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d4rkpluto · 10 days

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ᴘɪꜱᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ

DO NOT COPY OR STEAL MY WORK. IS A FAME POST.

PROPERTY OF D4RKPLUTO.

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♇ this post centres around pisces, neptune and the twelfth house, and how it is an underrated home of fame.

♇ neptune rules over cameras, glamour, paparazzi, stalking, projection and film, all strong themes of the realer side of fame, specifically paparazzi, stalking and projection.

♇ [in my opinion, i think the 12H, Neptune and Pisces are the most alike compared to the other signs and their rulers.]

♇ on the other hand, ten houses from the 3H is the 12H, 10 in astrology ruling over fame, career and publicity and the 3H governs over magazine and marketing, things celebrities have to be involved in to attain fame.

♇ to understand this post, we need to get into the symbolism of pisces, and hold on tight for this for you to understand! as pisces does represent neptune/poseidon, the sign pisces also represents is Jesus. the most known man, the most known person specifically.

♇ and even though social media does joke about it now and then, he is the most known "nepotism" kid. people with pisces placements especially in their big three or those who have jupiter in pisces are known for something specific, because Pisces gives it a boost because of the connection it has with Jupiter. [in traditional astrology, Jupiter ruled over Pisces], and Jupiter is supposed to symbolise God. and in shorter terms, it gives the nepotism boost to Pisces.

♇ before i go deeper, i am going to use examples of celebrities, their twelfth house and how fame was for them and how it impacted them.

CELEBRITIES WITH PISCES IN THEIR BIG THREE OR JUPITER. [can work with the rest of the big six, but im focusing on the big three].

⟶ examples

PISCES ASCENDANTS ⬎

MICHAEL JACKON.

WHITNEY HOUSTON

ELLEN.

PISCES SUNS ⬎

RIHANNA.

CINDY CRAWFORD.

GRIMES.

PISCES MOONS ⬎

MICHELLE OBAMA.

MARTIN LUTHER KING.

KIM KARDASHIAN.

PISCES JUPITER ⬎

MEGAN FOX.

AMBER HEARD.

LINDSAY LOHAN.

SHORT EXAMPLES OF THE 12H AND ITS IMPACT WITH SOMEONE'S FAME ⬎

MARILYN MONROE

had cancer in the 12H, cancer is moon ruled and the moon rules over audience, and its clear that marilyn monroe had a big audience, like the moon, she was worshiped, and due to hollywood, she represented what a woman, "should be".

marilyn also had pluto in the twelfth house, and this points to her being exploited, sexualised and abused in the industry.

her twelfth house ruler is in the seventh house which conjuncts the moon, and she had a known relationship, [jupiter conjunct moon], this insinuates her known relationship was with a man in power, the moon symbolises country and jupiter can symbolise politics and leader-ship, and she had a known affair with JF Kennedy.

BEYONCE

had virgo in her twelfth house, and people always have continuous critique with her, this can also imply she has much critique for herself, but with her twelfth house having the planet jupiter, it helps her having a giant and loyal fanbase.

beyonce also has saturn in the 12h, and this implies of longevity in fame, saturn doesnt always mean something is going to be cut short! on the other hand, her 12H ruler being in the 12H can point to the distant energy she has with her, she could have fun with her fans but there is still an out of reach essence she has to herself.

the 12H ruler being in the 12H can also indicate to why people might've picked up that she might be doing drugs. this could also insinuate another way of how people are nit-picky when it comes to beyonce.

on the other hand, her 12H ruler being in the 12H shows she only shows a part of herself she wants people to see.

MICHAEL JACKSON

aquarius in the twelfth house, and was known to be erratic and unique, he also used his platform to spread awareness.

his 12H ruler being in Leo points to his excessive amount of fame, the uranus being in leo implies on how he was known everyone where in the world. his uranus in the 13°, a degree which means the first to do something; which conjuncts venus the planet of dancing insinuates of his creation of the moonwalk.

his uranus is also in the sign of children, and had many controversies surrounding kids. [along with people thinking his children arent his].

with his 12H ruler being in Leo, the house of cameras and glamours, points to how he is one of the most photographed people on earth.

ARIANA GRANDE

sagittarius in the 12H, known for her adaptability in different cultures, the jupiter influence gives her a very big fanbase.

