#just have that extra little frisson

[freepassbound]

11: favorite pet names?

13: would you consider being with multiple people romantically?

19: which spots are your sensitive spots?

11: Favorite pet names?

Just about any kind of affectionate diminutive will have me instantly melting. 😅🙈

But really, for maximum effectiveness, I think they should develop organically within a relationship.

13: Would you consider being with multiple people romantically?

At this point in my development, I would have to say no. I don't have any issue with it, per se - it's more that I feel I should figure out how to be with one person before thinking about ramping up the difficulty level?

19: Which spots are your sensitive spots?

Other than my brain? 🤭

The real answer is that I don't know that I have enough experience to really know?

I did find, though, that I enjoyed having my nipples played with a lot more than I would have thought. 🥴🙈

Also having my head & hair scritched or stroked makes me very pliable.

[rowanwritestoomuch]

How to Take Advice On Writing

It may seem completely sensical that advice presented by successful authors is good advice on writing. I am here to tell you the truth---

It is not.

Advice on writing is completely subjective. Successful authors are often successful because of the strength of their voice, the ability of their stylistic choices and accomplishment within the language that they are writing in. It is not how they wrote their book, or the choices they made for the text, which makes a successful author. It is the skill in which they wrote it.

Skill can be terrible and still be recognizable. Colleen Hoover for example seems to be highly skillful at enthralling the reader despite having little to no artistry within the body of her writing voice and some poor stylistic choices (see; 'we both laughed at our son's big balls'). But her work does seem to hold a compelling note that has pushed her to the top of the market-- and that is a skill, which is obtained through practice and education, not advice that can be given or taken.

You cannot gain skills through emulating others, you can gain them through practice and focus. If any advice should be taken from other authors it is that you should become proficent in the language you are writing in. Grammer is important, literary styles and archetypes are universal and should be understood, punctuation should be comprehensible. You cannot bend or break the rules to give birth to your writer's voice if you do not understand them in the first place. Fall in love not only with the art of writing but too with the act of it. Study literature and how to create it just as closely as you research niche topics of interest for building your characters or world.

Many people ask how I have written Frisson so fast; 67K published words in 35 days and over 200K scripted. I type at 160 WPM. That's literally the only reason, my fingers are sore but they can move as fast as my mind and many authors find themselves far ahead of what they are writing. I believe this may be a lack in typing skill. I often brush up on my skills, using school-age programs that teach typing to children or tools that rate typing for careers, to make sure that I am remaining capable to create the words as fast as I can think them. I got this skill from playing online MMOs, so consider removing your microphone every once in a while and see how well you can keep up with your teammates in the live chat.

Beyond that, in order to develop your voice, you must not confine yourself to the rules of others. I often followed my mentor's advice of 'only use dialogue when needed'. Now I find myself writing scenes entrenched entirely within the dialogue and using the subtly of vaguery to entice my reader instead of making my characters painfully self aware. Often our lives exist so entirely within the confines of a conversation, memories and photographs all invoke the response of words said, and I would never have noticed how important dialogue was to my writing voice if I had followed that advice which suited the writing style of my mentor so well.

I see many people sharing the rules that other writers have lived by. If we all went the way of 'write drunk, edit sober' such as Hemmingway did, we would simply perish from alcoholism, not create art. It worked for him (debatable, but the point made), it does not need to work for you. Create your own rules for prose once you understand the general idea of prose. Do play with the techniques of others, but do not integrate them as if they are laws that have to be followed regardless of context.

You can create new words. You can use fifteen commas in a row (I personally believe that prose, like a song, can hold the reader in suspence until the period releases them). You can create a brick of text that the reader must get lost in or you can quadruple space for extra effect. You can aliterate in any way you want (often we get hung up on repeated mundane words, but what if you did it with purpose, to create a sound, to create a feeling, to haunt them or enliven them. You choose). You can have your charaters talk for an hour, give a monologue, say nothing at all. You, yourself, the writer, can speak to the reader through the fourth wall if you do it right.

Finding your voice is the hardest part. No one can teach you how to find it. If you follow the rules of other's voices, you will only suceed in being a ghost of them, and there is merit in that too, ghostwriters are incredible people of great skill in their own, however if you wish to obtain a song that is unique only to you; my advice is to become skillful, so that every tool you could ever possibly have is available to you. And then, just write. Write until you can hear yourself speaking the words back to you. Get lost in it, find yourself.

And don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't become skillful. I grew up in a home of povertous rednecks with no desire for the literary arts and an extreme case of dyslexia that prevented me from even learning to read until I was 10 years old. Anyone can become skillful in anything if they have the passion for it, and you need not even a book or a learning partner to learn how to use words, as they are rife in the world around us. Just go out and seek them.

And always, always, always remember, write because it hurts if you don't.

til next time.

[wickerfemme]

It feels like you’ve put on weight so fast,, do you have any tips for getting bigger?

None you haven't heard before! The big tip is just ‘eat more’. I used to eat maybe three meals a day, in portions that left me basically satiated but not full, and starting to give myself bigger portions and to have extra helpings – eating how much I actually wanted instead of just what was necessary to not feel hungry – was a helpful change fore me. Same goes for snacking! Having little bites throughout the day is such a pleasant experience (you get to eat something nice!) but it also is a great way to make sure you're eating abundantly without having to stuff yourself every day, which can take a real toll and lose its sexy frisson pretty quickly. I much prefer grazing, alongside some generous meals, as my method of keeping my calories high. I think also just eating what feels good to you is a beneficial thing; follow your cravings! You'll eat more if you're eating what excites you and makes you feel good.

[ejzah]

The Other Shoe, Part 16

***

“Now what do we think we’re doing here?” Deeks asked the bean plant he was trying to untangle from an over enthusiastic cucumber vine. “Come on, that’s just not polite.”

“Should I be worried that you’re talking to the produce?”

Deeks looked over his shoulder, smiling as Sam approached. It reminded him of not so long ago when Sam had come, with his lifesaving offer.

“Only if they start talking back,” Deeks replied. He tossed his gardening gloves to the side. “Can I interest you in a cheeky cucumber or some slightly mature wax beans?”

“Maybe later,” Sam said wryly. “Looks like everything’s flourishing.”

“Yeah, it got a little out of hand while I was convalescing.” He gave Sam a once over. They’d gotten together a few times since Deeks’ release from the hospital, but they’d both been surprisingly between follow up appointments, therapy (for Deeks), and catching up on everything that went to the wayside in the last month. “You look good, man.”

“You too.” Holding out an arm, Sam tugged Deeks in for a firm hug. E squeezed Deeks extra hard once, then stepped back with an approving nod. “Good to see you with some meat back on your bones and some color in your skin. You been back out on the water yet?”

“Just to wade. I got a couple more weeks before I can fully submerge this thing.” Deeks pointed towards his scar and shrugged regretfully. “I can’t wait.”

“You’ll get there,” Sam assured him. “Though if you get eaten by a shark and waste my good kidney, I will kill you.”

“I’ll be careful. What about you? Did you have a good trip with Kam and Aiden?”

“I did. Though Kam spent the entire time worrying over me. Wouldn’t let me cook or clean a thing.”

“Sounds familiar,” Deeks said with a soft grin, gesturing for Sam to follow him into the house. “They’re just glad we’re ok.”

“I know. And I’m grateful, but in terms of recoveries, this one is way down on the list. I didn’t nearly bleed out, wasn’t poisoned or shot,” Sam made a face as he listed off previous injuries.

“You didn’t tell Kam that, did you?” Deeks imagined the youngest Hanna would show just how terrifying she could be if pushed.

“Oh hell no. She’d never let me out of her sight again.”

“Sounds about right. So, when do you go back to the office?” Deeks asked. He grabbed a couple glasses and filled them with iced tea from the fridge, handing one to Sam.

“A couple more weeks. Kilbride is making me take the full medical leave before he’ll discuss anything with me,” Sam explained. “I’ve had some offers from other agencies. I’m gonna see what all my options are before I make any decisions.”

A frisson of guilt ran through Deeks at the reminder that Sam had essentially given up his career for him. He pushed it down, knowing that Sam had know interest in apologies or pity.

“I think I’d like to do something involving teaching. Maybe I’ll look into becoming an adjunct law professor. Or maybe they’ll let me back into FLETC,” Deeks said.

“Either one would be lucky to have you,” Sam told him, then offered a teasing smirk. “Though I’m not sure some of us are brave enough to take on any recruits you’d train. The legal debates alone would be ridiculous.”

“Oh, for sure. It would be a requirement.” Chuckling along with Sam, Deeks traced a bead of condensation sliding down the side of his glass. . “I know you keep saying it’s not necessary, but I appreciate everything you’ve given up for me,” he said. “You’ve literally given me a second change at life.”

Sam accepted the words with a nod and a gentle smile.

“That’s what brothers do for each other.”

“To brothers,” Deeks echoed, holding up his half-empty glass. Sam clinked their glasses together.

[chamerionwrites]

I've thought about making a post like this countless times over the years, and the problem I always stall out on is just...no one should have to plead for recognition of their humanity. And to plead for the recognition of someone else's humanity sometimes just feels like a further insult. As if even in doing it - no matter how heartfelt - you are merely feeding the system that values your words, your thoughts, your experiences so much more highly than theirs. Every time some atrocity is happening in full view of the world there's an outpouring of: look at the faces of these children, listen to the dreams of these students, hear the names and stories of people not so different from you. Sometimes that feels like witnessing. Sometimes it feels like another dehumanization. No one should have to offer so many proofs of personhood, for the world to gawk at and debate over and disregard.

Which is all to say that I struggle over whether it is meaningful, or even right, to offer emotion and experience in addition to actions and analysis.

But every time some atrocity happens in full view of the world, I wonder how many people have felt that frisson of recognition, watching a film and seeing the street they grew up on. It doesn't need to be the actual street. But the sum total of small sensory details - the angle and color of the light, the recycling bins by the curb, the shape of the fence posts, the accents of the neighbors - is so instantly and eerily familiar that it gives the story an extra layer of vivid realism. And I think about the time I had this experience wrt a place I once lived in and loved - not while watching a fictional story, but while watching a documentary about a genocide.

I think about hearing a recording played on the news, of small children sobbing so hard - you could hear it even audio-only - that they might be sick. And I remember thinking numbly that to many of the listeners that clip would be noise. ChildrenCrying.mp3. Heartrending in any language - but they would not understand the words, and they would not recognize the accent, and they certainly would not hear the same childish lisp over the exact same consonant as the neighbor's son who once fell asleep sitting in my lap, on a bus too crammed with passengers not to share seats.

I think about the breathless inhale I took, hearing reporters and officials wail and gnash their teeth over the sight of "blue-eyed" - direct quote - Ukrainian refugee children fleeing their homes. How extraordinary and appalling and unquestionably worthy of compassion that was considered. And I think about multiple funerals in a weekend, people holding their breath driving through checkpoints of masked soldiers, everyone with a story of Where They Were During The Coup, and how brown-eyed children fleeing state repression is considered neither remarkable nor even tragic, but as a crime.

I think about how gutting each of those moments was. How they felt and feel like moments that will stay with me forever. How maddening it is every time the world gives you some fresh proof of how little it values the lives of people you love, or of anyone else whose suffering is considered similarly unremarkable. And how my own secondhand rage and grief must be only a scratch on the surface of what it feels to be the person whose humanity is - not even questioned, but so often hardly considered at all.

I don't even know where to go from that but if the rage and grief is worth anything, there it is.

[sencity]

heyyyy!! im frantically infatuated with your ocs and your writing style, so i’ve been thinking ab which idea would be best to request of you for a MINUTE

anyways, what about co-dependent! fem plus sized y/n (rlly specific ik 😭) with amunet. so y/n is always fishing for compliments and comments from amunet, memorizing her poems to surprise her and gain extra attention, asking her to help her with writing assignments or how to properly sharpen her kitchen knives (even when she doesn’t need help with these things). and on the more angsty side she would go without eating or bathing or leaving her room for a concerning amount of time just so amunet would be invasive and take care of her. that could be specifically when y/n fucks up and feels bad, like trying to repent or something. y/n could even blame it on someone she knows amunet doesn’t like, just to reassure herself that amunet still cares enough to write her a sonnet out of that persons blood.

i just wanna see a yandere be with someone who’s as needy, obsessive, impulsive and unstable as them. i’ll leave the thoughts to you if you have any smut ideas for this concept, ik you can figure that out all on your own… *eyes your smut*

OK THATS IT FOR NOW, PLEASE EXCUSE THE RAMBLE I JUST WANTED TO GIVE A GOOD DESCRIPTION. WRITE WHICHEVER GENRE, I JUST HOPE YOU LIKE THE THOUGHT..

and i did not word check this so rlly, dm if you’re confused ☠️

ykw, this would be interesting, seeing is y/n is practically all yandere for our wind goddess… it may get a little angsty, however, so brace yourself, cariño <3.

nightmare fuel: emotional manipulation (guilt-tripping, threats, + god complex if you squint hard enough), self-harm, murder, + suggestive themes.

ironically, yandere!poet wouldn’t be too interested in dependent!darling at first. as a possessive woman, it would be a turn off for you to be so dependent on everyone you come across. not only you seem easy, but it made her ponder about how many people you allowed to take advantage in your vulnerability. and yet, even after taking your needy nature into account, she still couldn’t make this fixation towards you dissipate. it’s difficult telling those pretty eyes and cherubic face no…

yandere!poet will always be there for you, whether if it’s sticking random motivational or flirtatious haikus around your house to uplift your spirits and insecurities or bestowing eternal wounds upon someone who dares give you a hard time without proper reason (even if the reason is valid they’ll still end up on a stretcher) she’ll be there! especially when you’re ill.

