you were in front of him, every thing else seemed to not exist. You were the only thing he saw, the only thing he cared about.

His eyes flickered down to you stood in front of him now. How tiny shorts were, the ones he knew were from brandy melville because you never stopped talking about them the week you bought them, and the tight grey tank with the white lace details. It was a fabric that meant he could see the impression of your toned stomach through. It was sending him slightly feral with desire.

You shifted from foot to foot under his gaze, because even after months of dating he still made you nervous.

You looked at him too, mirroring that same desire. He was dressed in loose grey sweats, a simple black t-shirt and he had been gone for a week and a half. That was a long time to go without feeling his touch on your bare skin and his lips nipping tenderly at the delicate skin of your neck.

You swallowed the thoughts away.

He was upset. You were meant to comfort him. Not picture him between your thighs.

"¿Podemos ir a la cama?," (can we go to bed?), He says breaking the unspoken tension that storms around you like thick clouds waiting to pour with rain.

You nod, your plump bottom lip trapped between your teeth. You don't even realise it is driving him wild.

You walk him to the bedroom just down the hall, the candle still glowing on the table as the moonlight begins to enter through the lace blinds. His steps are heavy behind you, the type of steps that can only come from physical exhaustion.

Once inside, he lays back on your pink sheets. His arm stretched behind his head with the light flex of his bicep. The candle casts shadows and soft curves over his masculine features, you look at him with lovestruck eyes. You could honestly say, you had never been more attracted to him than you had been right now as he lays in the low frameless bed of your cheap apartment with no complaints.

You lay beside him, quiet for a moment. Just listening to the shared silence. The city outside still hums but it's more shallow now, the absence of a parade to painfully obvious.

Without a word, you lean over and rest your head on his shoulder. He relaxes into it almost instantly. Like his body was waiting for the contact of your to feel at peace.

"Odio perder," (I hate losing), He sighs with the weight of failed expectation on his breath.

"Sé," You hum in response drawing circles on the piece of exposed skin under his t-shirt and before the waistband of his sweats.

"Te he necesitado mientras he estado ausente," (i've needed you, while i've been away), His voice is hoarse and raw, low and masculine.

You don't say anything, you just shift closer. You're hand now under his t-shirt and caressing slowly.

Pedri kissed your forehead, a soft press of lips that lingers too long to be innocent. Then, his hands wrap around you fully and guide your hips on top of him. A look of unspoken yearning between you both, his honey eyes full of the golden sparkle of the candle looking into your doe ones.

You shift on top of him, and he lets out a groan.

You can feel him growing beneath you. You centre warming against him.

His hands rest on the bare skin of your hip, his touch feels like fire. Flames swirling under the surface.

“Estás aquí ahora,” (You’re here now) you whisper, almost more to yourself than to him. Your tone more dark and sultry than you intended as the desire that spirals in the centre of your chest spills out of it's containment.

'Si," Is all it takes for him to say for you to lean down and kiss him with passion and hunger.

Pedri deepens it, the heat of it so evident. All the pent up frustration of both being away from you and losing the final coming out in pink sheets and vanilla candlelight. His hand hold the back of your neck, under your unkept hair that he loves. You're lips move together in a slow, aching rhythm that says everything words can't.

His other hand slides up your spine, slipping under your lace lined tank top, mapping the familiar curves of your body. He sits up slightly, just enough to pull you fully into him and your legs wrap around his waist. His mouth drops to the bare skin on your neck, then slowly works it's way down. Gentle nips along the way.

“Déjame olvidarlo todo esta noche,” (Let me forget everything tonight), he breathes against your collarbone, his voice like smoke.

Neither of you say anything after that, words become irrelevant. What comes after is not hurried but still hungry. Slow and passionate. Deep and drawn out. Full of pent up emotion. He's inside you, and you're on top of him. Tension slowly unravels to the soundtrack of soft moans and heavy pants. Prayers to God as he hits all the spots he knows better than anyone else.

Your hands tangle in his fluffy hair, while his hands grip onto your skin like you're his anchor.

You've never felt so good, and neither has he.

Outside the window, Spain still mourns.

But in that tiny bedroom, two lovers find solace and relief in each other.

And Pedri is free to just exist as himself, without the weight of the losing on his shoulders.

౨ৎ

[twizzie-lairs]

My Darling, My Honey

Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 9)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |

Part 9

Part 9:

Just as you exited the door to your now former apartment, you heard the sound of an explosion.

You just sigh at the sound, it doesn't phase you as much as it used to. Always startling enough to make you slightly jump, but you knew it was the start of the turf war one of your acquaintances told you about ahead of time.

It was a favor they owed you after you saved them from being killed by the Overlord boss they work for, which happened to be the one you were being commissioned by back then.

To take advantage of their insider info/tip, you decided it was needed to pick up the pace so you could get out of there in one piece- so their risk of getting that info to you wouldn't be in vain.

The pace at which the explosions happened quickly increased, along with the sounds of bullets and glass breaking that joined the chorus of chaos.

"Shit, shit, shit shit!" you quietly cursed to yourself as you quickly exited the building however you could, because you could feel the foundation and walls starting to give way.

So naturally, the easier and quickest way out was through a window in the stairwell. Unfortunately, you were up quite a few flights and though you tried your best to roll and fall safely, you still landed on the ground with an unceremonious thump.

The shattered glass underneath you from the window gave you a lot of ugly cuts. Not to mention you could already feel many bruises forming all over your body, maybe you broke a rib or two, you couldn't tell. It's been a while since you've had to make such a messy escape- that was probably a couple decades and rings ago.

Pulling yourself up from the ground, you wince through the pain and make a quick dash to grab your briefcase of supplies that went flying during the fall.

You couldn't really hear too well right now because of all of the warfare going on, everything sounded so muffled, so you couldn't tell what direction the danger was. But you knew you had to run, or else you would get into even deeper shit.

You were a woman on a mission, so you ran as fast as your legs could carry you, ducking, dodging, weaving, sneaking, and even having to get rid of a few goons yourself along the way to where you'd be able to enter the Pride ring.

It was quiet here, the sounds of warfare and screams of the damned were muffled from all the way out here at the edge of this ring of Hell. And it wasn't muffled because of your hearing, your hearing went back to normal after spending a few minutes in some quiet corner to regroup yourself after the hellish way here.

It was here, you decided, that you'd make your way into the Pride ring using your special power.

Your real power wasn't to make enchanting paintings or portraits, that was just skill you've honed after many years of life (and death).

But this...it made you nervous, even though the power was truly your's, you were nervous because you felt like you'd get caught breaking the laws of how Hell is supposed to function- like fundamentally. Sinners like you weren't supposed to be able to travel freely through Hell, but for some reason, you could with this power.

You took some supplies out of your briefcase, and drew a complex crest-like symbol on the ground in front of you.

Ever since you landed in Hell, this symbol felt like it was etched into the back of your eyelids. You always felt like it defined you, the essence of you, and that held power- the type and magnitude you still weren't totally sure of. You never had any close connection you trusted enough to teach or help guide you through any of this...

With a deep sigh, being careful not to agitate any broken ribs or bones, you knelt down in front of the symbol, placed both hands on the symbol of the ground, and closed your eyes.

You focused your energy into your hands, feeling power surge through you until your felt your hands disappear into the ground- your body following right after.

The one downside to this power, spell, ability- whatever you want to call it- was that you couldn't really control where you landed.

After much trial and error, you've honed it to the point where you could go from one ring to the other, but you couldn't really pick where you got dropped in the specific ring you wanted to go to.

Not to mention it drained so much of your energy, it made you so extremely weak to the point that almost any weakling that came across you could nudge you with their foot and you'd be near double death already.

All that said, you wanted to avoid using this power at all costs unless it was an emergency. So unfortunately your search for your love Alastor was hindered greatly by this caveat- you had to stay "alive" if you wanted to be reunited.

Too many attempts before you mastered this power would likely end in your (permanent?) death if you were found that weak and vulnerable so many times by who knows what type of demented soul that would witness your sorry state after you used the power.

And once more today did you fall to the ground with a thump, though a very small distance this time that was fortunately cushion.. by... garbage in a dumpster...

"This falling shit is getting really old..." You thought to yourself.

"Ugh shit..." You slowly roll out of the dumpster, your briefcase appearing by your side with a tiny *poof*.

As you lean against an alleyway wall, it hits you like a truck- the price you pay for defying the laws of Hell. The previous injuries from escaping the turf war made this time hit so much worse than any other previous time.

You accidentally stumble forward from the wave of pain that slammed you suddenly, vision blurring, energy fading fast enough to the point where you're just about to pass out at any given moment. But you try to hang in there as you attempt to refocus your vision.

Your stumbling around likely looked like you were a drunkard making an idiot of themselves after a bar fight.

As you kept accidentally bumping into random strangers that you could hardly see due to your blurry vision, you kept getting shoved around by people thinking you were being a public nuisance- and that says a lot, given you're in Hell and all.

All the shoving and little jabs from random strangers hurt so fucking much, that your body gave out, you couldn't keep it together any longer.

You couldn't get yourself together this time.

Your vision turned sideways as you fell to the ground, except you didn't hit the hard and unforgiving concrete.

You felt a pair of arms catch you. All you could see was a girl's face talking at you, but you couldn't hear a goddamned thing. Hell, you could hardly see her even though she was right up in your face.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay? Do you need help? Oh my god, Vaggie, we need to help them!"

"Charlie, are you sure about this? They could be dangerous! You don't even KNOW them!"

Then everything went black.

"But I can't leave them to die here, we need to bring them back to the hotel!"

"Ugh, alright, fine! But if they pose a danger to you or anyone else in the hotel, they are OUT."