12H ruler in libra and is known for her romantic controversies, with her Jupiter having. the 5° which shows they're known in the industry they're specifically in. her jupiter also conj moon in the 6th degree, and people critique her love life and it is always in the public, the moon ruling audience.

12H sagittarius in the 2 degrees, and is known for her aesthetic.

RIHANNA

12H in pisces and is known for her glamour, beauty and fashion.

venus is in the 12H and she is a muse for many people.

juno in the 12H and she was paired with many people, so many people expecting who and what to be her husband, though everyone was aware with who her soulmate was. asap rocky.

12H ruler in capricorn and is known for being a capitalist, rich and business oriented.

another 12H ruler in aries, and has a known controversy with the abuse she had suffered through by chris brown.

12H ruler in aries conj uranus and was known for her fierceness and come backs.

MEGAN THEE STALLION

12H aries and is known for her "sexiness" and rapping. her 12H ruler is in Leo and is known for her sexual dancing, specifically twerking, and her body shape is usually spoken about

her 12H ruler is mars and went through a scandal that involved violence, and with the 12H ruler being in the 21st degree, it entails of her being known for being a stallion, along with her jupiter in sagittarius.

neptune in the 24th degree and a lot of people think she is a liar, and i noticed a lot of people who have their 12H ruler conjunct the moon do get famous.

KRISTINA PIMENOVA

taurus in her 12H and was known for her beauty, she also has mars in her 12H and was really pushed into the industry.

12H ruler in the 1st degree and was pushed as the most beautiful girl. her neptune is in the 10H and a a lot of people wanted to be her because of her status and looks.

12H in a young sign could imply getting into the industry at a young age. she also has mars in taurus in the 12H and is also known for dancing.

MADISON BEER

12H in aries and is known for her sexiness. and her 12H ruler is in scorpio and she had plenty of controversies.

saturn in the 12H it took time for people to appreciate her music. her saturn is also in taurus.

11H in pisces in aqua 3rd degree, and had much people make rumours about her.

12H ruler in mars the 11th degree and had revenge porn against her, or you can say just had people expose her nudes.

pisces in the 11H and many people on the internet project their insecurities onto her.

DRAKE

leo in 12H and he is known for his ego, his 12h ruler conj pluto and a lot of people talk about his sexuality.

neptune in capricorn got into more fame due to a popular company, yung money. he has a pisces jupiter and is known for his multiple times to have a wife, he has proposed many times he was able to make a necklace out of them.

12th degree on his moon and is known as an incel. he has his neptune in the 3rd degree and a lot of people make fun of him.

12H PLACEMENTS ⬎

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 12H - known for music, could get a lot of stalkers, people might have a perception of who you are supposed to be and could be known for taking a specific drug, like weed; ex, rihanna.

ARIES/MARS IN THE 12H - known for their sexuality, could be bullied on social media, might get access to fame easily, but could be objectified; ex, madison beer.

TAURUS/VENUS IN THE 12H - known for your beauty, might feel like people might not take you seriously, people could be shallow towards you, you could have a less intense celebrity life; ex, kristina pimenova.

GEMINI/MERCURY IN THE 12H - could be known for your adaptability, many people might want to mimic you, could be photographed a lot and known for your style; ex, cher.

CANCER/MOON IN THE 12H - could hide their true identity to the world, is the face for something, likes privacy but are never given it; ex, marilyn monroe.

LEO/SUN IN THE 12H - easily stand out, seen as a trendsetter, are known for their beauty, people might compare themselves to you all the time; ex, bella hadid.

VIRGO/CERES IN THE 12H - people will be critical of you, nosy about your life, though you would be a big muse and inspiration for the people, majority of 12H dont like attention or responsibility due to the gain of fame; ex, doja cat.

LIBRA/JUNO IN THE 12H - people will really copy your aesthetic, most likely to be posted on social medias like pinterests and tumblr. very photogenic people, untouchable energy, which could be linked to the hera influenced; ex, lily rose.

SCORPIO/PLUTO IN THE 12H - are usually the face for something, stalked by everyone, specifically the paparazzi, could sometimes be harassed by people for not acting how they were expected to behave. have a lot of influence, they do something other people start doing it; ex, jennie kim and princess diana.