“usually it’s like i’m in my honeymoon with you every time you’re sick…” she would point out fondly, her tone resembling sweet, raw sugar canes that were watching the tides reside on a vacant beach. somehow, she knew that you were purposely getting sick just for her hands to scout your body meticulously, which she wanted to berate you for, but not in this state. not when you’re so vulnerable like putty in her palms.

she’s always inclined to cater to you however since she adores you so, so, so so much, especially when you beg her to finish mere tasks such as needing something on top of the fridge or cook simple dishes. there’s has been times where your requests turned out to be rather intimate hints. take the time when you politely begged asked her to zip your dress for you since the zipper was “too far.” how coy…

“mm, it’s broken, but you knew that already, didn’t you? are you truly in dire need of what i always have?” she would taunt you in a cheeky manner as her acrylic nail traveled down your pudgy rolls which was buttered with aloe vera gel. you’d of course give her a coy, breathless titter in return as frissons of pleasure scampered along your spine.

though, she knew that you will have to be trained soon, since dependent!darling tends to get a little manipulative when it comes to yandere!poet’s simple demands. she doesn’t see any cons to your neediness, but tampering with your physical health is where she draws the line. away for too long? you’ll find more ways to get sick knowing she would take care of you. too busy? hm, a minor injury should do the trick…

or you caught chasing attention elsewhere due to your impatience? on your knees beneath the blood-stained tiles, tear-kissed cheeks, and a livid lover glowering down at you with a disdainful look as if she wasn’t the one to demand you to drop down and apologize until her ears bled.

“you approach anyone with a pulse when i’m away. i’m your savior, damn it, my heartbeats should be memorized by now, prayers should be ringing…”

despite her tone being awfully calm and her touch being extremely careful as if she was handling fine china, her words didn’t compliment her actions in the slightest, which only induced your conflicted and worrisome state. your mind is raided with thoughts of her finally ridding you, even though you’re in a crab’s clutches.

you would think that the inanimate corpse nearby would have you bawling like this, but no…

"i need you to make only me essential, beloved.” she repeated herself, her tone a bit more strained as she listened to your slurred apologies that you were order to keep alive. “i need you to depend on only me like i'm your primary resource. do you understand? i'II have my soul engraved so deep in your memory. you'll forget how to even crawl without me. do i make myself clear?”

[seat-safety-switch]

Back in the service, they used to call me when there was an enemy emplacement that needed a little bit of extra violence dispensed in its direction. No, I was never in a war. I was in something worse: Friday nights at Pizza Hut. And something worse than that: Saturday nights. Why? Saturday was Little League night.

If you’ve never had to deal with an entire Little League team’s demands for personal pan pizzas and sundaes, I envy you. Things were even worse when they’d win: the coaches and parents would splash out for 2L bottle service, and throw money at exotic corners of the menu, previously unexplored by the inhabitants of my sleepy Midwest hometown. I can’t even say the word “calzone” now without a frisson of fear creeping up the back of my neck. And these were just regular league games. Thank God that they never came close to a championship.

Sure, the tips were good. If by “good,” you mean slightly above-average. The table gratuity (18%) went right to the boss-man, who didn’t interact with these squadrons of hungry kids unless the parents got especially angry. His name was Oscar, and at the time he drove a very nice 280ZX. It was the tenth-anniversary Black Gold edition, fully appointed in rich fake leather. When he was there, he’d park in the service corridor, by the dumpster. That way, nobody would dent it, he explained.

I definitely never dared to dent it, especially since doing so would probably have left my rotten F100 without a latchable door. He did that enough by himself, cooking off each evening’s hard work arranging cheese-supplier contracts by rampaging through the rural backroads near our restaurant, skimming guardrails every so often when he ran out of talent. In search of cheap thrills? Nobody could say but him. I would watch sometimes, as he jetted away to leave us in the grip of a bunch of hyper-sugared pre-teenagers shrieking for their stuffed crusts.

[thesinglesjukebox]

CHARLI XCX FT. BILLIE EILISH - "GUESS (REMIX)"

You didn't have to guess the score we'd give...

[7.06]

Jonathan Bradley: Of the three big Brat remixes, "Guess" is the first to offer something more than stunt casting. In Charli’s hands, the track is a flirtation with a voyeuristic public and a bravura attempt to stare down surveillance; she hopes to wrest back control by titillating on her own terms. It doesn’t quite work; Charli sounds most attuned to her subject when she splinters her voice to transform the pseudo-eroticism into Daft Punk robotics qua “Technologic.” Eilish’s intrusion into the track adds dimension; she is the voyeur, bringing a louche sensuality to an engagement that had only been conceptual; her come-on provides frisson to a track whose intimacy had existed only for cameras and screens. Billie's lasciviousness transfixes like eye contact held for too long, and it’s there that the relentless, insistent electro beat abandons the club and begins to pound like a rush of blood to the head. [8]

Edward Okulicz: Everyone's talking about Brat, and have been since it came out. I listened to it -- seriously, nothing. Clicks, articles, references in the media, social media buzz, but none of the songs stuck, and none have become breakout hits in the way Taylor or Beyoncé or Adele get at least one chart-topper per album campaign or near enough. Then Billie Eilish adds a verse to "Guess," and it becomes a hit in its own right. That tells you something: Billie is huge enough to give other people instant chart purchase. Charli's success as a writer and an exponent of a pop ideal means that her essence has seeped so much into the charts that she's not even the best at what she does, nor the best thing on her own records, whereas Billie has seemlessly moved from death-goth-wisp to menacing queer death-diva and caught a delectable second wind. The production sounds like it was made for her -- she eats Charli for lunch (in the normal sense of the phrase). She instinctively knows how to dance in front of and behind the beat. She's laugh-out-loud funny on her verse, and the "...unless" takes the tragedy of a million failed attempts at hitting on the straights and makes it something you laugh about in the moment, rather than years later. [7]

Harlan Talib Ockey: Billie Eilish takes this from draft to song, adding not only new lyrics but the thorny sapphic chemistry of “I’d hit that. Just kidding. Unless?” The production levels up much less between the two versions, though the way Charli and Billie’s voices are mixed into each other during the outro gives it some extra polish; the main issue is that it’s very audibly The Dare, rather than Charli’s more usual collaborator A.G. Cook. In theory, this would be refreshing, but the “Guess” instrumental sounds more like a remix of Daft Punk’s “Technologic” than an original song — much like The Dare’s flagship single, “Girls,” sounds like an LCD Soundsystem track that was left in the microwave for too long. Still, a general success at being “Guess and it’s the same but it’s even more deliriously horny so it’s not." [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Fun as a bonus track trifle, tedious as a big event single. Every time I try to talk myself into it I realize that the parts I like — the gleeful back-and-forth of the breakdown/outro most of all — are offset by the awkwardness of the verses, Charli's insouciance undercut by Billie's eagerness. Maybe I just don't want to listen to a song where The Dare and underwear occur in such close proximity.  [5]

Isabel Cole: The song itself is a little lifeless, but I get such a kick out of Billie Eilish bashfully mumble-mouthing about wanting to eat pussy. She sounds so awkward! It's adorable! [6]

TA Inskeep: I'm obsessed with Eilish's seemingly tossed-off "Charli likes boys, but she knows I'd hit it" lyric; why is her dyke era feeling so right right now? And besides that, Eilish's verse completes "Guess," which was originally just the same verse 2x in need of something else. Between the brilliant additions of Billie putting her oh-so-California flat voice against Charli's Essex leer and her brother Finneas putting his oontz-oontz behind the boards, this version just bangs harder than its original -- it interpolates Daft Punk's "Technologic" atop electroclash! And that's to say nothing of its stupidly brilliant video. Maybe, just maybe, Charli's made the best two singles of 2024?  [10]

Hannah Jocelyn: After the trio of "Pretty Girls," "Lead Me On," and "Good Luck, Babe!", where women deal with others uncertain about their sexuality, we now have the logical conclusion: a song from the point of view of the girl leading the gay one on. There's a power fantasy inherent in wanting a straight girl to want you, and a guilt in that because of its proximity to the "predatory lesbian" stereotype. (And of course, it's a reversal of men saying "you haven't tried me yet," but that's another can of worms.) I'm sure there's something satisfying on the straight-girl end, but I am not a straight girl, so I don't know. Regardless, it's shocking to hear Billie Eilish just spell it out when she says "Charli likes boys but she knows I'd hit it" then tops it immediately with "Charli, call me if you're with it." Forget Rebecca Lucy Taylor warning someone "I'm not your tour guide" -- Billie will happily be an "experiment" just to maybe see what Charli's got going on down there. (God, this is a weird song.) It's supposed to be campy, but I don't know if it works -- I am not a fan of the "my name is Billie, and I'm here to say/I like girls in a horny way" cadence, nor the unimaginative deep house production from The Dare. Billie and Charli have more than enough chemistry to carry this over, and the video is phenomenal, but even as they tell me not to take it seriously, I find it hard to fully laugh along with them.  [6]

Dave Moore: This has all the sexual chemistry (alone or in pairs) of an HR seminar on inappropriate icebreakers in the workplace. It's sort of funny, but not nearly funny enough for a song with so much underwear in it. [5]

Jeffrey Brister: The mainstream has become a lot hornier over the last few years: fewer winky faces, fewer coy lyrics, more explicit lyrics about specific acts, and most heartening to see, more expressions of queer desire. Hearing it just makes me feel good, sending thrills through my body of the aren’t-you-a-little-pervert and the this-makes-my-soul-glow-with-happiness variety. “Guess” pulses with need, that breath catching in your nose as you try to control your breathing, sweat prickling your arms. The lyrical bluntness just makes it feel sexier, an acknowledgement of desire and a dare to do it. [9]

Mark Sinker: “Everything happens so much,” as @horse_ebooks spookily noted long ago — and you can be very for it all (or some of it all) and still know why the sex-negative TikTok Zoomer has since become an en masse thing. [7]

Alfred Soto: The wobbly bass had me thinking of Disclosure's Jessie Ware collaboration "Confess to Me," the whispery-whiskery vocals of many anonymous electroclash bangers I danced to out of my head in 2002. Billie Eilish's increasing skill at applying humor and intelligence -- the same things, really -- to her queerness complements Charli XCX's bruiser overstatement. "Guess" could be longer, but it kept me guessing. [7]

Katherine St. Asaph: Automatic electroclash high score. Anything calling itself "indie sleaze" (whether literally or in vibe) should sound sleazy, unsafe, and not fully endorseable, like the parties they'd play at are genuinely bad ideas and the people at them genuinely seedy; and should sound cooler not just than the normie Brat Summer memers but also you. Then Billie and Finneas come in -- the former homeschoolers sounding like they understand the assignment better than someone who actually lived through the MySpace incarnation of this -- to add newer, messier, better-baiting sexual politics and new vectors to what was already an omnitaunt.  [8]

Taylor Alatorre: When arch-New Yorker Lenny Kaye went digging for Nuggets in 1972, he thought he was pick-axing "The First Psychedelic Era," and it would take another decade for "garage rock" to become the preferred retroactive term for mid-'60s fuzz tunes. For that reason, I can't fault "indie sleaze" for being late to its own christening. I can fault it for singlehandedly summoning the Dare, though. The animatronic suit-and-cigarette act gives the knowingly naïve scene exactly what it's lined up for, which is nominative determinism: "indie" = post-poptimist post-punk, pumped out of NYC neighborhoods whose names I shouldn't know but do; "sleaze" = yelping about sex in a way that makes the writers of Meet Me in the Bathroom wish they had chosen a different Strokes song. It's possible that Brat as we know it would not exist if "Girls" hadn't become a subcultural hit in 2022, so the Dare's agenda-setting presence here, complete with namecheck, was also predetermined. Eilish's presence was not, but the lack of wiggle room within the song's overclocked prurience has her ending up as drably utilitarian as the Daft Punk rip. On paper, she throws a cinder block to the first verse's question-begging OnlyFans pitch, muffling Charli's lips as she raises the notion that perhaps the male gaze has been given a bum deal. On record, though, Billie is tied down by her typecasting as voracious pansexual caricature, a role she's all too eager to play as long as it gets some theoretical listener's knickers in a twist. This emphasis on trolling over songcraft is present throughout, from the vicarious "Britney, bitch"-style adlibs to the plodding metamodernisms that slam the door on us, thinking they've just won the argument. And yeah, you might say, that troll-baiting, that self-awareness of the drug-fueled ridiculousness of it all, is part of the electroclash package; this is just what reviving the revival looks like. Except the rest of Brat proved that it didn't have to be, as did the Dare's forebears in dance-punk revivalism. "Losing My Edge" had "the art-school Brooklynites in little jackets," but it also had "and they're actually really, really nice," and "GIL! SCOTT! HERON!," and a bleeding-heart belief that all these rare crate finds had a real, defining importance that persisted even after the last anonymous partygoer staggered out into the daybreak. Maybe the joke's on me for weighing His Eminence James Murphy against a two-minute camgirl rhapsody; or maybe both joke and rhapsody would be improved if Charli and her producer weren’t staring at their sub count the entire time. [3]

Nortey Dowuona: The Dare having a great year, speculation about sexual proclivities, white women rapping. Who said rap was dead? [7]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: The week after this came out, I went to a party for Market Days on the rooftop of Chicago's queer north side community center. Four DJs with four vastly different styles mixed, but you know what they all had in common? A cut of "Guess." Each time, every queer in the crowd knew every irreverent, petulant, sex-tinged word. Charli knows how to write a hook, how to tease a friend out of her shell, and how to keep momentum barreling forward.  [8]

Ian Mathers: Every one of these new brat versions has taken a song that definitely felt complete on its own and spun it off into giddy new heights. I sometimes use Andrew WK's I Get Wet as an example of an album I'd give 10/10 just because it knows what it wants to do and then does it as hard and successfully as it possibly can. And while I do like "Guess" (and this version of it) an awful lot, my mark here also partially reflects my similar feelings about the whole brat project. One of the most fun things in pop is when someone who is having a Moment seems to know exactly what they want to do with it. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[monty-glasses-roxy]

I. Can't prove the theory now. I was under the impression from the wiki summary that the Storyteller built its own body and that body was Tiger Rock, which meant if the two dipshits were killed by the Storyteller then it would have been Tiger Rock that did it...