-> Part 10

[ramp-it-up]

Peach VI

Peach V | Peach VII

Summary: Steven Grant Rogers is a mob boss trying to get clean. It’s definitely because he’s in love. With you. He's got you on his turf in NYC. You two FINALLY admit your feelings for one another and seal the deal. But how far are you willing to go for this love?

Pairing: Art Dealer/Artist/Philanthopist (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Reader (Peach)

A/N: This is it! I hope the smut is up to par. When I tell you I’ve agonized about this. But thank you to all who were in my inbox and dms giving me encouragement this week. Love you bunches! ❤️

This fic is connected to the Bucky Barnes Knock You Down AU, and DIRECTLY AFTER the events in Peach V. Your interaction keeps me writing, so let me know if you like it by commenting and reblogging.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Angst. Slow burn, Mutual pining, idiots in love, eye fucking, Steve Rogers is an artist, y'all!, sending (almost) nudes, phone sex, possessive Steve, references to shibari, mutual masturbation, pining, references to sex in a car, the "L" word, oral (f recieving), fingering, overstimulation, nipple play, size kink, pleasurable pain with sex, definite breeding kink, raw p in v, Lil bit of Dom Steve if you squint, references to murder. Something big may or may not happen after the last line.

Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Steve Rogers left you in your hotel room, a quivering, emotional, mess.

He’d made you cum, hard, but you felt that he was holding back, that if you’d told him how you felt it would have been so much better.

Or maybe that was all in your mind. Steven Grant Rogers was on your mind a lot since you met him as Grant Stevens in Atlanta.

A lot happened in a short amount of time that caused you to deny your feelings for him. And now you were no longer trying to keep him out. 

He was definitely a distraction, but now you couldn’t deny your feelings for him any longer. You just needed to be a woman about it and tell him.

What’s the worst that could happen? You weren’t going to marry the guy, you just want to explore these mutual feelings. It shouldn’t be complicated.

Right?

You still had the rest of the week in New York to stress out about it, so that was a plus. The afternoon was ahead of you and the next day was the Summitt.

After that, you had your one on one with Steve.

Bucky told you about Steve being an artist himself during your meeting with him. So, for your meeting with Steve, you requested that you see some of his artwork, and he agreed.

You were curious to see what he could create, and you were anxious and turned on at the thought of him as a creator.

You were so into Steve Rogers.

And you didn’t know what you were going to do about that.

—--

Steve had to stop himself from going back up to your room three times after he left. He finally exited the hotel and stalked down the street back to the Rebirth building to his car and pulled out his phone, dialing Bucky and pulling out of the garage.

He needed a drive and a little alone time to clear his head and come down from you, but he also needed his friend’s help.

“Wassssaaaap! Did you get the–”

Steve cut Bucky off.

“Remember that shopping trip we took a few weeks ago? For the ring?”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Meet me on 47th street.”

—-

That afternoon, you just kept your distance from Sharon and ignored her, focusing on the task at hand and all business. You didn’t want to waste energy on her.

Your energy was spent on thinking about Steve and wondering if he was thinking of you too. You wanted to text him, but you were chilling. You didn’t want to seem to eager.

You were successful in your self control until 11 pm as you tossed and turned in your hotel king bed. Doubts, but mostly need and desire, coursed through you. 

You were going to find out exactly what Steve was doing right now and who he might be with. You shook your head at how much you cared; it was definitely not something you regularly did. You weren’t used to feening for someone.

You were choosing violence as you posed on the bed in front of the mirror. You sat on the bed, crossed your legs and snapped a picture.

You weren’t naked, but your panties were skin tone and your sleep bra was sheer and you were feeling needy.

Before you thought too hard, you sent it to Steve, then jumped in bed and pulled the covers over your head with that feeling of dread and panic when you don’t know if you’ve done something supremely reckless or not.

—

Steve was ready for the Summit, but he couldn’t stop thinking of you. Sleep was elusive, so he was self medicating, sketching your body from memory of mostly touch.

His phone vibrated and he almost didn’t pick it up, but when he saw your name, his heart sped up.

He clicked through to your message and his heart started hammering in his chest. 

Sorry, wrong thread.

The picture you sent along threatened to give him a heart attack. He zoomed in a couple of times and then read the message again. What the fuck?

——-

In less than a minute your phone was ringing. You picked up immediately.

“Don’t fucking play with me, Peach.”

Steve’s growl got you wet, but you instantly regretted your horny decisions.

“It was a mistake.”

“It absofuckinlutely was. You’re joking about it being the wrong thread, right? That is mine, correct?”

You shivered at his double meaning and at his possessiveness.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers.”

Your voice was needy and that awakened a hunger in Steve. He was beyond frustrated that he wasn’t there to spank your ass raw, but he remained quiet.

You sensed his mood.

“If I were there, I’d make it up to you…”

You were testing the waters, experimenting to see if he would give you what you wanted despite his annoyance.

If he would give you what you needed.

“What would you do?” 

Steve’s baritone was silk in your ear.

“What?” 

You suddenly found that you couldn’t breathe.

“What would you do if you were here?”

“I’d kiss you,” you rushed out in a whisper.

Steve paused, letting your sentence hang in the air.

“And?” 

There was an edge to the question. 

“And… My lips. All over you.” 

Fuck, he was hard. Just a few words in your husky voice, and Steve delirious, imagining his hands in your hair as you kissed him.

“Where?” he asked mercilessly, his voice broken with lust.

“Everywhere…your face, your neck, your nipples, your abs. Your cock.” 

You were definitely not a virgin, but you were blushing through the phone although your hand was rubbing the skin at the edge of your underwear.

“Want you in my throat.” 

Steve had to concentrate to stay hard. 

“Oh? What if I want more than that?” 

“You can have whatever you want...” 

A sense of power flooded Steve’s body, both heady and intoxicating at your admission.

“You should be very careful when you make that offer, Peach,” he said softly. 

“I trust you.” 

Holy fuck. Why did that mean everything to him?  He cleared his throat.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

“Okay.” 

You complied so readily, it made Steve even harder.

Your clit was so hard as you circled it.

“Are you wet, Sweetheart?” 

You moaned and Steve reached into his sweats and curled his fingers around his aching cock.

“My pussy is so messy for you, Mr. Rogers,” you whispered, thrilled and afraid of how much you wanted him. 

Steve rolled his eyes as his cocked jerked for you.

“Such a good little slut.” 

“Fuck…” 

You realized the breath you’d been holding as you listened for his voice.

“Your pussy is so beautiful Peach. And god, you taste so good. Just like a sweet peach.”

Steve knew he had you in the palm of his hand. But fuck, you had him in yours too. 

“But your cunt is so tiny. I’m gonna needs to get you ready for me, Baby.”

“Is it going to hurt me?” you whined. 

Steve was about to explode at your little innocent voice asking the most nasty question.

“Yes, Peach. It is,” he growled as your anticipation reached 100.

Your breath sped up and so did your fingers. Steve grunted, his fist moving faster, thumb swiping the copious dribbles of precum dripping from his slit.

He should have known it was over as soon as he opened your message.

Hot sex was happening.

Electronically.

As the coil in your belly wind tighter, you realized with both joy and dismay that you were addicted.

“Steve, “m so close…” 

“Of course you are.” 

Steve soaked up your cute little sex sounds, thirsty for more. 

“You know what I’m thinking about, Doll?” 

A shaky breath was your only response. Steve continued.

“I think I want to tie you up. Silk ropes all over you, pretty little knots. I’d tie your arms behind your back, so those tits would sit up pretty for me to slap, lick and suck. That ass would be tied up so sweet and open so I could eat it.”

Your eyes rolled at the sensations his words and your fingers were sending to your clit. 

“I’d fuck your throat and cum all over that soft, sweet body. Over and over, while I tease your greedy little cunt. I want to see it drip down your delicious nipples, your belly, your hungry pussy, your pretty face. I need to see all of you covered in my cum. Everywhere, marking you as mine…Mine.” 

You gasped, and then moaned and your entire body tightened up then released.

Your mouth hinged open as you came. 

“Mine,” Steve hissed, tightening the knots around you both and jerking his cock until cum spurted out. He listened to your breathing and knew that you’d just cum as well. 

Suddenly, he missed you.

“You good, Peach?”

You hesitated.You heard the yearning in his voice and you wanted to be in his arms, but you lied to him anyway.

“Yeah.”

Steve smiled at you. He shook his head even though you couldn’t see.

“Sweet dreams. See you tomorrow.”

“Night Steve.”

—---

You needed a distraction.

Steve looked so delicious this morning, sitting on stage and serving art intellectual in a dark turtleneck and brown corduroy suit. A suit that was tailored to the detriment of everyone who looked at him. 

Holy shit.

This man was wearing a corduroy suit and he made it look damn good.  

And he made you feral.

You decided to give your cousin a hard time to prevent yourself from becoming a simp.

“You look like that damn heart eyes emoji, ya know.”

She didn’t look at you as you yanked her chain. She just continued to follow Bucky’s every move and lit up when he glanced her way. She was gone, girl.

You teased her some more until you saw Steve. You sighed and gazed at him, straightening your spine as you remembered how he made you cum twice yesterday. And he’d hardly touched you. 

As if sensing your gaze, Steve’s head turned. Those mesmerizing blue eyes locked with yours, and the rest of the world disappeared in an instant. For a moment, you were frozen. Pinned in your seat by his magnetism.

This feeling was so heady.

When you realized you’d been caught staring Steve down, you tried to change the unspoken subject.

“Bucky is pretty much the man.”

“Fucking-A.” 

Her chuckle was all-knowing. Then she read you.

“Steve is the shit too.”

You couldn’t front anymore.

“He’s amazing. I had no idea about everything that he does. Have to say, I’m impressed.”