SAGITTARIUS/JUPITER IN THE 12H - have very large fan bases, are expected to be role models, have to find a specific way to sustain their popularity, and other people might want to relate to them and get upset if they cant; ex, kylie jenner.

CAPRICORN/SATURN IN THE 12H - fame can either come really quick to people with capricorn or saturn in the 12H or it could take its time. how they handle fame is their karma, could be preyed on by authority, and when they pass, they become legends and known for something specific; ex, aaliyah.

AQUARIUS/URANUS IN THE 12H - known globally, get away with a lot of stuff, known for their visuals plus aesthetic since it is unique, they have a lot of controversies revolving around love, and might feel like they cannot get away from fame; ex, michael jackson.

YOUR FAME DUE TO WHERE PISCES AND NEPTUNE IS IN YOUR CHART ⬎

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 1H - fame for being beautiful, creative, and would feel distant and would have a lot of people project and fantasise about you; ex, michael jackson a pisces ascendant, and ariana grande who has neptune in the 1H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 2H - fame due to singing, fame for being beautiful of their aesthetic, have ways of always making money and has controversy with lovers; ex, megan fox has pisces in her 2H, and lana del rey who has neptune in her 2H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 3H - known for their creative ideas, good writers, could have a popular relative or is the popular relative, and another musician indicator. could also be known for their philosophy; ex, jeon jungkook has his pisces in his 3H, and beyonce who has her neptune in the 3H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 4H - famous family, controversy with family/marriage, do a project that can set them for life and could be in a famous group; ex, kim kardashian who has pisces in the 4H, and emma watson who has neptune in the 4H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 5H - get very popular because of their looks, usually have kids within their rise to fame, can tap into anything creative and succeed. brilliant actors and actresses have these placements; ex, nicolae kidman who has pisces in the 5H, and angelina jolie who has neptune in the 5H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 6H - amazing producers [music and film], are known for their interaction with drugs or people might have conspiracies with them taking drugs, health issues are put onto blast and usually stand out in a project that has many people and are usually the main character; ex, britney spears who has pisces in the 6H, and kanye west who has neptune in the 6H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 7H - like to please their fans, controversy with marriage, be careful with deals/contracts that you would sign, sometimes other people might think you are distant and you guys are likely to have iconic fashion moments; ex, bella hadid who has pisces in the 7H, and mariah carey who has neptune in the 7H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 8H - usually leave a big legacy, victim/subject to memes, or being made fun of by people in the industry, tough relationship with addiction and have a big fandom which can make them excused a lot; ex, marilyn monroe who has pisces in the 8H, and michael jackson who has neptune in the 8H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 9H - loved due to their charisma, loud and big personalities, partake in business all over the world and are wanted by foreign companies, and have a moment when they're under fire due to the public; ex, angelina jolie who has pisces in the 9H, and rihanna who has neptune in the 9H.

PISCES/NETPUNE IN THE 10H - likely to be models, have contracts with big brands, many people look up to them and have much expectations for them, could also be people who are in political power or are connected to them; ex, victoria beckham who has pisces in the 10H, and princess diana who has neptune in the 10H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 11H - are usually easily excused, famous due to a private circle [political power on theories like illuminati], usually say things they are not meant to say, can either be easily liked or hated by the public and this can give online fame, or could get famous because of the internet; ex, miley cyrus who has pisces in the 11H, and billie eilish who has neptune in the 11H.

PISCES/NETPUNE IN THE 12H - people usually want to be them, long-term fame, another model indicator, and can be people who get into relationships with people who are known in the industry; ex, gigi hadid who has pisces in the 12H, and zendaya who has neptune in the 12H.

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deanbrainrotwritings · 3 months

Text

— CELEBRATION DAY

SUMMARY : cowboy Dean, that’s it! yeah, yeah, I’ve got a thing.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), blowjob (mentioned), handjob, unprotected p in v, angst, fluff

WORD COUNT : 5.9k

A/N : led zeppelin song title. omg, I wanna thank my big brothers for watching Supernatural when I was little. I never woulda met Dean’s gorgeous, galaxy freckled face, green-eyed sparkle sparkle, majestic body, honey hair, smirky, pillow lip prince—what was I saying? oh yeah, I love Dean, happy birthday to the man I’ve loved the longest 💗

Dean didn’t think the whole month of January could get any better.