Except they die of stupid and that's fucking it. The tiger isn't even a fucking tiger. Why they got a bust and four arms in their neck specifically if they're a fucking oversized nightlight from Aldi are you kidding me what is this

And who let this author have a thesaurus and a book of Scrabble words to piss people off so much they'd never play again?? What's a concourse?? A fucking FRISSON!!! HOI POLLOI????? SNAFU I CHOOSE YOU!!! For gods sake don't let this guy know about crosswords they'll forget what the sun looks like. I bet this is the guy that decided "Utili-dor" was a reasonable thing to name a corridor to Sewerhell.

And the big fucking tree????? In the main atrium???? Presumably????? In front of the stage????? Giant ass 75 foot tree????? Why.

I do love the honesty though. Like. For some reason Mr Burrows refers to himself as Mr Burrows, but oh wow he's so relatable I mean he says "How could I be so stupid?" like YEAH MAN I'VE BEEN WONDERING THE SAME THING ABOUT YOU THIS WHOLE TIME WOW IT'S LIKE HE'S JUST LIKE ME FOR REAL

Lmao actually though this is so fucking funny. Guy sees Freddy get in a tug of war with a little girl that has a plush of an old version of Freddy, lose that tug of war and then go cry in the corner about it and is like "oh okay I'll just go kill that guy I don't like I'm sure that'll fix it!" Then dies to his own Stupid. I should read the whole thing I'd love to see more about the completely unnecessary nature of literally all of this and also to see where the 'tiger' thing came from like bro what

Speaking of unnecessary!!!

Can someone that knows more about tech explain this one to me?

(ID in alt)

Like. Legitimately, this just feels like he's asking to die to his own Stupid. I don't know enough about tech stuff to know if an oxygenated room is going to affect processors and shit compared to an unoxygenated room so... I'm asking if this is an actual Thing or if it's just this one guy being extra Stupid so he can die of bigger Stupid.

And I fucking LOVE that he asked some guy called Sebastian to stop every single function a human can make in the tree from working and put all control in a remote control that this one guy has... That he goes in without so he can die of Stupid. Bro really had one goal in life and that goal was to die of Stupid after being very funny and Stupid. I didn't even read the whole story and now I want to specifically to see the extent of this guy's Stupid.

I wanna make a post tomorrow that's just. Mr Burrows' Stupid Compilation. I think he deserves it. For being so fucking Stupid I've started capitalising the word Stupid in reference to him.

Anyway, every cool thing I thought was going on in the Storyteller was wrong, but I got Some Fucking Guy out of it so I guess I'm still winning lmao

[tangleweave]

It isn't even a brush of magick, meddling in the affairs of gods and nature, that gifts Beth with a forecast of at least a solid week and a half of rain. While the bleak and cold dampness might sour anyone else Beth seems to take a languid sort of tranquillity from it. She's confided to him in the past that her hanai-sister is a cellist, though the music played through the house softly is someone else and helps her with the occasional homesickness she feels for New York. She isn't yearning for those unnameable things right now. There's a few extra blankets on the bed. There are candles in place of wasting electricity, enchanted not to burn down their wicks or spread pools of wax. Eddie's body radiates heat though she can't say whether it's his natural metabolism or Beloved shedding more warmth. Either way she luxuriates the benevolence of it all as she lies half way across Eddie's chest, legs tangled with his at the ankle, hair a dark pool spilling across his pecs, across his arm. Gentle kisses become slightly sharper nips. The idea of teeth rather than proper bites. Those in turn become a little sloppy new kisses. "I don' know if I tell you right, or if I can really convey it, but...you make me happy, my Ekkie."

[ Somewhere In the Middle of Nowhere ]

The patter of the steady rain across the roof and against the windows is just the kind of white noise that, under most other circumstances, would put Eddie soundly to sleep. Back in Brooklyn, it would have been the ideal set of circumstances for his Other to take over. To go out on the hunt. Find the miscreants who have no respect for the lives of others, perpetrating evil and cruelty in whatever form they can… and put an end to them in the most final of ways. But such activities so near a hub of well-funded superpowered beings had shown to hamper Their well-intended mission all too often for Their liking.

Hence Their sojourn to San Francisco. Hence Eddie meeting Beth. Hence Beth meeting his Other… whom, in her very first address to Him, she had called beautiful... and whom she now calls Beloved.

And all the other little things that have happened, both between and since.

The cello music issuing from her speaker system is beautiful. Quiet. Contemplative. Its meter carries with the patter of the rain. sounds almost like a lullaby, but there is a shade of melancholy to it. Eddie knows, by now, that Beth is a creature who constantly yearns for connection, even though she rarely feels safe enough to seek it in any but the most cautious of ways. As the strings swell and the piano strains, he sees in his mind's eye that forlorn look she will sometimes wear when she's lost in her intrusive thoughts. When she needs to dwell upon what she misses. And with a tinge of guilt, he finds himself appreciating that his own mournfulness is frequently intercepted by his Other before it can reach full enough fruition to utter aloud.

But as pensive as the music is, Beth's mien does not draw upon the gloom so easily now. The languid drag of her limbs against his body is a soothing reminder that neither of them is alone… that, impossible as it might seem, they have one another. The cool of her skin is a balm to his own. Even before his Other became a part of him, he ran hot. All the more so now, and Their joined density may as well make Eddie an oven still bearing forth residual warmth after the baking of an apple pie.

Whether it is the lush softness of her lips or the vaguely inhuman sharpness of her teeth dragging their way across his skin, seeking his mouth and his pulse, Eddie cannot help but feel -- truly feel -- the heights of Beth's adoration.

Her murmur against the shell of his ear sends a frisson of goosebumps across his body.

He doesn't know what he did to deserve her. He only knows that he will hold on to what they have with everything he's got. With every limb and tentacle… with every word and every beat of his heart.

Gently, he circles an arm around her waist and tugs her just that much closer, meeting her gaze with his own. He feels his heart swelling inside his chest, straining so tight against him that it threatens to crawl up his throat and make his eyes water.

He is deeply, madly in love.

"My whole life… I've never been happier."

[readythefanons]

Old-tober, week 2, B: "Normally it's not for me, but..."

Okay I know this is going to sound a little odd since I just posted about loving “found family,” but I have a lot of trouble reading/watching/etc many stories that include adoption as an element. Due to reasons, I’m very picky about adoption stories. 

… So I decided to write my own! 

“Place” <https://archiveofourown.org/works/45213523> is about Hilda Valentine Goneril from FE3H! It clocks in at 11K words, and it’s a gen-fic :) 

The papers are signed, and the pink-haired foundling becomes Hilda Valentine Goneril. Hilda is adopted, grows up, goes to school, fights a war, and goes on a roadtrip.

Basically, the premise is, “What if everything in FE3H was the same, except Hilda was adopted?” She’s still Hilda. She has the same personality. Holst is still her brother, but there’s an extra little frisson (for me) because she’s adopted. Yay!

I did so much fiddling around with this fic, yall. At one point it was like 16k. Then it was 6k. Then it shot back up to 10k. It was a 5+1. It was a fable. It was a story-within-a-story. It was overt shipping fic with Hilda/Ignatz/Leonie. It was nonlinear… I simply tried everything I could think of. And then finally, here we are! 

Other (out of order) highlights: Guest starring Ignatz and Leonie! Road trip! Ethnobotany? Cameo appearance by the worldbuilding I did for a different fic that included a lot of extra territories in the Alliance. The faceoff against the Ten Elites! Such drama…

What about you? Are there any fics you wrote that include an element you normally don't gravitate to?

[96harmony96]

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

I had to get up before dawn Tuesday morning. I left a note for Cary where he’d see it as soon as he woke up, then headed out to grab a cab back to our place. I showered, dressed, made coffee, and tried to talk myself out of feeling like something was off. I was stressed and suffering from lack of sleep, which always led to tiny bouts of depression.

I told myself that it had nothing to do with Lauren, but the knot in my stomach said differently.

Looking at the clock, I saw it was a little after eight. I’d have to leave soon, because Lauren hadn’t called or texted to say that she’d be giving me a ride. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d last seen her or even really talked to her. The call I’d made to her at nine the night before had been less than brief. She’d been in the middle of something and barely said hello and goodbye.

I knew she had a lot of work to do. I knew I shouldn’t resent her for having to pay for the time away with extra hours of work getting caught up. She’d done a lot to help me deal with Cary’s situation, more than anyone could’ve expected. It was up to me to deal with how I was feeling about it.

Finishing my coffee, I rinsed out my mug, then grabbed my purse and bag on the way out. My tree-lined street was quiet, but the rest of New York was wide awake, its ceaseless energy thrumming with a tangible force. Women in chic office wear and men in suits tried to hail taxis that streaked by, before settling for packed buses or the subway instead. Flower stands exploded with brilliant color, the sight of them always capable of cheering me up in the morning, as did the sight and smell of the neighborhood bakery, which was doing a brisk business at that hour.

I was a little ways down Broadway before my phone rang.

The little thrill that shot through me at the sight of Lauren’s name quickened my steps. “Hey, stranger.”

“Where the hell are you?” she snapped.

A frisson of unease dampened my excitement. “I’m on my way to work.”

“Why?” She spoke to someone offline, then, “Are you in a cab?”

“I’m walking. Jeez. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or what?”

“You should have waited to be picked up.”

“I didn’t hear from you, and I didn’t want to be late after missing work yesterday.”

“You could’ve called me instead of just taking off.” Her voice was low and angry.

I became angry, too. “The last time I called, you were too busy to give me more than a minute of your time.”

“I’ve got things to take care of, Camila. Give me a break.”

“Sure thing. How about now?” I hung up and dropped my phone back into my bag.

It began ringing again immediately and I ignored it, my blood simmering. When the Bentley pulled up beside me a few minutes later, I kept walking. It followed, the front passenger window sliding down.

Angus leaned over. “Miss Cabello, please.”

I paused, looking at him. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

With a sigh, I got in the car. My phone was still ringing nonstop, so I reached in and shut the ringer off. One block later, I heard Lauren’s voice coming through the car’s speakers.

“Do you have her?”

“Yes, sir,” Angus replied.

The line cut out.

“What the hell crawled up her ass and died?” I asked, looking at Angus in the rearview mirror.

“She’s got a lot on her mind.”

Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t me. I couldn’t believe what a jerk she was being. She’d been curt on the phone the night before, too, but not rude.

Within a few minutes after I arrived at work, Mark came up to my cubicle. “I’m sorry to hear about your roommate,” he said, setting a fresh cup of coffee on my desk. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Eventually. Cary’s tough; he’ll pull through.” I dropped my stuff in the bottom drawer of my desk and picked up the steaming mug with gratitude. “Thank you. And thanks for yesterday, too.”

His dark eyes were warm with concern. “I’m surprised you’re here today.”

“I need to work.” I managed a smile, despite feeling all twisted up and achy inside. Nothing was right in my world when things weren’t right between me and Lauren. “Catch me up on what I missed.”

* * *

 The morning passed swiftly. I had a checklist of follow-ups waiting from the week before, and Mark had an eleven thirty deadline to turn around a request for proposal for a promotional items manufacturer. By the time we sent the RFP off, I was back in the groove and willing to just forget Lauren’s mood that morning. I wondered if she’d had another nightmare and hadn’t slept well. I decided to call her when lunchtime rolled around, just in case.

And then I checked my inbox.

The Google alert I’d set up for Lauren’s name was waiting for me. I opened the e-mail hoping to get an idea of what she might be working on. The words former fiancée in some of the headlines leaped out at me. The knot I’d had in my gut earlier returned, tighter than before.

I clicked on the first link, and it took me to a gossip blog sporting pictures of Lauren and Corinne having dinner at Tableau One. They sat close together in the front window, her hand resting intimately on her forearm. She was wearing the suit she’d worn to the hospital the day before, but I checked the date anyway, desperately hoping the photos were old. They weren’t.

My palms began to sweat. I tortured myself by clicking through all the links and studying every photo I found. She was smiling in a few of them, looking remarkably content for a woman whose girlfriend was at a hospital with her beaten-half-to-death best friend. I felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or storming up to Lauren’s office and asking her what the hell was going on.

She’d blown me off when I’d called her the night before—to go to dinner with her ex.

I jumped when my desk phone rang. I picked it up and woodenly recited, “Mark Garrity’s office, Camila Cabello speaking.”

“Camila.” It was Megumi in reception, sounding as bubbly as usual. “There’s someone asking for you downstairs—Brett Kline.”

I sat there for a long minute, letting that sink into my fevered brain. I forwarded the alert digest to Lauren’s e-mail so she’d know that I knew. Then I said, “I’ll be right down.”

* * *

 I saw Brett in the lobby the minute I pushed through the security turnstiles. He wore black jeans and a Six-Ninths T-shirt. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but the spiky hair with its bleached tips was eye-catching, as was his body. Brett was tall and muscular, more muscular than Lauren, who was powerful without any bulk.

Brett’s hands came out of his pockets when he saw me coming, his posture straightening. “Hey. Look at you.”

I glanced down at my cap-sleeved dress with its flattering ruching and acknowledged that he’d never seen me dressed up. “I’m surprised you’re still in town.”

More surprised that he’d looked me up, but I didn’t say that. I was glad he had, because I’d been worried about him.

“We sold out our Jones Beach show over the weekend, then played the Meadowlands last night. I skipped out on the guys because I wanted to see you before we head south. I searched for you online, found out where you worked, and came up.”

Good old Google, I thought miserably. “I’m so stoked that everything’s working out for you now. Do you have time to grab lunch?”