She was speechless and so were you. You both continued enjoying the forum when your phone buzzed.

You look beautiful today. You’re my favorite thing to study. Can’t wait for today’s art experience. Meet me at the Laguardia Place entrance immediately after the talk. Sunlight is precious.

You were his favorite thing to study!

You waited on the edge of your seat until the end of the summit. Then you were up and walking out toward the entrance post haste.

The hair on the back of your neck raised when you saw Steve watching you from the door of Rosenthal Pavilion.

His smile when you made eye contact knocked the breath out of your lungs.

In that moment, you realized that you were in love with Steven Grant Rogers. 

Holy hell.

His deep voice greeted you as you arrived.

“I’m anxious to get started.”

Steve searched your face and found a different look from the partially closed off expression you’d showed him since Thanksgiving.

Your face was open and trusting. His heart did a funny thing in his chest. It was almost too good to be true.

Could you love him, too?

He tempered his mood with sensible words, filling the space that he wanted to fill with romantic declarations.

“I’m going to take you to my favorite artistic landmark in the city. I’ve loved it since I was a boy.”

You smiled up at him and took his hand.

“Let’s not waste any more time.”

—--

The driver that was taking you and Steve to your meeting place was the same one who picked you up from the airport. The one that your cousin knew so well. 

You stared at the back of his head and then glanced over at Steve. He raised his eyebrow at you because of the look on your face. You grinned back, then leaned forward to tap the driver on the shoulder.

“So… Nico…” 

Your eyes cut over to Steve with a mischievous look. His heart beat out of his chest at the joy you were serving him along with your chaos. 

“You ever drive my cousin and Bucky around the city?”

Nico stole a look at you and smiled.

“Yes ma’am. All the time.”

“Do they ever do the nasty back here…?”

Nico laughed heartily as Steve shook his head.

“Peach…”

You shushed Steve.

“Hush, I’m trying to get the dirt. Now Nico, tell the truth…”

Steve sat back and listened to your unhinged behavior on the drive over to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. Your spirit and your laugh made him warm inside, despite the cold day.

—-

Nico stopped the car at the Washington Avenue entrance to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Steve got out, shouldered his backpack, and then reached for your gloved hand with his own.

For some reason, you felt like a princess as you stepped on the path. The air was crisp, and there were traces of snow lingering on the ground.

You came out of the car chattering and laughing, making Steve’s heart light.

“I know Nico wouldn’t crack, but I could tell from the way he went red. Those whores….”

“Literal Freaks,” replied Steve. “Bunny is an appropriate nickname for him, because he and your cousin…” 

Steve shook his head and rolled his eyes, although he fantasized about christening the backseat of the Lincoln for you and him.

The wrought-iron gate creaked softly behind you as you entered the Garden, and you looked around in wonder as the gravel path crunched beneath your boots. A magnificent metal and glass structure was in front of you.

“This is the Steinhardt Conservatory. Wait until you see the inside.”

Steve smiled and took your hand as you stepped through the glass doors into sudden warmth shaking your head at him. 

There was a heavy scent of flowers and a haze of the waning rays of sunlight beaming through the glass panels overhead. It gave everything golden highlights, including you and Steve. 

You squeezed his hand as you looked around in awe. 

“Beautiful,” you murmured.

And then you noticed that he was looking at you. 

“Yes…”

You grew warm as you looked into his gorgeous blue eyes.

“It’s like a completely different world in here.”

“It’s our world for the moment. Just you and me.”

He wanted to add the word Forever, but he didn’t. You felt it though.

You started on an indoor path and Steve pointed out the unique flowers and plants in his warm baritone. You were impressed, again, with how much he knew.

Steve Rogers was not a stereotypical mobster. This was a man who followed a path in life that landed him where he didn’t want to be and was trying to make up for it. 

As he spoke, Steve drew you into his enthusiasm, and you found yourself smiling and relaxing, asking questions and marveling at the vast indoor space. 

When you came to a small alcove furnished with a wooden bench and beneath a sprawling magnolia tree, Steve stopped and took his backpack off his shoulder, and then taking off his coat and draping it over the bench as you did the same.

"Please, sit." 

His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the subtle command.

You hesitated. 

"Why?"

"So I can sketch you."

Your stomach did an odd little flip. 

"Here? Now? I wanted to see your sketches, not be your sketches."

You performed on stage in front of hundreds with barely no clothes on and you were so nervous to let Steve Rogers sketch you with winter layers of clothes on. What was wrong with you?

Steve raised his eyebrow and his gaze swept up your body slowly, making you shiver. Clothes couldn’t stop the intimacy of that look.

“Too late for that.”

You raised your eyebrow at him and you felt irrationally happy. Steve had drawn you.

“Do you not trust me?”

You regarded him, guardian your reaction because you didn’t want to seem too eager.

“I do Steve. I trust you.”

It was true.

Steve smiled. 

“Then please, sit down.”

You gave in with a sigh and lowered yourself onto the bench. 

"Fine," you muttered. "But no weird artistic liberties. I better have a nose."

Steve chuckled, flipping open the sketchbook. 

"I make no promises."

You watched as he proceeded to balance the sketchbook against his bended knee. Then he looked at you seriously, holding your gaze for a moment before his attention returned to the page, and his pencil began gliding effortlessly across the paper. 

His thick fingers were surprisingly agile, moving with long, sure strokes. But then again, you shouldn’t have been surprised, with the way his fingers had previously made you feel…

For a few moments, the only sound was the soft scratch of his pencil against paper. 

You attempted to sit still, staring at the plants around you. You also tried to pretend that you weren’t aware of the way he studied you with that relentless focus, switching his gaze between you and the sketchbook.

After a few minutes, Steve made a soft noise, something between a hum and a chuckle.

“What?” you asked, turning your head and narrowing your eyes at him.

“Nothing.” 

He didn’t look up. But he spoke.

“It’s just... you’re trying so hard not to move, but you’re fidgeting anyway.”

You caught the hint of humor in his tone and it made you a little too happy again, so you decided to cause problems. 

"Well, maybe if you didn’t look at me like that.”

"Like what?" 

His lips curled into a knowing smirk, looking up at you quickly, then back down.

You fidgeted again.

"You know…"

Steve chuckled, deep and low and shook his head.

"Oh. Am I ‘sparkling my eyes at you again?’”

You scowled at him and he laughed.

“I'm an artist, Peach. I study form." 

His eyes traced up and down your body, lighting you on fire again.

You clenched your thighs together to fight the flow of arousal threatening your thighs. This was dangerous. Steve was dangerous.

"You're insufferable, Steven."

“Well, can you suffer on a little longer, so I can capture more detail?”

You cocked your head in that adorable way.

“What details do you need?”

“I need…” 

Steve looked at you like he needed all of you. 

And he did. 

“I want to capture the way your nose crinkles when you're annoyed, or how you're gripping the bench like you're about to get up and run.”

You unclenched your hands and sat back.

“You’re making me nervous.”

He tapped his pencil against the sketchbook. Then he looked down again to continue drawing.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

He licked those red lips of his and your eyes tracked the movement.

"The fact that I make you nervous."

The way he was looking at you made butterflies riot in your stomach. That special electricity was buzzing around you both. 

Suddenly, his pencil stopped. Then, without warning, he reached out, brushing his fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face slightly.

You stiffened.

"Hold still," he murmured. 

His thumb ghosted over the curve of your jaw and settled at the edge of your throat.

Your breath hitched.

Steve’s eyes were dark now and his voice was softer when he spoke again, but there was an edge to it now, hinting at something rough beneath the surface.

“You always do this?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“React like this when someone touches you.”

You pursed your lips together and shook your head. 

Just you.

"You’re doing it again," he mused as he stroked the side of your throat with his thumb.

"What, Mr. Rogers?"

You were about to combust. He clenched his jaw and increased the pressure of his fingers on your neck.

"Fighting it."

"I- I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"You do," he intoned, his voice stern.

"Don’t hide from me, Peach." 

Your pulse beat beneath his fingertips.

"You think I don’t notice how you react to me?" 

Steve’s hand grasped your throat, pressing more firmly before he let go.

"Hold. Still," he murmured, those blue, blue eyes stormy.

His fingers tilted your face up with authority now. You froze for a moment as his thumb came up to pull your chin down to open your mouth.

“Breathe.”

He slowly pulled his hand away and you had to stop yourself from chasing his touch. 

Steve clenched his jaw, trying to restrain himself. If he had to guess, you were wet and ready for him to do whatever he wanted to you right now. But he willed himself to be patient. 

He picked up his pencil again, rolling it between his fingers, like nothing had happened. 

"Good girl," he offered to the page as he returned to his sketch.

Steve knew what he was doing. Knew exactly how much he affected you. You waited impatiently, clenching your thighs together desperately as his pencil continued to scratch on the paper. 

"Done," he said, as he lifted the sketchbook toward you.

You gasped as you looked at the page. 

The drawing was stunning. Steve had captured you with uncanny accuracy, from the curve of your parted lips to the shading of the different colors in your eyes. The hollow of your throat seemed to pulse, and you could almost see the indentations of his fingers. 

The portrait was beautiful. And it told you everything you needed to know about how he felt.

“This is… how can I thank you?”

Steve’s heart flipped in his chest as he reached out and grabbed your waist, pulling you toward him on the bench.

"Steve…"

His eyes went to your mouth.

"Say that again," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Your whole body was burning, but you stayed quiet. You were paralyzed with the possibilities.

"No? Too shy now?"

His voice made you impossibly wet. If you gave in, you were about to get everything you didn’t know that you wanted. And that scared you.

You let out a shaky breath. 

"Steve."

Something flickered behind his eyes. Something hot.

“Have I told you that I love the way you say my name?”