“Yes.”

His answer came quickly and fervently, which set off a little warning. I was pissed, extremely hurt, and eager to retaliate against Lauren, but I didn’t want to mislead Brett. Still, I couldn’t resist taking him to the restaurant where Cary and I had once been photographed together, in the hopes of getting caught by the paparazzi again. It would serve Lauren right to see what it felt like.

On the cab ride over, Brett asked about Cary and wasn’t surprised to learn that my best friend had moved across the country with me.

“You two were always inseparable,” he said. “Except when he was getting laid. Tell him I said hi.”

“Sure.” I didn’t mention that Cary was in the hospital, because it felt too private to share.

It wasn’t until we were seated in the restaurant that Brett took off his shades, so that was the first time I got a glimpse of the shiner that encompassed the area from his right eyebrow down to his cheekbone.

“Jesus,” I breathed, wincing. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Makeup made it disappear on stage. And you’ve seen me with worse. Besides, I got a couple good hits in, didn’t I?”

Remembering the bruising on Lauren’s jaw and back, I nodded. “You did.”

“So . . .” He paused as the waiter came by and dropped off two glasses and a chilled bottle of water. “You’re dating Lauren Jauregui.”

I wondered why that question always seemed to pop up at a time when I wasn’t sure the relationship would last another minute. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

“Is it serious?”

“Sometimes it seems that way,” I said honestly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Not now.”

We took some time to read the menu and place our orders. The restaurant was busy and noisy, the background music barely heard over the hum of conversation and clatter of plates from the nearby kitchen. We looked across the table at each other, sizing one another up. I felt the thrum of attraction between us. When he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, I knew he was aware of it, too.

“Why did you write ‘Golden’?” I asked suddenly, unable to hold back my curiosity a moment longer. I’d been playing it off as nothing big with both Lauren and Cary, but it was driving me crazy.

Brett sat back in his chair. “Because I think about you a lot. I can’t stop thinking about you actually.”

“I don’t understand why.”

“We had it going on for six months, Camila. That’s the longest I’ve ever been with someone.”

“But we weren’t with each other,” I argued. My voice lowered. “Aside from sexually.”

His mouth thinned. “I understand what I was to you, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get hurt.”

I stared at him for a long minute, my heart beating too quickly in my chest. “I feel like I’m stoned or something. The way I remember it, we’d hook up after shows, then you’d go about your business. And if I wasn’t there to put out, you’d grab someone else.”

He leaned forward. “Bullshit. I tried getting you to hang out. I was always asking you to stick around.”

I took a couple of quick, deep breaths to calm myself down. I could hardly believe that now, almost four years too late, Brett Kline was talking to me like I’d once wanted him to. We were out in public together, having a meal, almost like a date. It was messing with my head, which was already confused and scattered because of Lauren.

“I had the biggest crush on you, Brett. I wrote your name with little hearts around it like a lovesick teenager. I wanted desperately to be your girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” He reached out and caught my hand. “What the fuck happened, then?”

I looked down at where he was absently twirling the ring Lauren had given me. “Remember when we went to the pool hall?”

“Yeah. How could I forget that?” He bit his lower lip, clearly recalling how I’d fucked his brains out in the back of his car, determined to be the best lay he’d ever had so he wouldn’t bother with other girls. “I thought we were getting to the point where we’d start seeing each other outside the bar, but you ditched me the minute we got inside.”

“I went to the bathroom,” I said quietly, remembering the pain and embarrassment as if the incident had just happened, “and when I came out you and Darrin were at the change machine getting quarters for the tables. Your back was to me so you didn’t see me. I heard you guys talking . . . and laughing.”

I pulled in a deep breath and tugged my hand away from him.

To his credit, Brett shifted in obvious embarrassment. “I can’t remember exactly what was said, but . . . Shit, Camila. I was twenty-one years old. The band was just starting to get popular. The chicks were everywhere.”

“I know,” I said dryly. “I was one of them.”

“I’d been with you a few times by then. Bringing you along to the pool hall made a statement to the guys that things were picking up between us.” He rubbed at his brow in a very familiar gesture. “I didn’t have the balls to own up to how I was feeling about you. I made it about the sex, but that wasn’t true.”

I lifted my glass and drank, forcing down the lump in my throat.

His hand dropped onto the armrest. “So I screwed it up with my big mouth. That’s why you bailed that night. That’s why you never went anywhere with me again.”

“I was desperate, Brett,” I admitted, “but I didn’t want to show it.”

The waiter brought our food. I wondered why I’d ordered anything—I was too unsettled to eat.

Brett started cutting into his steak, attacking it really. Suddenly, he set his knife and fork down. “I blew it back then, but now everyone knows what was going on in my head at the time. ‘Golden’ is our biggest single. It’s what got us signed with Vidal.”

The idea of closure made me smile. “It’s a beautiful song, and your voice sounds amazing when you sing it. I’m really glad you came up and saw me again before you head out. It means a lot to me that we talked through this.”

“What if I don’t want to just head out and move on?” He took a deep breath and released it in a rush. “You’ve been my muse the last few years, Camila. Because of you, I’ve written the best material the band’s ever had.”

“That’s very flattering,” I began.

“We sizzled together. Still do. I know you feel it. The way you kissed me the other night . . .”

“That was a mistake.” My hands clenched beneath the table. I couldn’t deal with more drama. I couldn’t go through another night like Friday. “And you need to think about the fact that Lauren controls your label. You don’t want any friction there.”

“Fuck it. What’s she going to do?” His fingertips drummed onto the table. “I want another shot with you.”

I shook my head and reached for my purse. “That’s impossible. Even if I didn’t have a girlfriend, I’m not the right girl for your lifestyle, Brett. I’m too high-maintenance.”

“I remember,” he said roughly. “God, do I remember.”

I flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“And that’s not all I want. I can be here for you. Look at me now—the band’s on the road, but you and I are together. I can make time. I want to.”

“It’s not that easy.” I pulled cash out of my wallet and dropped it on the table. “You don’t know me. You have no idea what it would mean to have a relationship with me, how much work it would take.”

“Try me,” he challenged.

“I’m needy and clingy and insanely jealous. I’d drive you crazy within a week.”

“You’ve always driven me crazy. I like it.” His smile faded. “Stop running, Camila. Give me a chance.”

I met his gaze and held it. “I’m in love with Lauren.”

His brows rose. Even battered, his face was breathtaking. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” I pushed to my feet and moved to pass him.

He caught my elbow. “Camila—”

“Please don’t make a scene,” I whispered, regretting my impetuous decision to eat at a popular place.

“You didn’t eat.”

“I can’t. I need to leave.”

“Fine. But I’m not giving up.” He released me. “I make mistakes, but I learn from them.”

I bent over and said firmly, “There’s no chance. None.”

Brett stabbed his fork into a slice of his steak. “Prove it.”

* * *

 The Bentley was waiting at the curb when I stepped out of the restaurant. Angus climbed out and opened the rear door for me.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked, unsettled by his unexpected appearance.

His answer was to smile kindly and touch the brim of his chauffeur’s hat.

“This is creepy, Angus,” I complained as I slid into the backseat.

“I don’t disagree, Miss Cabello. I’m just doing my job.”

I texted Cary on the ride back to the Crossfire: Had lunch with Brett. He wants another chance w/me.

Cary replied, When it rains it pours . . .

Whole day = royally fucked, I typed. I want a do-over.

My phone rang. It was Cary.

“Baby girl,” he drawled. “I want to sympathize, I do, but the love triangle thing is just too delicious. The determined rock star and the possessive billionaire. Rawr.”

“Oh God. Hanging up now.”

“See you tonight?”

“Yes. Please don’t make me regret it.” I hung up to the sound of his laughter, secretly thrilled to hear him sounding so happy. Trey’s visit must have worked wonders.

Angus dropped me off at the curb in front of the Crossfire, and I hurried out of the heat into the cool lobby. I managed to catch an open elevator just before the doors closed. There were a half dozen other people in the car with me, forming two groups that chatted among themselves. I stood in the front corner and tried to put my personal life out of my mind. I couldn’t deal with it at work.

“Hey, we passed our floor,” the girl next to me said.

I looked at the needle over the door.

The guy nearest the control panel stabbed repeatedly at all the numbers, but none of them lit up . . . except for the one for the top floor. “The buttons aren’t working.”

My pulse quickened.

“Use the emergency phone,” one of the other girls said.

The car raced up and the butterflies in my stomach got worse with every floor we passed. The elevator finally came to a gliding stop at the top and the doors opened.

Lauren stood on the threshold, her face a gorgeous impassive mask. Her eyes were brilliantly green . . . and cold as ice. The sight of her took my breath away.

No one in the car said a word. I didn’t move, praying the doors would hurry up and close. Lauren reached in, grabbed my elbow, and hauled me out. I struggled, too furious to want anything to do with her. The doors closed behind me and she let me go.

“Your behavior today has been appalling,” she growled.

“My behavior? What about yours?”

I crossed over to the call buttons and hit the down button. It wouldn’t stay lit.

“I’m talking to you, Camila.”

I glanced at the security doors to Cross Industries and was relieved to see that the redheaded receptionist was away from her station.

“Really?” I faced her, hating that I could still find her so irresistibly attractive when she was being so ugly. “Funny how that doesn’t lead to me actually learning anything—like about you going out with Corinne last night.”

“You shouldn’t be snooping online about me,” she bit out. “You’re deliberately trying to find something to get upset about.”

“So your actions aren’t the problem?” I shot back, feeling the pressure of tears at the back of my throat. “Just my finding out about them is?”

Her arms crossed. “You need to trust me, Camila.”

“You’re making that impossible! Why didn’t you tell me that you were going out to dinner with Corinne?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“But you did it anyway.” And that hurt. After all we’d talked about over the weekend . . . after she’d said that she understood how I felt . . .

“And you went out with Brett Kline knowing I wouldn’t like it.”

“What did I tell you? You’re setting the precedent for how I handle my exes.”

“Tit for tat? What a remarkable show of maturity.”

I stumbled back from her. There was none of the Lauren I knew in the woman facing me. It felt as if the woman I loved had disappeared and the woman standing in front of me was a total stranger in Lauren’s body.

“You’re making me hate you,” I whispered. “Stop it.”

Something passed briefly over Lauren’s face, but it was gone before I could identify it. I let her body language do the talking for her. She stood far from me, with her shoulders stiff and her jaw tight.

My heart bled and my gaze dropped. “I can’t be around you right now. Let me go.”

Lauren moved to the other bank of elevators and pushed the call button. With her back to me and her attention on the indicator arrow, she said, “Angus will pick you up every morning. Wait for him. And I prefer that you eat lunch at your desk. It’s best if you’re not running around right now.”

“Why not?”

“I have a lot of things on my plate at the moment—”

“Like dinner with Corinne?”

“—and I can’t be worrying about you,” she went on, ignoring my interruption. “I don’t think I’m asking too much.”

Something was wrong.

“Lauren, why won’t you talk to me?” I reached out and touched her shoulder, only to have her jerk away as if I’d burned her. More than anything else, her rejection of my touch wounded me deeply. “Tell me what’s going on. If there’s a problem—”

“The problem is that I don’t know where the hell you are half the time!” she snapped, turning to scowl at me as the elevator doors opened. “Your roommate is in the hospital. Your dad is coming to visit. Just . . . focus on that.”

I stepped into the elevator with burning eyes. Aside from pulling me out of the elevator when it first arrived, Lauren hadn’t touched me. She hadn’t run her fingertips down my cheek or made any attempt to kiss me. And she made no mention of wanting to see me later, skipping right over the rest of the day to tell me about Angus waiting for me in the morning.

I’d never been so confused. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, why there was suddenly this huge gulf between us, why Lauren was so tense and angry, why she didn’t seem to care that I’d had lunch with Brett.

Why she didn’t seem to care about anything at all.

The doors started to close. Trust me, Camila.

Had she breathed those words in the second before the doors shut? Or did I just wish that she had?

* * *

 The moment I walked into Cary’s private room, he knew I was running on fumes. I’d endured a tough Krav Maga session with Parker, then stopped by the apartment only long enough to shower and eat a tasteless instant-ramen meal. The shock of the salt and carbs to my system after a day without food was more than enough to exhaust me past the point of no return.

“You look like shit,” he said, muting the television.

“Look who’s talking,” I shot back, feeling too raw to take any criticism.

“I got hit with a baseball bat. What’s your excuse?”

I arranged the pillow and scratchy blanket on my cot, then told him about my day from beginning to end.

“And I haven’t heard from Lauren since,” I finished wearily. “Even Brett got in touch with me after lunch. He left an envelope at the security desk with his phone number in it.”

He’d also included the cash I left at the restaurant.

“Are you going to call him?” Cary asked.

“I don’t want to think about Brett!” I sprawled on my back on the cot and shoved my hands through my hair. “I want to know what’s wrong with Lauren. She’s had a total personality transplant in the last thirty-six hours!”

“Maybe it’s this.”

I lifted my head off the pillow and saw him pointing at something on his bedside table. Rolling to my feet, I checked it out—a local gay periodical.

“Trey brought that over today,” he said.

Cary’s picture capped a front-page piece covering his attack—including speculation that the assault might have been a hate crime. His living situation with me and my romantic entanglement with Lauren Jauregui were mentioned, for no other reason, it seemed, than for a salacious punch.

“It’s on their website, too,” he added quietly. “I figure someone at the agency gossiped, and it spread and turned into someone’s political crap. Honestly, I’m having a hard time imagining Jauregui giving a shit—”

“About your sexual orientation? She doesn’t. She’s not like that.”

“But his PR people might feel differently. Could be why she wants to keep you under the radar. And if she’s worried that someone might go after you to get to me, that explains why she wants to keep you tucked away and off the streets.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell me that?” I set the paper down. “Why is she being such a prick? Everything was so wonderful while we were gone. She was wonderful. I thought we’d turned a corner. I kept thinking she wasn’t anything like the woman I’d first met, and now she’s worse. There’s this . . . I don’t know. She’s a million miles away from me now. I don’t understand it.”

“I’m not the guy to ask, Camila.” Cary grabbed my hand and squeezed. “She’s the one with the answers.”

“You’re right.” I went to my purse and pulled out my phone. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

I went to the little enclosed balcony off the visitors’ waiting area and called Lauren. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to voice mail. I tried her home number instead. After the third ring, Lauren answered.

“Jauregui,” she said curtly.

“Hi.”

There was silence for the length of a heartbeat, then, “Hang on.”

I heard a door open. The sound on the phone changed—he’d stepped away from wherever he’d been.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“No.” I rubbed at my tired eyes. “I miss you.”

She sighed. “I . . . I can’t talk now, Camila.”

“Why not? I don’t understand why you’re acting so cold to me. Did I do something wrong?” I heard murmuring and realized she’d muffled the receiver to talk to someone else. A horrible feeling of betrayal tightened my chest, making it hard to breathe. “Lauren. Who’s at your place with you?”

“I have to go.”

“Tell me who’s there with you!”

“Angus will be at the hospital at seven. Get some sleep, angel.”

The line went dead.

I lowered my hand and stared at my phone, as if it could somehow reveal to me what the fuck had just happened.

I made it back to Cary’s room, felt weighted down and miserable as I pushed open the door.

Cary took one look at me and sighed. “You look like your puppy just died, baby girl.”

The dam broke. I started sobbing.

[fayes-fics]

Lessons Taught

Lessons Series Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: Anthony and Benedict team up to teach some lessons

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, threesome, d/s relationships, nipple and clitoral restraint, spanking, impact play, face-sitting, overstimulation, light bondage, vaginal sex, slight voyeurism, slight exhibitionism, masturbation, mention of public sex, no incest.

Word Count: 6.7 k (whoops)

Authors Note: My darling @iboopedyournose has waited patiently for MONTHS while I wrangled this, the third instalment of Lessons. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I really don’t like it, I think because I have stared at it for too long, but I hope you do <3 . Thanks as ever to my patient and lovely beta @makaylan :) Also please note, Regency era hairpins are not like Bobby pins, just an fyi for this fic lol.

“Are you seeing this, brother?” Anthony asks discreetly, tipping his head over his shoulder in your direction.

Benedict hums in the affirmative.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Anthony challenges.

“Me?” Benedict frowns in surprise, “I thought she was your girl?

“She is. But you said you wanted to be more involved in teaching?”

“Well, yes…”

“Then I think you better be the one to tell her this sort of thing isn’t acceptable to us,” Anthony says pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Benedict nods, comprehending, “Right, you are, brother.”

“And Benedict…”

“Yes”

“Happy birthday” 

___

All you can think to yourself is this plan had better work. 

It’s been a month since your last encounter with both Bridgerton brothers, and, well, to say you are looking for an encore is an understatement. They’ve both been out here in their country retreat while you’ve been stuck in London. Now you’re here at the fabulous Aubrey Hall for the annual Hearts & Flowers ball, and you’ve come prepared. Or, more precisely, underprepared—-in that, you wear no underwear, chemise or stockings—just your thin dress and stays. An extra frisson of excitement for you and hopefully them too, if they’re amenable.

You're not sure the other part of your plan is working. You’re trying to get their attention. So you’re being risqué with your behaviour. Flirty, laughing slightly too loud at the jokes of men you couldn't care less for, filling your dance card and drinking perhaps a touch too much champagne. Hoping to make them just a little jealous and realise what they are missing out on. Hoping maybe they’ll teach you a lesson not to do this sort of thing in future. God, you really hope they do that. Your mind reels with possibilities of just how you would like them to tell you off and discipline you for such behaviour. You crave it.

However, they seem to have left the room. Disappointed, you take your leave from the main ballroom, heading to reapply your rouge when a hand suddenly grabs your arm and drags you into a hidden alcove in the hallway. Your back is pulled tight against a warm solid mass. 

“What do you think you are playing at?” A familiar voice snarls in your ear from behind.

Benedict.

Oh yes, please.

“I’m not doing anything… Sir,” you answer, pouting to stop the huge grin you feel tugging at your lips.

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me; it looks a lot like you are behaving like a wanton little hussy. Is that what you are?” His voice is a sharp hiss.

“No, sir,” you respond, pressing back against him, already feeling breathy from this encounter.

“Are you sure?” He questions, “if I find your nipples are peaked, I know you’re lying to me,” he argues, sliding a hand into your dress.

Of course, they are—they pebbled the instant he touched you.

“Well, what do you know,” he purrs dangerously as he lightly runs a finger over it, “a liar and a hussy.”

You whimper at his expert touch but make a performance of resisting his hold a little bit, squirming, playing up as if this isn’t exactly where you want to be right now. Your thighs sliding easily against each other, already slick.

“Do you know what happens to little hussies who lie to us?” He questions, banding an arm around your waist to quell your wriggling. Oh, the word us is music to your ears. 

“No, sir.”

“They get taught a lesson,” he slides his hand out of your dress, moving to hold your wrists against your side.

“I don’t need to be taught anything,” you challenge over your shoulder with a brattish tone.

“Like hell you don’t,” another voice cuts in, rounding the corner to stand in front of you. 

Anthony.

Oh, hell yes.

“But I’m a good girl, my lord,” you reply, looking at the new arrival with a challenging smirk.

He tilts his head and gives you a disbelieving look. “You are being the exact opposite tonight. Flirting, dancing with every man in that room like a hussy when you know full well who you belong to,” he asserts, grabbing your jaw and crowding into you so you are pinned firmly between their bodies. You feel the heat of Benedict’s cock nestling between your bum cheeks.

“Good girls get to go back to the party; bad girls get taken elsewhere to learn how to behave.” He continues pressing his pelvis against your lower belly, so you feel the outline of his cock now too. “So, which are you?” His thumb hooks into the corner of your lips and pull down, opening your mouth slightly.

You stay silent and peek out your tongue to lick across the top of his thumb.

“Silence suggests the latter,” Benedict opines from behind you, still holding your wrists firmly locked against your sides.

“Hmmm, I tend to concur,” Anthony hums, watching your tongue lathe against his thumb. “She looks like she needs to be taught a lesson.”

“I know just the perfect place,” Benedict offers.

“Lead on, brother,” Anthony responds.

The moment you are out in public view, their hold changes. It’s a respectful loose arm link from both as if they are helping you to navigate the party. Your gloved hands rest daintily in the crook of their elbows as they guide you up a staircase and along a long corridor. 

As the sound of the party fades further away with each step, their hold changes to a firmer grasp, and suddenly you are spun around and sandwiched between them, Benedict in front of you, walking you backwards against Anthony, bumping into a door.

“Hello, my girl, did you miss us?” Anthony purrs into your ear.

“So much,” you whisper back.

“We missed you too,” Benedict replies, reaching past you both to open the door.

All three of you almost tumble through the doorway, and Anthony kicks it shut as they both back you against the wall, Anthony on your right, Benedict on your left. From a glance, you appear to be some kind of art studio.

“It’s Benedict’s birthday tomorrow,” Anthony murmurs, “and getting to fuck you is my present to him. What colour do you think of that, my girl?”

“Green,” you answer, as they each remove a glove from your arm.

“Do you want me to fuck you too?” Anthony asks as Benedict busies himself kissing down your neck. 

“Yes, please, my lord” you feel Anthony’s hand snake around your back and pull open the buttons on your dress as you kick off your slipper shoes.

You can’t wait to have both of them. 

“Hmmm, thought so, you greedy little thing,” Anthony clucks as you close your eyes to the pleasure of Benedict’s lips.

Anthony pulls your gown off one shoulder and attacks the skin there; Benedict does the same on the other side. These brothers are team-working now—they obviously have something planned together. 

With a tug of both their hands, your dress falls. And they both reel back in surprise.

You are entirely naked save for the smallest stays you could find. They don’t even cover your nipples; they just provide the uplift you need for the neckline of your dress. You breathe heavily as they stare at you, eyes so hungry.

“How dare you attend a ball in my house, so scantily clad,” Anthony growls. 

“How dare you flirt with other men with your cunt exposed,” Benedict adds. “You need to be taught a lesson about how to dress as well as behave.”

“Go right ahead, brother,” Anthony cedes, enthralled he gets to watch you be disciplined.

Benedict advances on you. “A good girl keeps her nipples inside her underwear,” he opines, “otherwise look what could happen.” He suddenly pinches both nipples and pulls them upright roughly, so you are forced onto your tiptoes. “Any stranger could grab them and touch you just like this.”

Gasping at the sensation, you look over at Anthony, now casually leaning against a column, arms crossed, watching you being taught your lesson. “You won’t find any sympathy here, girl. He’s right.”

“Sorry, sir,” you say through clenched teeth, looking back at Benedict, “I won’t let it happen again, sir.”

“See that you don’t,” he demands, releasing his hold so you sag back against the wall. Your nipples ache from his rough treatment as he walks away and picks up a paintbrush from a nearby table.

“A good girl wears a chemise, so all of her skin is not exposed,” he tutors, as you feel the bristles of the paintbrush feather against your ribcage, swirling patterns over your ribs and belly, your nerve endings fluttering and goosebumps erupting in its wake. A laugh bubbles up in your throat. “Stay silent while my brush is on you. If you make a sound, there will be consequences,” he warns.

The brush runs teasingly up your side, and you writhe and bite your lip, fighting the urge to giggle—it’s where you are most ticklish. You manage to hold it together until he does the same on the other side, snagging against a weak spot, and you can’t stop the little burst of laughter. You instantly tuck your lips under your teeth and bite down, knowing you have broken his rule.

“Can’t even obey a simple instruction, can you?” he sighs, his eyes glittering with a heated menace. “I forbade you from making a sound, yet here we are.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” you rush out. “It tickles.”

“Hmmm,” he runs an appeasing eye over your hair, swept into an updo. “What do we have here?” his voice silken as he runs a hand up the nape of your neck and pulls out a hairpin, then another two.

“Should I take my hair down, sir?” You query, confused by his apparent change of direction, one eye on the paintbrush now snagged between his knuckles.

“No need,” he replies. “I have what I need right here.” 

You have no warning as he drops his head and sucks on your left nipple, pulling it between his teeth. You cry out at the sudden, fierce sensation. Before you have your bearings, he backs off, and with a dangerous smirk, he slides one of your hairpins down over the damp pebbled peak he just created. It pinches and burns, the ache a direct line down to your clit. You hiss at the feeling as he does the same to your right nipple, diving in with teeth and suction, trapping it between the metal prongs. 

“Hmm, maybe this will teach you…,” he flicks at one prong, “to follow…”, then the other, “my orders….”

With each flick, you gasp, the snag against your skin just the right side of painful. 

“And maybe now you’ll remember to wear your chemise,” he surmises, admiring his handiwork.

“Yes, sir, I will,” you demure, adjusting to this new continual sting.

“Don’t her nipples look so beautiful like this, brother?” Benedict opines over his shoulder, “I’ve half a mind to leave them like this all night.”

“Oh, you definitely should,” Anthony agrees from a few paces away.

Then the paintbrush is back on your skin. Lower this time, sinking beneath your belly button. You know better than to make a sound now, biting your lips and fighting the tremble from the ticklish sensation, heightened all the more by your aching nipples.

“A good girl wears undergarments in public,” he lectures, the brush now smearing down the furrow where your leg meets your body. Your breathing speeds up as he flicks the lightest of touches against your clit hood with the bristles. It’s not enough and too much at once. “Otherwise, any man could touch you here,” the brush teasing as he strokes agonisingly light over your clit.

Cresting a moan, you arch your back, desperate for friction. 

“Please, sir,” you breathe, trying to appeal to his good nature, to touch you properly and give you what you crave. 

You look over at Anthony, who is watching you with hooded eyes, palming his obvious erection in his trousers. The fact that he is so turned on watching you get disciplined makes you mewl, your trapped nipples burn, and your cunt clenches around nothing.

Benedict drops to his knees before you hook your left leg over his shoulder and then buries his face between your legs, sucking your clit so firmly that you see stars.

“Oh god, yes, sir,” you call out, “that feels so good. Thank you, thank you.”

You feel him laugh almost menacingly against your heated flesh as he teases your bud outwards with his pursed lips. Then you sense it, a squeezing pressure as he slips the final hairpin he stole right over your distended clit—it throbs instantly.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” he preens, “look at your poor little pearl all swollen and trapped. Gosh, if we so much as….” he spears the lightest of touches with the tip of his tongue and makes you squeal. ”Maybe now you’ll remember to wear undergarments in public,“ he counsels, dropping your leg to the floor and standing back up, nodding to Anthony.

“Yes, sir,” you stutter, fighting the strong urge to whine as your clit starts to pulse with every heartbeat.

Anthony steps forward. “Well, now you have learned how you should dress; perhaps now you need to learn how to behave.” 

His arms wrap around your waist, and he walks you into the room. With every step, the pin over your clit snags against your flesh, and you moan at the sensation.

“Oh, my poor girl, all pinned and aching,” he whispers in your ear as you reach an oversized velvet chaise longue, obviously placed in the centre of the room for live art modelling. He walks you around to the tall end. “Hold on here,” he instructs, encouraging your feet apart. 

You obey, fingers sinking into the plush velvet at hip height as he stands behind you, smearing a hand roughly down the length of your back until it rests warm and foreboding on your bum cheek. 

“What do you think you were doing out there tonight? With all those men, hmm?” His voice is pitched low and with a hint of menace.

“Nothing, my lord,” you answer, trying your best to hide your smirk.

“She is lying to you, brother,” Benedict warns from a few feet away, his turn to watch now, “the little hussy has a smile on her face.”