His hand came up again against your side, slowly, more deliberate. His fingers moved over the curve of your side, and slid against your breast, his thumb ghosting over your nipple.

He continued, tracing over your cleavage and finally landing against your throat again, pressing against your pulse and driving you crazy.

"You're shaking," he murmured, voice low, thick with need.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and gave you a kiss against your throat. And he lingered, lips warm against your skin, before pulling back just enough to smile against your skin.

Your whimper told him so much. 

"You act so tough, but you’re so easy to ruin."

You raised your arms and pulled him close, fingers playing at the nape clutching the hair spilling over his collar.

“You made me this way, Steve. And I don’t want you to stop.”

His now dark blue eyes searched yours as his fingers tightened on your waist. 

“What does that mean, Peach?”

He’d pulled you closer, his eyes on your face as he waited for your answer. The anticipation was so much. He huffed and then dove into the curve of your neck, inhaling and tasting you there, as if he couldn’t help himself. His large hands palmed your breasts, pressing your nipples insistently.

“Oh…my….Steve!”

You squirmed in his grip.

“I asked you a question. Do I need to stop touching you so you can answer?”

“Please, no, Steve. Need you...”

You were the queen of changing the subject.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

His lips were on the curve of your jaw, so close to your lips. You whined. He cocked his eyebrow, the question not so silent.

You huffed, making your decision to go for it as your hands came to the side of his face so that he knew your intentionality. You wanted to look into his eyes when you said it.

“Moment of honesty? I want you Steve. I feel…I want to be yours. Really been yours since you put your hands on me in Atlanta. I can’t categorize or control this feeling. So I’m giving in. Are you ready for the chaos that is me being yours?”

Steve’s eyes lit up and he reached for you, pulling you into his lap as his lips crashed into yours. His hands were everywhere. He tugged you closer as he kissed you and both hands came down to grab your ass and pull you onto his erection. His desire for you was apparent.

When you broke apart, you chased his lips and then kissed him again, greedy.

“I’ve been ready. Been yours for a while, now Peach. Since the day I saw you…”

His voice was gentle and he was looking at you like you were fine porcelain. You felt so safe in his arms. He pulled back to look you in the eye.

“And this feeling? This is exactly how it should feel when it's meant to be.”

He kissed you again and his mouth took possession of yours in a way that was tender, yet full of promise. 

“I gotta let you know that if you’re mine, I’m gonna give you what you need. When you need it. Do you want that? Do you trust me with that?”

This was the important question.

“Yes, please. I want that, Mr. Rogers, sir. And I trust you.” 

"That’s so fucking hot… but I’m trying to behave. Even though I reserved the pavilion just for us, we’re still in a public place,” he murmured. 

His voice was calm, controlled. But those sea blue eyes told a different story.

"You call this behaving?"

You rolled your hips against his cock. Steve kissed you again and let out a sexy chuckle, then stood you both up, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

"If I wasn’t," he murmured, "you’d already be begging me for more." 

You linked your arms around his neck and looked up at him as the cutest woman on earth.

“What if I don’t want you to behave? Like you said, you have the pavilion reserved. You can bend me over the bench and fuck me raw. Right here.”

Steve’s pupils took over his eyes and his jaw clenched. Your stomach dropped as he looked as if he was about to do just as you suggested. But he took a deep breath and smiled.

“We’ll explore that kink later. Our first time needs to be in private.”

Steve reached for your coat and helped you with it before putting his own on and gathering his things. He took your hand and led you out and across the grounds. He pointed to a familiar building. 

“Your hotel is right there. Or do you want me to call Nico to take us to my place?”

You looked up at Steve as your breath vaporized in the cold air.

“We need my hotel. I’m ready. Right now.”

—--

You were in your room again, not entirely sure how you arrived, the journey through the park hurried and full of anticipation. You weren’t thinking too hard, you just knew you needed Steve. Immediately.

You were pushing his coat and blazer off his body and feeling his chest. The steady thrum of his pulse tapped a staccato in your palm.

“Your heart's beating so fast,” you whispered. 

“You do that to me, Peach.” 

“Really?” you questioned, suddenly unsure of yourself.

“You have no idea how much power you have, do you?” 

“Me?” you asked in a small voice. 

Steve nodded.

“You drive me crazy. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.” 

It was confession time.

“It’s you that has the power, Steve. I can't stop thinking about you. Your voice gets me there.” 

You felt tongue tied as you told him your raw feelings, all the while taking off your and his clothes. 

“Sometimes I — I think I'm going to cum just from hearing you speak. Today, at NYU, I could hardly sit still. You're like a drug, pulling all my attention.” 

Steve’s shirt was off now and you were in your bra; he pulled you near him to get his mouth on you.

“When I'm near you, I'm so hard it aches.”

 “Really?” you whispered. “Are you aching right now?” 

Steve groaned as you pulled back to unzip your skirt and take off your boots. He leaned back against the wall and palmed his crotch over his pants. 

“Like you wouldn't believe.” 

Steve couldn’t believe that he had you here like this, giving yourself to him. He had to tell you the truth.

“Look at me, Peach.”

You looked into his eyes.

“I’m In love with you.”

His rough voice pulled an involuntary sound from you. 

“You're mine, Peach You always have been.

Your breath caught in your throat and your heart thudded against yor ribs.

“Oh god, Steve. I- I love you too.”

Your smile blinded him. If he blinked it was because of that. Not that he was going to cry. 

Not at all. 

He laughed as an expression of joy and then your lips met.

The kiss wasn't soft or sweet. This was feral, sharp, and intense. You moaned into his mouth, sucking his bottom lip into yours as he unhooked your bra.

“I fucking want you,” you whimpered into his mouth. 

Steve smiled against your lips.

“Good, cause I fucking need you, my sweet Peach.”

Steve stood, looming over you, all big and fucking magnificent. The vision of him, all lithe muscles covered in smooth skin, and light feathering of hair making its way down his torso, between the defined planes of his abs and into his waistband, was… Good Lord.

You licked your lips, mouth instantly dry. 

Steve’s mouth hooked up on one side as his fingers worked his belt and fly. His pants fell in a matter of seconds, and there he was, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs.

Steve was all thick thighs, and long, powerful legs, his hand slowly stroking himself over the sizable bulge in his underwear. 

You gaped at him. 

Then, he pulled his underwear down, eyes on your face for your reaction. It was classic, your mouth hinged open and your eyes were like saucers. There was no way anyone could be that perfect.

His dick was long and wide, at least eight or nine inches, and curved eloquently (if a dick could do that) against his abs. It was so pretty and your mouth watered for it at the same time your pussy clenched, as you were thinking he was correct. You would struggle to take him.

His smirked deepened as he reached for you and pulled your panties down slowly, his short fingernails scratching your legs and making you shiver.

For a moment he just stared, drinking in the sight of you spread before him

“Fucking sublime,” Steve breathed, the words filled with reverence. 

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else, baby.” 

He leaned over you and set about doing just that, kissing you deep and filthy, tongue diving to claim every inch of your mouth. You cried out, scratching at his broad shoulders as he suckled and nipped, worshiping your breasts until you were mindless with sensation. 

Steve took his time tracing your torso with his lips, teeth and tongue, learning your body and  paying attention to every sigh of pleasure as he climbed down your body.

The press of his mouth to your pussy made your back arch, and a ragged moan escape your mouth. Steve growled into you, the vibrations running through your soaked cunt.

He parted your pussy lips with his thumbs, and dove to lick your clit with the hot velvet of his tongue. 

Slow, thorough licks made you writhe beneath him. 

“That’s it,” he whispered, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“Ride my face, Sweetheart. Fuck my mouth ‘til you cum all over it.” 

You arched like a bow as he latched on to your clit and sucked, two thick fingers thrusting deep to stroke along your inner wall. His practiced fingers found your g-spot and massaged it ruthlessly, curling and scissoring until you sobbed his name.

“Love when you call my name, Peach.”

He looked at you like you were something to be worshipped, and then continued what he was doing. When Steve bit down gently on your clit, your orgasm crashed over you in a burst of white light. 

You shuddered through the aftershocks, trembling as Steve lapped at your folds. Each lick sent a jolt of electricity through you, on the edge of too much. 

Rising to his knees, the thick, heavy length of him rose up again, even more swollen and glistening at the tip. 

Steve notched the thick head of his cock at your entrance and his eyes crossed as he slowly sank into your tight, dripping heat. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

Inch after thick inch, he claimed you, stretched you, with a delicious push/pull of pleasure/pain. His length was one thing, but his girth was everything.

When he bottomed out, you both groaned at the intensity of the connection. He looked you in your eyes as your hearts pounded in sync, your breaths mingling as you got used to his size.

“I’ve never felt so full, Stevie…”

You quivered in his arms. And he knew that he was utterly possessed by you. It was more than just physical; it was an overwhelming sense of rightness. 

“Perfect,” Steve rasped.

“So fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart. Like you were made for me.”

He dropped his head and trailed open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, pausing to suck hard at your pulse point. 

“Please,” you whimpered, the ache between your thighs growing unbearable. “Move.”

“As you wish.” he whispered, brows knitted together. 

You whimpered and your hands grasped the sheets as he started to move. He bent and sucked your nipple hard, causing a jolt of electricity through your body. Your brain was cloudy and you scratched his back as your eyes shuttered closed.

“Open your eyes, Peach,” Steve ordered darkly. 

As he looked you in your beautiful eyes, Steve couldn’t hold back any longer. He started increasing his pace until he was fucking you roughly, pushing your knees to your chest. 

“Yes.. feels so good Steve. Oh my godddddd, fuck me!”

Steve’s eyes roamed your body as he did as you asked. Your beautiful breasts bounced. The bed knocked against the wall and you gasped for breath, your face transfixed on the eye contact between you and Steve.