“Is that right?” Anthony clicks his tongue disapprovingly, grabbing your jaw and moving your head to the side a little. “Then maybe this little hussy needs to learn how to behave.” 

Benedict barks a laugh and rolls up his sleeves at that.

“Does a proper lady flirt with strange men?” Anthony interrogates, rubbing his hand over the swell of your bottom.

“No, my lord,” you respond, breathless with anticipation.

“Hmm, correct. And does a proper lady fill her dance card with all sorts of cads and bounders without a care for her reputation?” his fingers kneading the flesh of your bum.

“No, my lord.”

“Then you are not a proper lady, and you need to be taught to be one,” he snarls. That’s all the warning you get before his hand lifts and then descends roughly onto your cheek.

“Owww,” you wail. That was a harsh first blow; your trapped nipples and clit thrum in time with the spank of his hand.

“No! You don’t say oww, you thank me for teaching you a lesson in appropriate conduct,” he lectures. When you don’t respond, he crowds against you and grabs around your throat, “I'm waiting….”

“Thank you, my lord,” you grit out.

He pulls your head back a little further, and his lips land on yours. His kiss is possessive and bruising, as if he is branding you as his. Plundering your mouth, the hand curling strong around your throat, you feel the vibration of your groan against his palm. 

As he pulls away and you breathe heavily, he spanks the same spot again, his grip lingering and grabbing your flesh. “I need to hear it again, my girl.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you gasp; the hand at your throat is not restricting your breath but a constant pressure that reminds you who is in charge.

He spanks your other cheek open-handed, his fingers splaying out wide. “Again”, he orders.

“Thank you, my lord.” It's a breathy plea against his lips as he holds your head back, staring into your eyes.

He releases his hold from around your throat and then uses both hands to spank your cheeks, the sound ringing out around the room with your panting. The burn makes you writhe. The ache throbbing in your nipples and clit.

“Do you think you’ll remember your lesson?” Anthony demands, his breath hot on your cheek.

“Yes, my lord,” you stutter.

“Hmm, it's funny, but I don't believe you. I don’t know that my hands are enough for this lesson,” Anthony wonders aloud. “I think we may need something stronger; what say you brother?”

“I think you might be right; you once said she has never learned a thing from all the spankings she’s had. I kept a leather strap from a shipment of art supplies,” Benedict voices, “I think that might make a useful tool.”

“Excellent choice, brother,” you hear Anthony agree. 

You crane your neck to try and see what they are talking about, nerves flaring in your body at the thought of being struck with something. Benedict pulls you back against him with a strong arm around your waist. You feel his cock branding against your lower back, knowing he will be fucking you later.

“You see this, my girl,” he runs a tan leather strap between your breasts, ”what colour for this?”

“Yellow,” you waver, being honest.

Instantly his hold softens. “Okay, darling girl, don’t be nervous. I’ll go gentle, I promise,” he whispers and kisses your cheek, “you’ll tell me if you want me to stop, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you sigh.

“You are such a good brave girl for us,” he compliments, “we want you to feel pleasure from this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you okay to continue?” he checks.

“Yes, sir,” you nod, and he pulls away again.

He wraps the leather strap around his hand and confers with Anthony quietly. You smile softly, knowing they are planning to ensure your comfort and well-being. Anthony moves to lay on the chaise, and Benedict takes your hand and guides you lightly to straddle him.

“We think this could be a good oral lesson for our naughty little pupil,” Benedict tutors softly, “so why don't you take a seat here, right on his face?”

You gasp and flood down your thighs, the idea of being eaten out while you are disciplined so utterly appealing. You feel Anthony's breath warm on your inner thighs as you settle over him, Benedict guiding your hands to grasp the top of the chaise above Anthony's head. 

“Come here,” Anthony's honeyed voice drawls from between your thighs as he kisses the sensitive skin where your leg meets your body, “are you ready to try this, my brave girl?”

“Yes, my lord,” you assure, nerves melting a notch with his sweet attentions, pulsing with anticipation that he will remove the hairpin and give you a reprieve.

“Oh darling, no,” he teases, reading your mind, “this stays in place.” He tugs on the metal, and you cry out. “For now, at least, it's only coming off when we fuck you.”

With that, he flattens his tongue, lapping against your distended swollen clit, the heat and delicate tease of it hurtling you so close to orgasm it's startling, the sensation so magnified.

“My lord,” you gasp, “I'm going to come already.”

“So soon, my girl,” he huffs, “oh darling, I'm not going to stop just because you come. I'm going to keep going until you cry pretty tears all down your lovely face,” his voice a dangerous promise.

He licks again, allowing the end of his tongue to morph into a point that lingers and flicks against you. You whine, thighs already shaking as the approaching orgasm flickers at the corners of your mind.

Just as your focus is wholly on Anthony and his tongue taking you into oblivion, there's a snap of leather against your butt cheek. You squeal in surprise, having almost forgotten Benedict's plan. It drives you over the precipice, and you scream, convulsing hard against the hairpin, panting breaths. Your vision whiting out as you collapse forward over the end of the chaise. 

“Oh, that's it,” Benedict gruffs, “scream for me,” but it sounds so distant behind the rush of blood in your ears.

Before you’ve had a chance to recover, there’s another jolt of leather. Slightly stronger than the last aimed directly over where Anthony's hand had spanked you earlier. Your hips stutter, and you collapse onto Anthony's face, his tongue questing inside your channel. It's too much sensation.

“Oh fuck,” you exclaim loudly, overstimulated, as once again you feel a sting on your cheeks.

“She is loving this brother,” Benedict glowers, watching your mouth fall open, and your eyes roll.

“More, sir,” you implore; you don't recognise your own slurred voice. 

“You want me to flog you again, my girl?” Benedict's voice is gravelly and laboured.

“Yes, please, sir, give me more,” drunk on the utter tide of sensations, Anthony's tongue swirling inside you, spiralling you again, your clit and nipples throbbing in their bindings, your bum glowing.

Benedict growls, and the next blow feels wonderful; you scream thank yous as you move on instinct, grinding down onto Anthony, his tongue a sinful swirl of wonder, tears prickling your eyes as the pleasure and pain meld into one intoxicating pulse over your body.

You are floating now, leaking into Anthony's mouth as he mumbles praises deep into your cunt, Benedict panting as he reigns in the desire to flog you senseless, his arm shaking from the restraint and the unbridled lust of watching your skin bloom and you experience one long extended orgasm, fracturing while overwrought - a creature of lust and submission. 

“She looks fucking beautiful, brother,” Benedict gasps, dropping the strap, pulling your hair until your head tilts back and smashing his lips onto yours. His kiss is desperate and plundering; his hand descends to flick his thumbnail against your nipple. To have both their tongues inside you at either end pushes you over the edge even more, screaming into his mouth and shaking and crying.

Benedict sweeps you off Anthony and into his arms, still kissing you as you curl up into his hold, not fighting the blissful state you are slipping into.

You don't recall the next few moments; all you hear are soothing voices and soft touches. You come around, wedged between their bodies, as they kiss your face, shoulders, and neck.

“Well done, our wonderful precious girl,” Anthony praises, and you twist around to curl into his chest, familiar and so warm. “You took your lesson so well”. 

“Are you ready for your next?” he whispers warmly.

“What else did I do wrong, my lord?” you ask.

“Oh, nothing at all, my darling girl; you did so well taking your punishment. Now it's time for your lesson in pleasure.”

“Mm, that sounds wonderful, my lord.”

“Indeed, you have two teachers to please and please you.”

“As a treat, who do you want first, my good girl?” he nuzzles against your cheek, “I think you want to try Benedict's cock don't you?”

You bite your lip and nod meekly.

“Well, there's just one more surprise. Recline back on the chaise, my love,” he instructs gently, knowing you are still coming down from your intense experience.

Holding his hand gingerly, you crawl into place, hyper-aware of your nipples and clit. It feels like anything could make you scream again. You slowly settle down in a mostly reclined position. They are both watching you, unwinding their cravats. 

“Open your legs wide,” Benedict orders softly, and you obey on instinct. “Well, would you look at that brother? That truly is a work of art,” he adds, both of their gaze heavy between your legs.

They round different sides of the chaise and grab an arm each. You lay legs splayed as ordered, watching as they both loop their white evening cravats around a wrist each, tying a bow. They both kneel, and Anthony grabs your chin, his thumb swiping over your lips.

“We are going to tie you up, my darling, so you are completely at our mercy while we fuck you. What say you?” He asks.

“Green,” you enthuse, and he smiles warmly at your response. 

“And how are your nipples and bud, my darling?” he inquires sweetly. “I bet you are positively aching.”

“Yes, my lord, please make it better”, you beseech, writhing very slightly.

“Just a little while longer; it will be worth the discomfort, my darling,” he promises with a smile before leaning in to give you a soft kiss.

Benedict takes your arm to the side, bending it slightly above your head and loops the other end of his cravat around a brass ring at the top corner of the chaise; Anthony does the same. It is not uncomfortable, and you have room to move your arms a little but not much.

“I wish we had two more cravats,” Anthony contends. “We could tie her legs open too.”

“That's okay, brother; she can't close her legs with that pin on her body anyway,” Benedict points out, leaning down and pulling on it slightly.

You instinctively tug against your binding, crying out at the sensation it causes, gasping a breath. Benedict winks and moves away, pulling off his shirt.

Anthony hovers over you and kisses you, pulling your focus solely on him. 

“Oh, my darling girl,” he traces the contours of your face with his fingers, “I’ve never shared you with anyone like this. I trust you and my brother more than anyone; we make a beautiful team, don’t we?”

You nod.

“I’ve fantasised about watching you get fucked right before me. But don’t forget who you belong to,” he sighs, and you see the vulnerability in his eyes, a fear this step might change your dynamic.

“I’m always yours, my lord,” you breathe, reaching forward against your binding to chase his lips. He places a quick kiss, then pulls away slightly to your right. 

Your line of sight is now full of one thing. A very imposing, very naked Benedict, standing at the foot of the chaise looking down at you hungrily. He stripped while you had your moment with Anthony. Your breathing speeds up, realising what is about to happen. Your eyes fall to his cock, which he squeezes slightly in his hand. Memories of taking him down your throat flood back as he crawls slowly over your prone, tied body. 

His lips land on your neck, surprisingly tender, and your whole body lifts, chasing his. As his lips drag down onto your breast, your gaze falls to Anthony, 

“Does that feel good, my girl” Anthony’s voice is gruff, his hands busy undoing his shirt.

“Yes, my lord,” your answer morphs into a scream as Benedict teeths your trapped nipple. A large hand smears down your stomach between your legs and cups around your flesh.

“I think it’s time to remove this pin, don’t you, my girl?” Benedict’s voice is low and sweet against your breastbone.

“Please, sir,” you implore.

He gently eases the hairpin up and tosses it aside. The rush of blood to your clit is instant and shocking. You gasp, your eyes going wide.

“Oh, you feel that, don't you, my girl” Benedict gloats as he shifts between your legs.

“Yes, sir.” 

“What about this?” His tone is dangerous.

It’s the last thing you hear before he suddenly invades your soaked cunt. One strong, swift thrust buries himself deep inside you, a stretching, all-consuming invasion, your fingers and toes curling. 

“Oh fuck,” you and Benedict exhale almost in unison.

He feels different to Anthony seated inside you. You can’t articulate it; it’s just… a different stretch. No less intoxicating, though. 

“How is that, my girl?” Anthony pants as you stare over at him. He’s shirtless now, and his hand is at his trousers, roughly undoing buttons.

“So good, my lord,” you answer honestly, watching him undress as Benedict kisses your neck softly, your swollen clit pressed against his public bone. It won’t take much to make you come again.

Benedict cups your jaw to draw your attention to him, moving his face closer to yours. “I’m going to move now, my girl. Are you ready?” he whispers against your lips.

“Yes, sir,” you nod, meeting his hazy blue eyes.

He withdraws slowly, and you inhale, anticipation burning. He surges back into you, going even deeper this time somehow. As he makes contact with your clit you groan loudly.

“More, sir, please,” you petition, desperate to have him repeatedly slam against your swollen bud.

“Not yet,” he smirks, curling himself into the left side of your neck as you notice Anthony is now naked and taking a seat in a wingback leather chair a few feet away. Your skin prickles with excitement at the sight.

“Look at me, my girl,” Anthony calls as Benedict takes another stroke into you. You watch as he leans backwards and fists his cock. Oh god, he is going to touch himself while watching you get fucked. “You look so beautiful. Beg for him, beg for him to fuck you harder; I love to hear you desperate,” he implores. You are entranced by his hand moving steadily on his cock. You long to touch it, taste it. “Beg my girl,” he reminds.

“Please, sir, please fuck me harder,” you entreat to Benedict, your eyes pinging between him and Anthony, your voice cadence rising and falling with the roll of your body as he fucks into you slow and deep. The drag of him against your insides is so intoxicating.

“Oh, I love it when you beg,” Benedict gloats, a thumb sweeping your lips. “Do you like being tied up like this, my girl?” He questions, spearing into you more forcefully, smiling as you nod and moan. “Tell me how much. Tell me everything you like about this.”

“I love being at your mercy, sir,” you whisper, meeting his gaze and briefly sucking the thumb at your lips. “I love that my nipples are aching because you did this to me, sir,” you burble around his thumb. He growls at that one and moves to bite your earlobe. “I love that we are being watched, sir,” you confess breathily.

“Oh, does my dirty girl love an audience, hmm?” Benedict asks, cupping your jaw. “How would you like to be tied up and fucked outside, my girl? Where anyone could watch?”

“Yes, please, sir,” you enthuse, the thought making you gush more around him. A new thing you never knew you wanted until he said it.

“Do you hear that, brother?” Benedict says louder as he keeps pushing into you. “Our precious girl wants an audience watching her be pleasured.”