He was lost, one hand gripped your hair, and the other braced on the headboard. He fucked you hard, grinding against your clit with every stroke. 

You were whimpering, on the verge of screaming as you two made noise up and down the hotel hallway.

He leaned up and grasped your throat, gritting his teeth as he asked a question.

“You want me to cum inside you? You trying to have my baby?”

“Unnnnnnghhhh! Maybe….” 

You opened your eyes and pouted up at him.

“Paint my walls, Steve...”

Steve choked on air as he spurted hot cum into your welcoming pussy, but he pulled out, shooting the last jet of cum on your clit and pussy lips. Then, like a heathen, he bent between your thighs and started licking. 

You sobbed, writhing as he devoured you. 

“Need to eat you more than anything, my sweet, sweet Peach. 

“Steve, Stevie… oh my god!” 

You clutched his hair, tugging sharply. It was too much.

“Oh my God. Please Steveeeee!” 

He raised his head, grinning as you fully collapsed, limp and spent. Your pussy was tender, your face flushed, your eyes gleaming. 

You were beautiful.

You looked at him and shook your head as he took you in his arms. 

“Are you mine?” 

“Yes,” you whimpered out. 

“I would die for you, Y/N L/N,” Steve murmured against your temple, panting. He held you tight, carding his fingers in your hair.

“I promise to keep you safe, and give you everything you need, I promise you that.”

“I believe you, Steve. I trust that.”

—

You and Steve stayed up late, ordered room service and talked about a lot of things, music, your parents, his friendship with Bucky, Nat, and Steve, everything.

You laughed and cried, and then settled back in his arms in the dark to sleep, his hand rubbing your hip as his breathing began to slow.

“Steve, can I ask you a question?”

It had been nagging at you for a while.

His sleepy voice answered you.

“Shoot.”

You chuckled.

“That’s just it. Have you ever… have you ever killed someone?”

Steve stirred, pulling you closer to him and moving his mouth next to your ear.

“Hmmmmm. I’d have to marry you before I answered that question.”

Your heart slammed against your chest and your eyes went wide in the dark.

“What?”

You tried to keep your voice even. You didn’t know what this feeling was that came over you. Steve continued, seemingly calm and not spiraling like you were.

“You can’t be compelled to testify against your spouse. It was a joke, Peach.”

You were silent for a good while.

“Oh.”

Steve stirred, leaning up against his elbow.

“Do you… are you saying that you want to get married?”

Steve thought about the ring that he had at his penthouse.

You laughed.

“Nah… what we looking like just up and getting married like that? We hardly know each other.”

“True. But when you know, you know.”

Steve kissed you and the small amount of logic in your brain was rapidly dissipating.

“Would it make us look crazy…?”

You could sense Steve’s smile in the dark.

“…Or would it be so beautiful?” He replied.

Steve wrapped you up in his arms and settled down again. Your mind spun as his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm and you spoke again. 

He was probably asleep, but you had to get it out.

“If you ask me, I’m ready…”

The light switched on and you were staring into the beautiful blue eyes of Steve Rogers.

——

I’m so anxious about this one! Please let me know how you feel? Reblog, comment, like. TIA!

Read Peach VII

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Winning coalitions aren't always governing coalitions

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/06/how-the-sausage-gets-made/#governing-is-harder

Winning an election is easier than it looks: all you have to do is convince a bunch of different groups that you will use power to achieve their desires. Bonus points if you can convince groups with mutually exclusive goals that you'll deliver for them – the coalition of "people who disagree about everything" is hard to assemble, but it sure is large!

Politically, a "conservative" is someone who believes that there is a small group of people who were born to rule, and a much larger group of people who were born to be ruled over. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, this is the one trait that unifies all the disparate strains of conservative thought: imperialists, monarchists, capitalists, white supremacists, misogynists, Christian nationalists, Hindu nationalists and supporters of Israeli genocide in Palestine:

https://coreyrobin.com/books/the-reactionary-mind/

These groups all agree that power should be hierarchical, that your position in a hierarchy is something you're born with, and that letting people who were "meant" to be at the bottom of the hierarchy rise to the top puts society so out of balance that it's actually a threat to human survival. That's why conservatives of all stripes get so furious about "DEI" – any kind of affirmative action program serves as a defective sorting hat, putting the incompetent and unsuitable into positions of power over other peoples' lives. It's why "DEI" is the go-to scapegoat for any kind of disaster, including giant ships crashing into bridges:

https://www.axios.com/local/salt-lake-city/2024/03/26/baltimore-bridge-dei-utah-lawmaker-phil-lyman-misinformation

But while conservatives all agree that some of us are born to be in charge and others are born to be bossed around by our innate superiors, they have irreconcilable differences about who is meant to be in charge. British imperialists who pine for the Raj have views that are fundamentally at odds with the views of Hindu nationalists. They're both "conservative" movements, but they're actually bitter enemies.

For a conservative movement to win power, it has to convince the people whom it would relegate to the bottom of the hierarchy to support that goal (AKA "getting turkeys to vote for Christmas"); and it must convince other conservatives that they will be able to establish a hierarchy that accommodates multiple, co-equal ruling elites.

The first tactic is well-established. LBJ summed it up neatly:

If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you.

The second one requires far more tactical thinking. Some elite groups are able to form coalitions by carving out exclusive zones: think of the friendly feeling among Modi, Orban, Erdogan, bin Salman, Trump, Milei, et al. These people all aspire to dictatorship, all espouse their superior blood – a source of personal and racial superiority – and hypothetically all believe that the world would be better if everyone (including their foreign counterparts) would take their orders.

One way to resolve this tension is to carve up the world geographically, which is why so many despots who seized power by promising to build ethno-states can co-exist with one another and even cheer one another on. Let Orban have Hungary, give Turkey to Erdogan, and let Bibi Netanyahu annex all of Gaza. Sure, in their hearts of hearts, each of these men secretly believe themselves to be racially and personally superior to the others, but so long as they all stay out of one another's turf, there's no reason to make a big deal out of that.

Another way to resolve this tension is to carve up the world temporally: think of the alliance between Christian nationalists and Israeli genocidiers. In the USA, "Christian Zionists" outnumber Jews who identify as Zionists:

https://www.trtworld.com/magazine/qanda-for-every-1-jewish-zionist-there-are-30-christian-zionists-and-netanyahu-exploits-this-15656249

But Christian Zionists aren't philosemites. They hate Jews and believe that we are all going to hell for murdering Christ. Their support for Israel isn't grounded in a belief in the necessity of a Jewish ethno-state – it arises out of the apocalyptic belief that Christ will return once Jews "return to the Holy Land" – albeit only briefly, before being cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.

Like British imperialists and the Hindu nationalists, Christian Zionists and Jewish Zionists are not on the same side. However, unlike British imperialists and Hindu nationalists, Christian Zionists and Jewish Zionists want the same thing…for a while. Both groups support the establishment of a Jewish entho-state in Israel, they just differ sharply as to what happens after that comes to pass. So long as they don't dwell on that moment in the future, they can stand shoulder to shoulder, fighting together for an Israeli state that operates with absolute US support and total international impunity.

Coalitions who defer the question of how they'll use power to after they've gained power are using time (rather than space) as a buffer that keeps their differences from smashing together until they shatter. But time and space aren't the only buffers for the differences between coalition partners – there's also class.

"Class" has been the most important, most useful buffer for conservativism since the Reagan revolution. Reagan came to power by forging an alliance with evangelicals, whose cult leaders had historically demanded that members focus their energies (and cash donations) on the church, while avoiding politics as "worldly."

Reagan promised the Christian right a bunch of culture war stuff – bans on abortion, punishment for uppity women and racial minorities, prayer in school, segregation academies, etc – that his financial backers frankly didn't give a shit about. By all means, let working class evangelicals homeschool their kids and teach them that the Earth is 5,000 years old, it doesn't matter to Wall Street, who will reap a giant tax-cut and also send their kids to private schools with rigorous curriculum. Bankers' wives and daughters will always be able to afford to fly out of state (or across the border) for abortion care, they will never die of AIDS in the charity wing of a community hospital, their daughters won't be trapped by bans on no-fault divorces.

For the past 40 years, American oligarchs and would-be oligarchs have entered into enthusiastic coalitions with virulently racist, sexist and homophobic groups, and maintained peace within their coalition by passing punitive, cruel laws that the rich can buy their way around. For many self-styled libertarians, the most important liberty is "not paying taxes" and this subordinates all other liberties, such that a "libertarian" will vote for a coalition whose platform promises to ban abortion, birth control, "interracial" marriage, and queer sex, so long as it also promises tax cuts. It's a weird kind of pro-freedom ideology that happily trades away (others') freedom for (your own) tax cuts:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#tolerable-racism

Remember, Trump's first CPAC speech was sponsored by Goproud, a group of "fiscally responsible" gay Republicans who believed in gay rights, sure, but not as much as they believed in getting so rich that even if poor gay people were ground into dust, they could float above it all:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GOProud

Class is the third buffer between the oligarchs of the right and the mass movement that provides the bulk for winning elections. After all, laws are for the little people, so by all means, we can promise – and even deliver – laws that we would never submit to, because we don't have to submit to them. This is Wilhoit's Law in action:

Conservatism consists of exactly one proposition, to wit: There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_M._Wilhoit#Wilhoit's_law

In a hierarchical society, class separates groups of people just as rigidly as time and space, and is every bit as useful a buffer as the other two forces.

Until it isn't.

Eventually – once you've banned abortion, once you've taken all the "controversial" books out of the library, once you've made affirmative action illegal – you reach the layer of non-negotiable culture war demands that the rich can't buy their way out of.

Like immigration.

Let's start with this: immigration doesn't have to result in wage suppression. Couple immigration with strong unions and a muscular labor rights regime and workers do just great. The more the merrier! America needs workers of every kind. What's more, the unions and labor laws in America owe their existence to immigrant workers, so there's nothing about immigration that is necessarily incompatible with winning rights for workers.

But the possibility of importing some overseas union organizers isn't what motivates the finance wing of the conservative coalition to demand "guest-worker" programs like the H1B visa:

https://twitter.com/RobertMSterling/status/1873175206073626660

H1B visas are "non-immigrant" visas, meaning that they are designed not to offer any path to permanent residence or citizenship. You can live in the US for a long time on an H1B, but you are bound over to your employer like a serf bound to a feudal estate: if you lose your job, you lose your right to abide in the country. That can mean losing your house, your car, your kids' school and friends. It can cost your spouse their job, because if you're kicked out of the country, they might well leave along with you, rather than remain alone here.

H1B tech workers are the workers that tech-barons have dreamt of for decades. An H1B worker can't job-hop, and so needn't be lured to work with gourmet cafeterias, luxury gymnasiums, or other perks of the whimsical tech "campus." H1B workers can't quit if they don't like their stock-options packages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

Tech bosses hate tech workers, and they always have. It's not affection that causes Jeff Bezos to allow his coders to come to work with pink mohawks, facial piercings, and black t-shirts that say things their bosses don't understand, while his delivery drivers piss in bottles and his warehouse workers are injured at three times the national average. Jeff Bezos neither cherishes his coders' kidneys, nor is he especially hostile to delivery drivers' need to pee – he just squeezes any and every worker in any and every way he can.

Same for Tim Cook: the accomplishment that prompted Apple's board to elevate Cook to Steve Jobs' CEO office was the successful transfer of iPhone manufacturing to China. Specifically, Cook figured out how to work with his primary supplier, Foxconn, to create a working environment that produced reliable, precision-manufactured mobile devices, and all it took was creating a working environment so brutal that the company had to install suicide nets to catch the factory workers who couldn't stand it any longer:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/jun/18/foxconn-life-death-forbidden-city-longhua-suicide-apple-iphone-brian-merchant-one-device-extract

Apple's tech workers aren't worked to suicidal desperation, sure – but not because Tim Cook likes coders and hates factory workers. It's because he's afraid coders will quit, and he's not worried about replacing factory workers after they jump to their death.

The point of the H1B program is to create a tech workforce that bosses no longer have to fear. Recall that when Elon Musk took over Twitter and circulated a mandatory "extremely hardcore" pledge that demanded that workers promise to subordinate their health and wellbeing to his profits, it prompted a mass departure, with the notable exception of workers whose immigration status (and/or insurance for serious health issues) depended on their ongoing employment at Twitter:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/16/23462026/elon-musk-twitter-email-hardcore-or-severance

When Musk's cronies gloated about shedding 20% of Twitter's workforce on "day zero," the workers they had in mind were the ones who didn't fear their bosses and wouldn't frog when the investor class shouted jump. "Sharpen your blades, boys" means we're slicing off workers who are laboring under the misapprehension that they are entitled to a say in their working conditions:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/09/29/elon-musk-texts-discovery-twitter/

After all, America does not have a tech worker shortage. The US tech sector fired 260,000 skilled workers in 2023, and more than 150,000 were shown the door in 2024. When Musk and his fellow tech bosses complain that they need more "talent," what they mean is they need workers who are so terrified of being deported that they'll accept low wages, sleep under their desks, refuse to talk to union organizers, and, above all, do as they're told:

https://youtube.com/shorts/N0FkyXFhmpo?si=GCh6bFqd31prazhz

Trump won office by promising mutually exclusive outcomes to different parts of his coalition. To the nativists and bigots (and workers who'd bamboozled into thinking that their low salaries were the fault of other workers, not their bosses), he promised a halt to immigration. To the plutocrats, he promised a large and pliable workforce – of low-waged agricultural workers and of precarious H1B tech workers who'd discipline America's "entitled" tech workers:

https://prospect.org/labor/2025-01-02-president-musk-american-workers-h1b-visas/

Now, he has to figure out how to keep everyone happy. Literally: the Speakership of Congress is only nine votes away from collapsing at any time (and until last week, it was just one vote away), and without Congress, Trump's ability to govern will be severely curtailed (see, for example, 2018-2020).

Immigration isn't an issue like abortion: oligarchs can support abortion bans and still procure abortions when they need them. It's much harder to support an immigration ban and still procure precarious, low-waged workers for your business. It will take many years for American-born workers to be so brutalized and broken that they capitulate to the working conditions that American guest workers and undocumented workers accept, and bosses are impatient.

It's hard to put on a convincing performance of banning immigration, as the UK's New Labour discovered. In the years leading up to the 2010 election, Labour – under Blair and then Brown – made a big show of "cracking down on immigration." At one point, Home Secretary Jacqui Smith announced that she was axing dozens of UK visa categories, while carefully not mentioning these were so niche that hardly anyone qualified for them. This created chaos for the people affected and their families – I lost my own "Highly Skilled Migrant" visa at this time and we had to move our wedding plans up by eight months so I could stay in the country with my British partner and our daughter – but it didn't do anything to quench the xenophobic rage that UKIP and the Tories had been stoking, and Labour lost its next election.

American conservatives are rightly proud of their ability to form coalitions. They trumpet their ethic of "no enemies to the right" and contrast this with the "cancel culture" of progressives:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-year-democrats-lost-the-internet/

It's true that purging your ranks of coalition partners who disagree with you at the margins is a severely self-limiting move. It's also true that the broader your coalition is, the easier it is to win power.

The right has built a coalition of people who want opposite things. Infamously, Project 2025 isn't just a collection of terrifying ideas for running (and ruining) America – it's a collection of mutually exclusive terrifying ideas for running and ruining America:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

Trump's top health picks – RFK jr, Weldon, Oz, Makary, Bhattacharya, Nesheiwat – want mutually exclusive, irreconcilable things that are as impossible to compromise on as "banning immigration" while simultaneously "expanding the H1B program":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/20/clinical-trial-by-ordeal/#spoiled-his-brand-new-rattle

Big, diverse coalitions of people who normally oppose each other are great for winning power, but they're very bad for wielding power. Trump's majorities in Congress and the Senate are razor-thin, and while the Democrats had to suffer under the Manchin-Synematic Universe, the GOP's Klown Kar of Krazies has dozens of swivel-eyed loons who will happily blow up "must-pass" bills just for shits and giggles.

What's more, the GOP has spent decades installing easily blown circuit breakers into the American legislative and administrative systems, from the filibuster to the debt ceiling. By design, these allow small groups of lawmakers to kill bills and hamstring presidential power. Trump's first attempt at removing one of these breakers – the senseless kabuki of the annual debt ceiling showdown – was a total failure:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2024-12-19-debt-limit-should-absolutely-be-eliminated/

Musk thinks he can ram through policies that sizable portions of the GOP coalition would rather die than support. So far, Trump has proven a pliable puppet for Musk's ambitions. But the Musk-Trump coalition is every bit as fragile as any other in the GOP, and Trump is notoriously sensitive to accusations of weakness. Musk can threaten to primary any GOP lawmaker who gets in his way, but as the Kochs discovered after they unleashed the Tea Party, grievance-fueled, paranoid, heavily armed cults are hard to keep on a leash.

The coming months are sure to be an all-out war of GOP infighting as the coalition must wield power without the useful buffers of space, time and class. They'll be an object lesson in the dangers of a coalition that's so broad that everyone is welcome, even people who'd happily line you and yours in front of a firing squad.

But just because the right's attitude to coalitions is to have a mind so open its brains fall out, that doesn't mean the left should pursue a program of overwhelming ideological purity. Trump is a stupid guy with incoherent ideas, but look at how far he got by erecting such a big tent that anyone fit underneath it (even actual Nazis).

The progressive coalition doesn't need to be that big. We can have enemies to the right. The hugs Kamala Harris bestowed on ghouls like Liz Cheney didn't win the election, and the medal Biden just gave her won't help either:

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/02/us/politics/presidential-citizens-medal-liz-cheney.html

Manchin and Synema can "fuck off until they come up to a gate with a sign saying 'You Can’t Fuck Off Past Here,' Climb over the gate, dream the impossible dream, and keep fucking off forever":

https://michaelmarshallsmith.substack.com/about

But the fact that some people don't belong in a progressive coalition, it doesn't follow that there's no room to make the coalition looser and broader. Sure, a big coalition makes it hard to wield power, but without that coalition, we'll never win power.

[jjknowsball]

Perfection Ch. 2

Summary: AU Fic where Paige is a D1 Football player and Azzi is an overwhelmed Biology major.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warning: None right now

Note: Trying to write over 2k words after writing 3 finals is going to take me out. I also did not proofread this at all 🙂‍↕️.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paige has done it now.

Her newfound case of an unpredictable arm has striked again. It all started with throwing three interceptions at last week’s at home rival game versus Tennessee. She can remember everything from her coach’s thrown clipboard, the fans throwing their hands up in frustration, and KK’s worried look through her helmet.  

She still hasn’t been able to get the shit-eating grin that Samara Spencer had on her face as she gracefully accepted the ball thrown by Paige.

Now she has taken out her roommate who is currently lying on the turf after tumbling down from the sidewalk from above.  The girl’s leg was bent in an awkward position and her clothes were covered in a layer of dirt.

Out of anyone else on campus, she had to take out her already stressed out, three seconds away from spontaneous combustion, roommate.

“YOU KILLED HER” KK, Uconns star wide receiver, yelled . She had taken it upon herself to shake Paige’s shoulders to emphasize the point as she pointed to the unconscious girl. 