You look at Anthony and watch him lick his lips, moving his knees wider, his hand speeding up around his cock. “You filthy little girl”, Anthony growls approvingly. 

Benedict’s lips descend onto yours, and he captures your mouth as he increases the strength and pace of his thrusts; you are panting and whining into his kisses as he hits your distended throbbing clit more and more. It propels you fast towards the edge. You hear Anthony groan, knowing he is watching you, palming his cock. But you can’t see him as Benedict surrounds you, his arms encasing you close against him, the heat of his body intense, his chest glancing against your restricted nipples, aching so badly.

“Oh god, you are going to come, aren’t you, my girl,” Benedict moans, feeling your flutter around him.

“Yes, sir,” you grit out, writhing and chasing your peak, your grip wrapped around the cravats tying you down.

“Do it, come on my cock,” he commands, and all you can do is obey. You tussle against your bindings as you tense all over. The white-hot throbbing in your clit fanning out across your body, a static buzz at the back of your head, your toes curling, crying out as you pulsate hard.

“Oh fuck,” he exclaims, “you are like a vice, my girl; I can’t last.”

He groans deeply and suddenly withdraws from your body, spilling onto your belly, shuddering.

“You are amazing,” he pants as he grabs your face and kisses you some more.

“Happy birthday”, you whisper to him,  and he breaks into a killer smile.

“Thank you. You are the best gift I could receive,” Benedict compliments with a quick final kiss.

He moves gracefully off your body but twists to sit on the floor next to the chaise, reaching under it and grabbing some cloth, tenderly cleansing the mess he made on you. 

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures, as you see Anthony rise from his chair and stalk over to you. 

Still quivering from the orgasm, you need a little time to reset. As he often does, Anthony senses that and lowers himself onto you gradually. His cock nudges against your body as he covers you, but he does not push in. Just resting against you. A hot solid weight against your inner thigh.

“You look so beautiful being fucked, my darling girl,” he gusts and runs his nose tenderly over your cheek, kissing along your jaw. Gentle, calming sensual movements.

Sitting beside the chaise, Benedict grabs your bound hand and holds it sweetly, pulling it towards him and kissing your knuckles, almost chaste. 

Anthony slowly kisses a trail down your neck as you sigh and feel his smile against your skin. He works his way lower, peppering your skin with little kisses until he reaches the swell of your breast and your breath a little more ragged; he’s skating close to your nipples, still throbbing within the hairpins.

He faintly holds his tongue against one, and you inhale sharply and let out a long whine. The lightest of touches feel like liquid fire searing you. 

“God, I've never seen you like this,” he groans and surges his hips against you, his tip nudging your entrance. “This was a genius idea, brother,” he concedes without looking at him.

Benedict just chuckles, looking up from kissing your hand. “You wait until we take them off”, he crows.

“When will that be, sir?” you ask.

“When he’s inside you, and it’s time for you to come again my girl”, Benedict replies with a crooked grin, kissing up your bound forearm. “I'll decide when that is,” he adds with heated mischief. 

Anthony huffs a laugh at that and takes himself in hand, lining up and pushing into you just a little bit. You sigh and close your eyes as he slowly slides into your body, Benedict's lips warm on your arm. 

“You are soaked, my girl”, he growls as he pushes into your hilt. That familiar feeling of being so held open by his warm solid cock is something you always treasure.

Anthony moves slowly at first, whispering gently into your ear about how good you feel, how it’s been too long, and you moan in agreement, wishing you had your hands to run into his luscious hair and grab hold; that always makes him buck a little hard inside you. 

Benedict shifts to sucking each of your fingers in sync with Anthony’s thrusts into you, his eyes trained on the movement of both your hips. The swirling of his tongue makes you long for the next time he goes down on you as he did before, holding you down forcefully. There is so much more you want to do with these talented boys and revisit—you will never tire of them.

Anthony increases the pace of his thrusts, hands smearing down your body to your knees, hitching your legs up and wider apart, making you gasp, moan, and writhe under him. You are fighting against the silky cravats' hold against your wrists, desperate to touch him, feel his warm skin under your palms.

He changes position, sitting up and hauling you bodily onto his thighs, hands wrapped around your hipbones as he pulls you onto him, hitting a new angle inside, the head of his cock spearing against that spot which drives you to madness.

“Please, sir, I need more,” you plead to Benedict between moans.

“What do you need, my girl?” he questions, licking his lips and scanning your body, watching your back arch, shoulders dragging against the velvet of the chaise. 

“Whatever you can give me, please, sir,” you implore, desperate for more sensation—a tide to sweep you away again.

“Hmm, then I think it's time for this…” is the only warning you get before he reaches and slides one hairpin off your nipple, immediately sucking it deep into his mouth as it revives. You scream loud at the rush of blood and sensation; clenching tight around Anthony’s cock he cries out.

“Fuck darling, do that again.” 

“Oh, she will.” Benedict gloats and switches attention to the other nipple nearest to him. Discarding the hairpin and enveloping it in a hot strong pull of his lips. His fingers snagging against the nipple that his mouth abandoned.

Anthony groans loud, fingers digging into your hips so hard he will leave marks as you scream and bear down on him again. Benedict surges up and captures your lips with his as he pinches both nipples, swallowing your screams and cries. For all the punishment you were metered out, there seems to be a balance more of pleasure as you climb quickly towards another orgasm. 

“Do it,” Benedict orders quietly against your lips, knowing you are so close you just need something to push you over the precipice, and he's decided to use his voice and hands.  “Do it now, come on his cock just like you came on mine, our beautiful filthy girl.”

Anthony's fingers find your clit, and it's too much at once. You stop hearing their voices and encouraging sounds; it all fades into black as a rush of blood fills your ears and your eyes close. You are swept away by the strong palpitations of your core, tensing and releasing all your muscles, notching up your spine, curving off the chaise, pulsing hard in your aching nipples.

Anthony grunts loudly and loses all finesse in his movements as he stutters and growls, pulling out just in time to spill himself onto your public hair. He collapses on top of you, gusting breaths, his head resting on your breastbone, your thighs still draped over his legs.

“Fuck. I’d forgotten what that feels like,” he pants. “We can't go so long without our girl again,” he admits quietly between deep inhales. 

Benedict kisses the dewy skin of your shoulder as you shudder delicately, sensations still rippling across your skin.

“You should never be out of our beds,” Anthony states, rubbing his nose unhurriedly over your swollen nipples, making you moan again.

“Our beds?” Benedict queries, a tinge of something hopeful in his voice.

“Yes, brother,” Anthony sighs, “I trust you with our girl. She's ours now, if the lady permits, of course,” he demures.

“Hell yes, she does,” you murmur. They both laugh warmly in response. 

“And yes, that means I permit you to spend time with her too, without me, on occasion, just as I do,” Anthony says sincerely, untying one of your wrists.

Benedict swallows heavily and nods his thanks as he does the same to your other wrist, freeing you completely.

“But I want both of you,” you pipe up, moving your arms to run your fingers into both of their hair, “all the time.” You add as they both sigh heavily at the sensation of your fingernails scratching their scalps.

“Well, that certainly…. can be arranged,” Anthony smiles up at you from your chest as Benedict nuzzles against your neck.

Your beautiful boys.

Anthony & Benedict taglists: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

[robininthelabyrinth]

Targets - ao3

- Chapter 2 -

It all happened very suddenly.

Fall was still warm enough for them to go swimming, and so Wei Wuxian had proposed, and Jiang Cheng agreed, that they sneak off to one of the pools not far off from the Lotus Pier. They’d been going further and further away, bored of the same old haunts, looking for adventure – they were eleven, after all, and it was time to start putting that whole attempt the impossible motto stuff into action.

Even if all they were attempting was a secret swim by themselves, with no shidis to have to watch over and no shixiongs to babysit them, it was still worthwhile, and even if they hadn’t exactly been the most subtle about picking up lunch from the kitchens to take with them, Wei Wuxian’s Uncle Jiang had very indulgently pretended not to know what they were up to. Even Madame Yu pretended not to see them as they went out the back gate.

In other words, the whole thing was practically endorsed, although the lack of actual disclosure added a frisson of illicit excitement to it all.

The swimming itself was fine. There was nothing like a nice swim on a warm fall day.

But when they were still playing – splashing at each other and shouting fond insults, each one already mostly thinking about the lunch they’d brought with them even though they’d already eaten all their snacks earlier – a group of men had come walking by, one of them calling out a request for directions. Their accents suggested that they were strangers; naturally, Wei Wuxian had pulled himself out of the water and started providing them, with Jiang Cheng, never one to be left behind, slithering out to stand beside him.

The man smiled upon seeing them both, and Wei Wuxian hadn’t been halfway through the directions when he’d drawn his sword and lunged forward.

Jiang Cheng shrieked and grabbed at Wei Wuxian’s arm, trying to pull him out of the path of the sword, and Wei Wuxian had tried at the same moment to dodge, ideally towards a position that would let him stand in front of Jiang Cheng, who he assumed was the real target here.

Even as he moved, he knew he would be too slow.

The sword would strike him down, and then there would be no one to protect Jiang Cheng.

They were only eleven, Wei Wuxian thought, anguished, angered; only eleven, with their golden cores not yet formed, and the men in front of him were full adults, cultivators, attacking them with spiritual weapons. Even if by some miracle they escape the leader’s blade, there were all the others – they had also drawn their own blades, and there were seven of them. He thought desperately as to what he could do in the split second that he had left to him, thinking that while it probably wouldn’t work if he shoved Jiang Cheng back into the water, telling him to swim to safety and leave Wei Wuxian behind, that was the only thing Wei Wuxian could think of that might work. It would be worth it as long as he bought Jiang Cheng a chance, if he could win even a little extra time at the cost of his life…

He never had the chance to put his thoughts into action.

Before he could even see it, there was a loud sound, metal hitting metal, and suddenly there was a giant standing in front of them, the saber in his hand pressing aside the attacker’s sword. The giant was wielding the fierce saber one-handed, and with the other was holding a kid about their age under his arm, the way one would hold a sack of potatoes – the kid was wearing winter clothes, weirdly enough – but a moment later he all but threw the kid at the two of them and lunged forward, his saber rising up into attack position, and all the attackers’ expressions abruptly changed from smug to horrified.

A moment later the kid hit Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng both and they stumbled backwards, the three of them tangling together, and it took a few seconds for them to wiggle free of each other.

“Hi!” the strange kid chirped. “We should run!”

Swimming would actually be better than running, usually, but not while wearing winter clothing; there was a risk the kid – he seemed younger than them, smaller – could drown, weighed down by the wet and heavy fabric. So instead all three of them got to their feet and headed towards the forest as fast as they could.

Wei Wuxian looked over his shoulder just as they hit the treeline.

“Oh wow,” he said, and came to a stop.

“What are you doing, we need to – oh,” Jiang Cheng said, seeing the same thing he did: the giant’s beautiful swordsmanship, his saber strikes aggressive and fierce and clean as if he was simply practing the steps in a training ground, even though three of the attackers were already bleeding out on the ground. He was like a hurricane, furious and inexorable, and suddenly so many of the things Wei Wuxian’s swordsmanship teachers had tried to convey to him about moving like wind and water, forward and yet fluid, abruptly made sense, clicking in a brilliant moment of enlightenment that was only slightly ruined by the new kid reaching out and grabbing them both by the ears and snapping, “Behind the tree!”

They hid behind the tree.

One of the attackers tried to turn and run, but the giant threw his saber after him, guiding it with a hand sign, turned and threw a talisman at another one’s face, knocking him backwards, and used his shoulder to ward off a blow from the last one, stepping in close and just flat-out punching him in the face. It felt like it was no time at all before they were all lying on the ground, unmoving. Probably dead.

“You didn’t have to grab us like that,” Jiang Cheng grumbled at the kid, who didn’t seem impressed.

“You always watch from a safe location, or else you’ll distract the person fighting,” he responded, sounding like he was reciting by rote. Anyway, Wei Wuxian supposed that it was pretty fair statement. “I mean, what if they’d tried to come after us? Da-ge would’ve still beaten them, of course, but he might’ve gotten hurt in the process, and that would be awful.”

“He’s your da-ge?” Wei Wuxian asked, focusing on the important part. “He’s amazing.”

Jiang Cheng’s irritated expression softened – he’d been wowed by the fighting, too, no doubt – and he nodded furiously.

That appeased the kid, who preened. “Yeah, he’s my blood brother, and he’s the best,” he said. “You should’ve seen us on our way here. We flew here really fast.”

“And we’re going to have to continue onwards really fast,” the giant said, striding towards them with his saber still bloody, although he was pulling out a cleaning cloth already. “If they’ve already gotten here, they may have already reached Yunping, and we only had a single disciple there that we were able to contact…you’ll have to come with me there, and we’ll return here afterwards to talk to the sect leader.”

“My father?” Jiang Cheng said, alarmed. “Wait, where are we going?”

“You were targeted,” the giant said, and Wei Wuxian nodded, having already deduced that Jiang Cheng had been identified. “Both of you.”

He hadn’t expected that.

“There’s another target not far away, in Yunping. I planned to go there only after speaking with Sect Leader Jiang, but there’s no time. We have to go at once.” The giant paused, then rubbed his face. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Qinghe Nie’s Nie Mingjue; I’m the sect leader there.”

That made Wei Wuxian feel better at once: the clothing color, the saber, the name, it all matched up with Qinghe Nie, and they were another of the Great Sects, an ally. Plus, he had in fact just saved their lives.

“Okay,” he said, and elbowed Jiang Cheng when he looked about to disagree. “Let’s go save whoever it is in Yunping.”

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng finally agreed after another moment of thought. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to – yeah. Let’s go. Can we take our lunch?”

“Oooh, please,” the kid – another Nie, presumably – said. “Grab it and we’ll go.”