At this rate, Paige was never going to touch the field again. She could see the headlines now-

“Local Star quarterback caught in throw-and-run against her own roommate.” 

After that it would be the media coverage- with a terrible picture of her from her awful digital footprint from high school. The awful matching neon Nike fit with the matching headband would be the last thing people would remember her by. Then she was going to spend the rest of her life in jail making sneakers out of cardboard boxes. 

“Chill” Paige says in an attempt to calm not only her nerves but her teammates too. “We can take her to the athletic training room.” 

She goes to touch Azzi’s neck when she notices two things. One she definitely has a pulse and she looks strangely at peace for somebody who just got taken out by a football.

“If she doesn’t have a pulse, I am pretty sure your trunk is big enough to-“ Ice, UConn’s tight end, chimes in. 

“Don’t even finish the rest of that sentence” Paige said as she rubbed her temple. She goes to pick up Azzi by her back in one arm while using her other arm to carry her legs. She starts to carry the girl towards the athletic facility with her teammates in tow.

———-

When Azzi comes to, the first thing that she thinks about is how bad her head hurts and where the hell is she .

The room is huge, with an abundance of athlete training bed and not the cheap family practice ones that had to be covered with the paper that crinkled with every movement. These beds could be adjusted at three different points with the schools logo and cabinets underneath.

There was a sauna next to the indoor pool & spa. The facility even had a small smoothie bar with 30 different flavors. All she could think about was the fact that the athletic facility alone put the science building to shame. One of the beds alone could fix three labs. 

Azzi was so inthralled with how the facility looked she didn’t notice the fact that Paige was right next to her on the small rolling chair. She was sitting there calmly with her AirPods in with only a Nike sports bra and sweatpants. 

Her glistening abs on display as she was thinking about something like football plays or how many girls she was going to have in her bed tonight. 

“Do you always try to wear as little as possible” Azzi said as she grimaced, reaching out for her leg and ankle.

She hadn’t realized how bad she was hurting until now. She was bleeding through her leggings around her knee and her ankle hurt like hell. 

“You’re Alive” Paige says immediately jumping up from the chair.  “ You have been out for almost 30 minutes now.”

This causes Azzi to sit up, she realizes that she is not only late to dinner with Caroline and Ines but her study room reservation in the library. 

“Don’t move” Paige said  impulsively grabbing her thigh to keep her in place before quickly moving her hand as her ears go red “let me help you up.” 

“ I think you have done enough” Azzi says in protest, still trying to wiggle off the table. 

“I know I am the whole reason why you are in this mess but please let me help you.” Paige pleads. Her eyes filled with guilt as she looked up at the younger girl. 

Despite Azzi being extremely reluctant, she decides to let Paige do her thing as there isn’t much she can do about it. 

Paige goes to grab the athletic tape before moving towards  Azzi’s bad knee. She looks up at Azzi to get her approval before she starts to hike up Azzi’s leggings after her nod. 

Maybe it is just the fact that Azzi hasn’t been with anyone in a long time but Paige’s soft touches as she wraps  the tape around her knee has caused her to become flustered. 

Once Paige is done, she moves lower towards her ankle as she tries to flex it.  Trying to figure out if it was a low-grade sprain or worse.

“Ouch!!” Azzi yelled with tears starting to form in her eyes. 

“You’re doing so good for me, Az, I am almost done.” Paige says not giving it any thought as she gets the brace to wrap around her ankle. If Azzi had thought her stomach had dropped from the touches earlier, that statement certainly didn’t help.

Why does she always have to talk like this.

 “Don’t call me that” Azzi says as she begins to pout with her hands thrown over her chest. Paige laughs it off before offering  her hand.

“Can you stand by yourself” Paige ask

“Mmhm” Azzi answers back while trying to balance herself. “I really need to g—“

“Let me take you out to dinner-“ Paige blurts out trying to stop the younger girl from leaving. “It’s the least I could do since the dining hall is closed”

It’s not the best recovery but Azzi decides to let Paige off the hook based off of how red she was turning.

“What ever you say, Madison” Azzi agreed as she started to limp off “As long as we eat it in the library”. Paige throws on her hoodie before following in tow.

——-

It takes 45 minutes for them to make it to the library due to Azzi’s indecisiveness.

“Azzi, I am sure what ever you pick is going to be great.” Paige exclaimed trying to hurry the girl along. It was almost as if she forgot that they had to make it to the library in 15 minutes 

She couldn’t decided between a subway flatbread, a qdoba bowl, or a soup and a salad meal from Panera. In the time that it had taken Azzi to look at the 3 options, Paige had ordered Chick Fil A and had already eaten half her fries. 

“Everything looks so good” Azzi exclaims, clearly stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Paige not being able to wait any longer decides to order for her. She walks over to the Panera kiosk and begins to press different buttons, ignoring Azzi questioning looks from over her shoulder. Paige pulls her card out when Azzi decides to speak up

“ What did you order?”

“It’s a surprise” 

“What if I don’t like it” Azzi ask again 

“You will” Paige answers with a wink before grabbing the food and pulling it out of Azzi’s reach.

———-

They make it to the study room with  two minutes to spare. As they both get situated in, Paige finally hands Azzi her bag of food. 

Inside was broccoli and cheese soup and a chipotle chicken avocado melt.

Her usual

“How did you know?”

“You always leave the other half of the meal in the refrigerator, so I figured you would like it” Paige said sheepishly. 

From that statement alone, Azzi quickly realized that Paige knew things about her and the only thing Azzi knew about Paige was her late night hook-ups. 

It almost made her feel bad about the mean things she had wish on the girl like the shower running cold mid-session or her roof falling in when she got too loud. 

Almost

“I know a lot about you Az, even if you won’t talk to me and just stay in your dorm all day” Paige bantered.

“I said don’t call me that” Azzi said as she pouted “And I don’t stay in my dorm all day”

“Second times a charm?”Paige says, as she shrugs leaning back in her chair. 

“ That isn’t even how the saying goes, stupid” Azzi half laughed as she pushed the blondes chair. Mid-laugh, She notices the clock on the wall: 9:30

“ Ok I really need to lock in now”

———-

In Azzi’s defense she really tried to study her 11 fundamental groups. But Paige’s antics aren’t really the best for a study environment. 

Her notes have been long forgotten and are sprung across the L shaped desk and are borderline in Azzi’s area. The football player has her music blasting through her AirPods and is watching film from what looks like last week’s game. The announcer play-by-play filling up the room. 

Despite Azzi not caring about the school football team, she wasn’t stupid. Paige’s last performance had been the talk of the campus, with many people say that there was no hope for a championship and that Paige’s draft stock would fall. Azzi could tell that it was bothering the older girl as she was entranced by the screen, analyzing every play. 

“ Do you want to talk about the game”

Azzi questioned as she put her textbook in her bag.

“Nothing to talk about” Paige said unfazed as she continues to watch the screen. 

But the way her leg bounces and the fact that she was almost about to bite off her bottom lip doesn’t go unnoticed by Azzi. 

“I know we are not friends or anything, but I get the whole having a whole bunch of expectations on you or trying to be perfect” 

Paige nodded her head, seeming to think about the other girls words, appreciating them. There a moment of silence before Paige says anything. 

“Who said we weren’t friends?” Paige says trying to deflect and Azzi accepts the fact that the girl would rather not talk about it. 

“We live in the same dorm and we don’t even talk to each other.”

“Well maybe if someone left their room, we could’ve talked over a bowl of ice cream or something.”

“ I already told you that I do leave my room” Azzi groans out. She starts to feel bold as she is tired of Paige making her seem like some shut-in nerd. 

Maybe it’s also some of Paige’s cockiness wearing off on her.

“Who is to say that we can’t go right now” 

Paige’s eyebrows raise at Azzi’s newfound attitude.  

“You are sassier than I thought, Jazlyn. If we hurry right now we can make it to the Dairy Bar before they close” 

———-

The Dairy bar is surprisingly packed for 10:30 on a Tuesday night. The inside sitting area was full with people and ambiance.

Azzi is basically radiating excitement as it has been a while since she had step foot in the ice cream parlor. It totally beat the freezer burn ice cream that she had to settle for.

“Do you know what you want” Paige had asked ahead of time not wanting a repeat of what had happened at dinner. 

“Two scoops of Vanilla ice cream, with  sprinkles and a little caramel” the brunette said as if it was the easiest decision in the world. “How about you?”

“ I wasn’t really trying to get anyth-“ the blonde is cut off by the younger girl looking at her as if she had just betrayed her. “I was thinking a small mint chocolate chip cone”

Despite Azzi’s personal opinion about mint chocolate chip ice cream she is just happy that the other girl isn’t going to leave her hanging by making her get ice cream by herself. 

Azzi is the first one to order, so she takes her card out only to be intercepted by Paige who lightly pushes her aside taking her card out of her hoodie. 

“It’s the least I can do since I nearly killed you today” Paige whispers as she taps the card and who is Azzi to argue against her ( and free ice cream.) 

They decide to take their ice cream outside to a bench that over looks  the campus lake. The scene is so peaceful with the lapping of the water and the light chatter in the distance. They discuss everything from their very busy schedules, to Azzi’s job at the daycare, and Paige even tells a funny story about how the time she woke up covered in bubble wrap curtesy of her teams after an injury scare. 

They somehow get on the topic of parties and Azzi can feel her stomach drop for the second time of the day. 

“I bet you haven’t even been to a party here” 

“I totally have been to a UConn party”

“Let me guess, it was a biology “party” where y’all trade notes while guessing what came next in a genetics sequence” Paige barely laughs out before doubling over. Her ice cream cone almost tumbling out of her hand 

Azzi didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was spot on. Her first party was hosted by the biology department with DNA banners and mock tails in beakers. She had thought it was the coolest thing ever until Paige made her feel like a nerdy middle schooler. 