Nie Mingjue nodded and put down his saber, letting it float not far above the ground, and that was when Wei Wuxian realized that they would be flying to Yunping on a sword – well, a saber, anyway – instead of going by carriage or horse the way they usually did when they travelled.

Awesome.

His Uncle Jiang would take them flying sometimes, but only rarely, busy as he was. It was a great treat every time, but invariably too short; they’d never gone more than a few li and back, and definitely not as far as Yunping City.

“You can each have one of my layers,” the littler Nie kid, who still hadn’t introduced himself, said. “You’re going to need it. It gets cold up there!”

[aeide-thea]

also: continuing to watch wheel of time (thru ep 5 now) and i have three (3) thoughts:

they really should've gotten in touch with like. the folks who did the lotr cgi back in the day bc i feel like gondor was a lot realer-looking than the aerial shots of the white tower/whatever the city surrounding it is called??

i continue to extremely extremely love the aes sedai-warder relationship, or as soph said aes sedai[punctuation????]warder relationship. it's SO queer in the sense of like. defying categorization. and just like. so much quiet subtle gorgeous communication happening. also lan continues to be SO beautiful to me but so much of that is bound up in his [depressingly i think i have to call it a little gnc] capacity for empathy, so much of which is bound up in this relationship. please can they just be quietly gorgeously maturely queerplatonic forever and ever amen. please can i just steep in that energy like a thrilled little bergamot teabag.

they sure did go for the 'predatory queer attempts to intimidate hero(ine) by homosexually hitting on them' trope!! and like. i don't always even 100% mind that, it was a little bit fun and sexy in skyfall, but here it really just felt like 'oh, the creepy sorceress is also a creepy lesbian, which makes her extra-creepy!' i think bc neither actress seemed to be enjoying it?? like. kate fleetwood gives me vibes i don't know how to categorize except as 'str8 rich b*tch trophy mom,' and rosamund pike just came over all frozen prey animal for a sec which was surprising bc honestly you wouldn't think her character would be so easily/visibly shaken? and so i didn't get the sense of like. lazy comfortable flirty leonine pleasure at sizing each other up that gave such a gratifying frisson to the scene in skyfall, and it really just became a cheap weaponizing of the way straight culture fears and frames queerness. (although like. that said: potentially also something to tease out here abt the dye job and makeupping on liandrin sedai and how as a woman ages those things increasingly paint her as, like, desperate and offputting in a certain way—so like, arguably misogyny getting weaponized as well as homophobia here: Painted Woman vs Sedate Madonna. and potentially worth squinting also at whether some internalized misogyny is a factor in my inability to read the interaction slashily!)

[bpdanakins]

i just infodumped to my friends about bpd anakin and i have No Regrets snakjdkajfsk

anyway, doth thee have any more bpd anakin (or just anakin in general) headcanons becuase i am living for this

I am So Sorry this took so long, but hopefully the length makes up for it. Thank you so much for sending this to me bc BPD!Anakin is my entire life. I could talk about it all day, every day.

I’d like to thank @apple-grass-and-smiles for helping me organize my Thoughts on all of this, prompting me to focus on certain things and giving me feedback in general too. 

Okay, here goes:

Anakin fidgets!! I’m not even sure if this is a headcanon but if it is I will die on this hill. He can’t stay still for the life of him and doubly so when he’s anxious, nervous or Ready To Do Something Already. 

We know Anakin can’t hold eye contact to save his life when he’s upset or insecure, but I can also see him having issues with touch when he’s upset, unless it’s from certain people only (Padmé always gets a pass, for example).

Anakin’s quick to let some small stuff go, but larger things people do that hurt him (whether intentionally or not) aren’t really ever forgotten, and he just kind of takes that in and suppresses it, until random moments when it pops up, he remembers, and it just hurts like it’s happening all over again. The people around him often have no idea what fully sets him off, bc to them, his reaction now seems out of nowhere while his mind’s still stuck on this other thing.     - His reactions also seem sometimes like they’re Over The Top, but even just remembering past hurts can feel almost disabling at times. It’s worse when he ends up ruminating on it, because the hurt and feelings of betrayal just keep building up over and over until it almost blots everything else out.

When he’s happy or surrounded by those he loves, everyone kind of can feel it too, bc he’s just fuckoff powerful in the Force and esp other Force sensitives kind of gather around his space and just… his affection and excitement are literally infectious. 

This probably runs closer to ADHD than BPD for sure, but get him talking about anything mechanical (robotics, engineering, racing, etc) and he will go from 0 to 100 so fast you’d get whiplash. No one minds though bc, as I said, his excitement is infectious and honestly those around him just adore listening to him go off even though half of it goes over their head.     - Ahsoka may not ever get Gotta Go Fast, but she definitely loves it when he really talks her ear off about all this stuff, bc it makes her excited to learn and she picks up on all of it easily. (There’s a part of her that wants to emulate him and she does def look up to him obviously.)     - We see it with Obi-Wan, but people love to use his love of all things mechanical as a way to distract him from things that upset him. It doesn’t always work but they try.

With Obi-Wan, he ends up on the side of Anakin’s splitting like, all the time. And unfortunately sometimes Obi-Wan can’t tell that Anakin’s lashing out not because of something Obi-Wan’s actually done, but bc Anakin’s young and Obi-Wan’s the figure he can project a lot of his frustrations on.     - It can lead Obi-Wan to being confused and hurt sometimes, bc he doesn’t always understand Anakin’s thought processes when this happens, and it definitely sometimes cuts him to the core. On the reverse side, though Anakin might not always say it to his face, Obi-Wan definitely can overhear him at times when Anakin’s ready to 1v1 anyone who even so much as makes a frowny face about Obi-Wan, which helps Obi-Wan remember that Anakin does love him too, actually.     - It ends up being one of the points of frisson between Anakin and Mace, bc Anakin can’t read body language perfectly, especially when it comes to feelings of abandonment or someone seemingly not loving who Anakin loves to the same degree. Mace has a drier sense of humor at times and defs has a more resting frowny face, and this rankles Anakin at times bc he can’t always tell when Mace is just chilling vs being disappointed, and while Anakin will take it all personally, he ALSO takes any perceived criticism to those he loves personally too.     - Both Mace and Obi-Wan don’t get this bc they have a perfectly fine relationship. Anakin’s just Like That.     - (And super overprotective of people’s perceptions of Obi-Wan. Anakin will go off about Obi-Wan being mean and all that, but fuck you and your entire family tree if you ever even think Obi-Wan’s anything short as the most amazing Jedi to ever Jedi.)

Everybody and their mother can see the pedestal Anakin puts Padmé on, and surprisingly she rarely is on the end of his splitting. When he does, he just internalizes it bc he can’t stand the idea that he’s somehow seen her in a wrong light, or he feels guilty for getting angry with her.     - He also defines a huge chunk of his life around loving her, making her his center for a lot of his decisions and reactions, so when they’re off, his whole world seems backwards. It makes him Really uncomfortable and unsure. He gets panicky and upset and often people have no idea what the cause is so they just end up a lil panicky in return.     - He tends to take it out on others, by doing an exercise or by disappearing to fiddle with something.     - Pads has an easier time recognizing Anakin’s emotional needs, bc in some ways they’re the same as hers. She’s good at reaching out to him, comforting him and reassuring him of her love. And in turn, he like, never fucking shuts up about how much he loves her, and those moments are what make her feel so special around him. Being loved by Anakin makes someone feel important and even get tingly, bubbly happy feelings, because it’s hard to doubt it sometimes.     - There’s a part of her that sometimes worries about how Intense he is, but, like I said, when his positive intense emotions are focused on you, it feels wonderful. And he’s genuinely super sweet and gentle, and she appreciates that, when she tells him to back off about something, he’ll listen to her wishes. (I’m using movie Anakin as my base here bc TCW!Anakin in this regard is just…. bad y’all lmao)

Anakin’s anxious about Ahsoka All The Time. He’s afraid he’s a bad teacher, he’s afraid he’ll mess her up somehow, he’s afraid he’ll hurt her or she’ll get hurt, and that’s why he can’t stand the idea sometimes of her being on her own. It’s not a lack of trust in her abilities, but because he feels responsible for her, and that’s why he’s always ready to put himself between her and literally anything that could potentially hurt her. (Even if it’s not a physical threat.)     - There are times she finds this amusing and times this makes her angry, but mostly she is long suffering. There are times she appreciates it though, bc she’s still a kid and isn’t always sure which way is up, especially when in a war. Anakin is often a cornerstone for her, and though she’d literally NEVER admit it, his overprotectiveness can sometimes be a reassurance. She knows she can handle herself just fine, but when she has an inkling of doubt, she’ll remind herself that Anakin will be there, and then go and take care of the problem herself.     - She doesn’t always get his moments where he’s not always falling over himself to talk Obi-Wan up or go out of his way to sass at him. To her, they have a wonderful relationship and she rarely notices when Obi-Wan might say something that pokes at Anakin wrong, so she often just winds up ???? when Anakin is huffy or annoyed with her grandmaster.     - She sees Anakin’s anger issues a little more easily than others, and she worries about it but always brushes it off or downplays it, bc she always sees why he’s angry, and also always just assumes (like everyone else) that he can Handle It.     - Anakin’s recklessness and impulsivity are some of her favourite things about being his padawan. He’s literally never boring to be around, and Ahsoka needs that sort of excitement to sometimes push aside the knowledge that she’s literally in a warzone. Anakin’s also really good at doing this intentionally; he’s literally always worrying after her, and all he wants to do is take care of those he loves and make them happy, so sometimes he’ll be Extra just to get under her skin or distract her and honestly this is the basis of where their playful competitions always come from.

If Ahsoka is long suffering, Rex is doubly so. Sometimes it’s all he can do to keep up with Anakin and Ahsoka, but he appreciates Anakin “thinking outside the box”. He also appreciates knowing that Anakin is just as loyal to him and his men as he himself is (well… Anakin is until he isn’t lmao)     - Rex, like Pads, is really good at picking up Anakin’s moods and even trains of thought, so he’s always able to work around that, or even see where Anakin’s mind is going when coming up with a plan. They make a really good team bc while Anakin can jump from one idea to another without them seemingly correlated, Rex immediately follows Anakin’s leaps and they just end up in sync.     - That being said, Anakin can be really confusing at times. His moods are often so all over the place, that Rex generally has no idea what tf is going on. He deals with it by learning to be calm when Anakin’s unable to, and just ride out Anakin’s worst moods until they pass by, learning not to let it all phase him. Anakin lowkey hates it when he’s upset, but once the worst of it passes, he really appreciates that Rex will just… not press like Obi-Wan, or balances out the moments Anakin’s mind is so cluttered by instead just keeping a good focus on things.

Probably everyone’s most baffling symptom of Anakin’s is his paranoia. Obi-Wan kind of sees it the most, because Anakin is always testy with the Council and often feels put on the spot, dismissed and looked down upon. To everyone else, they don’t get where Anakin’s ideas come from, bc everything seems chill on their end. His fretting about others’ well-being is straightforward enough, but his instant panic-turned-anger shift when he receives any criticism (especially the perceived type) always gives people whiplash. It’s hard to keep up with, hard to see what it was that got to him so much, and hard to know how to help (particularly when they’re worried that trying to help him will feel like “taking sides”).     - Ahsoka takes Anakin’s POV of the Council pretty easily, at least when it comes to him. This is mostly bc she’s not there when there’s a meeting or tension around them, nor was she there when Anakin first arrived, so she just assumes they must genuinely often have issues with him too. She doesn’t see it to the extent Anakin does though, but she recognizes that sometimes he seems to blow things out of proportion when he’s upset, and figures it’ll just blow over once he’s calmed down.     - Pads, on the other hand, is always kind of aware of Anakin’s fears of losing her. He often not-so-subtly looks for reassurances that she loves him and won’t leave him, that she’s feeling alright or not angry/annoyed with him. She chalks it up to his trauma with his mother (and she’s partially right), so even when sometimes it gets on her nerves that he seems to doubt her so much, she tries to remind herself of that and let it go. 

Those closest to him can pick up that Anakin tends to see the negative in things, and is generally really hard on himself. They try to help out by giving praise where it’s due and just overall Being There, but it’s Rough to know they often don’t get through. (Palps, on the other hand, knows how to weaponize this.) 

The saddest part is that I don’t think anyone once thought Anakin was Seriously Ill, partly out of ignorance, partly bc they assumed it had to do with his age/upbringing, and partly bc, eventually, everyone was dealing with trauma and even if someone wanted to send Anakin back to the Temple to have a nap or something, they legit couldn’t bc there was a war going on and he also would never have tolerated it at that point in time.     - Obi-Wan’s the one who worries about all of this the most, because he’s always felt such a huge responsibility for Anakin and loves him a lot, he’s just never fully been able to understand how to get on the same wavelength as Anakin.     - Anakin, too, actually never fully figures out that there is something Going On. Everything’s always overwhelming him and even though he prefers doing things at 100mph, sometimes it seems like there is Too Much going on, and even during peace times it just felt like he couldn’t keep up with everything. He hates internal reflection but also can’t stop overthinking about everything, and so he just ruminates and goes in circles and often just ends up going nowhere when it comes to dealing with things. He tries his hardest all the time, he is ALWAYS trying, but doing stupid stunts, fighting droids, making robots and speeding everywhere all the time is truthfully only a bandaid.     - Being surrounded by those he adores and receiving affection from them/seeing them happy boosts his mood a lot but he doesn’t have enough self-awareness to guess at why his happier moods just won’t last.     - Sometimes he can figure out when he’s being irrational and then just takes it out on himself, which only exacerbates his bad episodes. 

Palpatine doesn’t help. He’s abusive, manipulates Anakin all the time and is the Worst and definitely makes everything Anakin is struggling with harder and I think we should all just punt him into a sun thank you this isn’t a headcanon I just want everyone to know how much I hate him