“Nope it was a totally normal college party, with a pool, drinks, and plenty of people hooking-up” Azzi says unconvincingly, completely flustered. 

“Uh huh” Paige chuckles out not believing the younger girl at all. 

“ Well, I can’t have you graduate with going to THE UConn Party.” Paige emphasizes “ You should totally come to my birthday party, which is also a halloween party, hosted by the football team” 

The Older girl gives her all the details on the walk home about the Saturday night party that would take place at a fancy airbnb where half of the school would show up.

——-

Once they finally make it back to the dorm, they go to their respected rooms. 

Azzi collapses on the bed before turning on her phone which was in surprisingly good condition considering her fall. 

Her phone had multiple missed messages and calls (mainly from Caroline threatening to fill out a missing persons report.) 

Azzi decides to put her girls out of their misery and inform them on why she missed out on their nightly dinner. 

She answers the FaceTime with the biggest smile on her face before saying. 

“You guys won’t believe what just happened.”

[purplereina11]

Found this in my drafts! Enjoy!

From The GoalKeeper Universe

You were never one to stay down, maybe even times you probably should have, but this time when you don't get back up... it's the dreaded ACL. But Aitana is by your side every step of the way.

Word Count: Only short 1.8k

You feel it snap.

It’s like a cruel, invisible thread inside your knee gives way mid-air, just as you dive for the ball—pure instinct, clean technique, everything perfect until it isn't. You feel the sting, then the burn, and then nothing but the thundering silence in your own head as you lie face-down on the turf at Ciutat Esportiva.

You don’t remember exactly how it happened—just the blur of movement, the instinctive dive. You’re not someone who stays down. Everyone knows that. You’ve built your reputation on getting up—every time. But not today. Not this time.

The ball had already ricocheted off your outstretched glove—another one for the highlight reel, people would say later—but the pain hit like a freight train a second too late. You collapsed onto the turf, clutching your leg, the world around you folding inward as your teammates rushed toward you, their faces folding into that uneasy blend of worry and disbelief.

You’re the wall. The unbreakable. The best goalkeeper in the world, they’ve been saying for the past two seasons. The one who doesn’t go down unless it’s to make the save of the century. But here you are, on the pitch, clutching your knee like it’s trying to escape your body.

You already know it’s bad.

You hear the training come to a stop around you, the footsteps pounding the pitch as your teammates rush over, voices blurring together in a wave of panic.

“Don’t move. Stay down.”

“Shit—call the physio. Now.”

And then, cutting through the noise, her voice—low and tight, but steady.

“Mi amor. Look at me. Look at me.”

You open your eyes, and Aitana’s kneeling beside you, her hand trembling against your cheek. There’s panic behind her eyes, but she’s holding it in for you, for now. You don’t have the strength to say anything, so you just grip her wrist, as tight as you can.

You don’t need to say it. She already knows.

The physios do their tests—rotation, pressure, reflex—and your stomach sinks further with every nod exchanged above your head. They don’t say it aloud yet, but you hear the words anyway. Ligament. Tear. Surgery. Months.

The season is at its most delicate stage. Champions League semifinals ahead. The title race in Liga F is tighter than it’s been in years. You were supposed to be the one keeping the fortress sealed, pushing the team to the finish line. Instead, you're in the back of a van on the way to the hospital, replaying the moment on loop.

Later that night, Aitana doesn’t knock when she enters your apartment. She never does. She's wearing her Barça hoodie, hair tied back, eyes set. You’re lying on the couch, leg propped up in a brace, TV on but volume muted. She doesn’t say anything right away—just drops her keys on the counter and walks over.

She kneels by you, hands gently resting on your thigh. You can’t meet her eyes. You're not ready for comfort yet, not from her. Not when everything feels like it's slipping.

“I’m done for the season,” you say flatly, voice low, like it might hurt less that way.

She exhales, slow and steady, and rests her forehead on your knee, careful not to jostle it.

“We don’t know that yet,” she whispers.

But you do. You know your body, and you know this kind of pain. You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve comforted teammates through it. And now it’s your turn to be the one left behind.

“It’s not just the games, Aitana,” you say, finally looking down at her. “It’s everything. This was supposed to be our year. We were building something.”

She shifts, climbs up beside you, curling into your good side. Her hand finds yours.

“It still is our year,” she says. “Just not the way you planned.”

You want to believe her. You want to believe that you’ll come back stronger, sharper, and that the team will hold together without you in goal. But it feels like a lie to even imagine it right now. And yet… her voice, calm and certain, anchors you in place.

The days blur after that.

Scans confirm what you already knew—ACL tear, some MCL damage, minimum six months out. You hear the doctor say it, and you nod, stone-faced. You don't cry in front of them. Not here. You wait. The club puts out a statement. Fans flood your socials with love. Teammates check in. 

Back home, you finally break. You sit on the sofa in your living room, knee wrapped in ice, painkillers barely dulling the ache, and your chest tight with helplessness. You don't even hear her come in.

She kneels in front of you slowly, hands gentle as if you might shatter with a single touch.

“Say something,” she whispers.

You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not okay, Ait.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing her fingers through your hair. “You don’t have to be.”

“I was supposed to be there. For the Champions League. For the league. I was supposed to be the wall.”

“You are,” she says firmly. “You still are.”

You laugh bitterly, blinking hard. “Not from the stands.”

Her face twists at that. She leans forward and rests her forehead against yours.

“Do you know how many times I’ve looked over my shoulder and felt calm just knowing you were behind me? That doesn’t go away because your knee gave out. You didn’t stop being who you are.”

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. All you can manage is, “I’m scared.”

And that breaks her.

She wraps her arms around you and holds you tight, burying her face into your neck. “Me too,” she whispers. “But we’ll get through it. I promise you that.”

Your apartment becomes a constant carousel of fruit baskets, well wishes, and visits.

Aitana is always there, though. Through the physio appointments, the surgery prep, the quiet nights when the pain meds wear off and everything aches. She learns how to tape your leg better than the medical staff. She brings you match footage and sits with you through every minute, pausing to explain tactics, tweaking things with you like you’ll be back on the pitch next week.

You catch her crying once, in the kitchen, when she thinks you’re asleep. She's scared, too. Not just for the team, but for you. For the mental storm you’re walking through. But she doesn’t crumble when she’s beside you. She holds it together so you don’t have to.

Time becomes something strange—measured in rehab milestones instead of goals and clean sheets. You learn to celebrate the small wins. Flexing your knee five degrees more than the day before. Standing without crutches. Taking your first step.

But the hardest part isn’t the injury—it’s watching from the sidelines. Watching Cata take your place between the posts, watching the team grind out results, sometimes shaky, sometimes brilliant. Watching Aitana lead the team onto the field while you sit in the box, heart pounding, legs restless, soul aching. Watching Aitana shine brighter than ever, pulling strings from midfield like the magician she is.

You’re proud of her. Of course you are. But there’s a sharpness in your chest every time the anthem plays and you’re not there, every time she looks for you in the stands instead of on the pitch. 

One night, you’re icing your knee after a brutal session. She walks in wearing your hoodie, fresh from the game, still glowing from the win. You try to fake a smile for her, but she sees right through it.

She drops her bag and walks over, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

“You didn’t watch the second half, did you?”

You look away. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it just… hurts. Sitting there and knowing I should’ve been out there. Knowing I could’ve helped. And now I’m just... nothing.”

She sits beside you in silence for a long beat. Then, quietly: “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever say you’re nothing.”

You flinch. She’s never raised her voice at you before—not like this. But there’s something in her eyes, raw and burning.

“You’re the heartbeat of this team,” she says. “You think it’s just about saves and clean sheets? It’s how you talk to us. How you lead. The way you fight. Even broken, you make us believe. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. But it’s not because you’re the best in the world. It’s because you never stop giving, even when you’ve got nothing left.”

Tears blur your vision before you even realise they’re falling. She cups your face gently and kisses you—slow and soft and grounding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers against your lips. “I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”

You celebrate small wins: flexion, walking without crutches, stairs. One morning, you take your first jog—slow and uneven, but it’s yours—and when you get home, Aitana has tears in her eyes.

“Wait right here,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom.

She comes back holding something behind her back, sheepish smile playing on her lips.

“You weren’t supposed to get this until your first game back,” she says. “But… I couldn’t wait.”

She pulls out a framed photo—one you didn’t even know she had. It’s from a match last season. You, covered in mud, arms spread wide after a last-minute save. She’s running toward you, grinning like the world is ending, and in the background the crowd is on their feet.

You stare at it, throat tight.

“It’s not just a picture,” she says. “It’s a reminder. Of who you are. Who you’ve always been.”

You blink back tears and reach for her. She steps into your arms without hesitation.

“I love you,” you say into her hair.

She squeezes you tighter. “I know,” she murmurs. “And I’ll be right here. Every step. Every session. Every second. Until you’re back where you belong.”

Weeks pass. Then months.

One night, deep into recovery, she finds you sitting on the balcony with your brace off, moonlight painting your skin silver. You’re silent, eyes on the city, leg throbbing after another brutal physio session.

She steps behind you, wraps her arms around your shoulders, and rests her chin on your head.

“You’ll be back,” she says softly.

You don’t answer. But you cover her hands with yours, grounding yourself in her presence. And for the first time in weeks, somehow in that moment, you let yourself believe it. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this season. But someday. This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the start of a new chapter.

You’ll be back. And when you are, she’ll be there waiting. Just like she always has.

When you’re ready to stand on the pitch again—gloves on, heart pounding—she’ll be there, looking over her shoulder, trusting you to catch her if she falls.

Just like always.

And you’ll pick up where you left off—two warriors in blaugrana, building something unstoppable. Together.