Everyday Y/n left a gift for him somewhere around the bunker for him to find. It was like the Twelve Days of Christmas song, but so much better.

He was really pretty sure she was stealing most of them.

On the first day, a pin up style calendar, but instead of random women, it was her and all his favourite kinks and fetishes. If he could, he’d say he loved her in every language that exists. It’s the only way for him to show that he truly means it. At least he thinks so.

On the second day, he received seven different types of necklaces that she thought he’d look prettiest in, but one stood out. One that he’d offhandedly shown interest in when they were window shopping to walk off the effects of caffeine in her system. The love letter smelled of coffee and recounted the feelings she had watching him be so domestic.

On the third day, she gave him a Street Fighter arcade game perfect for his Dean Cave. He swore he’d beat her, but he didn’t have the heart to do so, and let her KO him (she already knew what he was doing).

On the fourth day, she got him a new, stainless steel watch. She attached a small love letter addressed to him, the last words were spoken by the Doctor: You waited long enough. Time and time again, with her by his side, he yearned for normalcy, a family, getting out. For some reason, an object that measured time symbolised their endless love, a promise that made him breathless.

On the fifth day, he was given seven different rings. The letter for this gift said something along the lines of: I need to practise proposing. And you didn’t say no, so this is going great. He chuckled at that. He’d never say no to her, especially not to marriage.

On the sixth, she gave him a porn magazine, starring : her. He found it in the library when she sent him to pick up a book for her. A magazine like one belonging to Playboy that drove him crazy every day that he remembered what was in it. And that tiny love letter she put inside… He hoped no one would put their hands on that one. It was for his eyes only.

On the seventh, a black 1962 corvette that she put together with the help of her older brother. To say Dean was impressed was an understatement, despite all those times he taught her how to put the Impala back together, he was both turned on and fascinated with her work. And obviously they, uh, christened it. Or whatever.

On the eighth, she surprised him with twelve books he’d intended to read for such a long time, but never got around to searching for them. Shane; Whiskey When We’re Dry; Lonesome Dove; Blood Meridian. Were some of the titles he recognised and he was more than thrilled to dive into them and relax completely as reality faded around him.

On the ninth, she gifted him a new cowboy outfit. She put that in the room where he kept all the costumes he wore. The material was more original, with amazing quality—aka, not cheap. A whole bunch of Hecho en Mexico tags that he’d ask her to read to him—in Spanish of course. For reasons. (And that love letter he found in the inner pocket also needed to be read in Spanish, too.)

On the tenth, he got to open a giant box of Scooby snacks. Here and there, there were a few of his other favourite snacks, but there were mostly Scooby snacks that he’d been munching on ever since.

The eleventh, the gift he received were seven different bracelets. According to the love letter, they were gifts to keep him bound to her only.

The twelfth, a brand new espresso machine. That was simply found by him in the kitchen, new, with an olive-green bow and a small lover letter. All that yummy coffee he gets to consume in the morning with her, trying it out together. Two coffee addicts in love. Nothing better.

The thirteenth, the gift was going to an amuent park together. They ate too many foods, went on all—if not most—of the rides, took a hundred photos, tried on the silly clothes, played the games—mini-golf, go-carts… He was exhausted as soon as they got inside the Impala. So, it was a last minute decision to stay at a nearby hotel for the night. It was the best sleep he had in ages.

The fourteenth, a large journal in multitudes of journaling styles detailing things she loved about him that particular day or something he did that made her smile. It was cheesy, but very beautiful. The care and attention to detail made Dean’s heart lurch in his chest. From the cute bullet journal style, to the more than accurate drawings of him, and sophisticated details about things he didn’t know about himself, his habits, or other things he did. It was a collection of her love for him, which somehow made any fears evaporate like steam in a shower.

The fifteenth, forty-five new sets of socks with cute and/or funny prints. And she was prepared with a new drawer for all of them to fit, rolled up perfectly like… well, whatever delicious meal she had planned just as he liked. Enchiladas. Yummy. And a new love letter shoved inside a sock to make him blush and smile boyishly.

For the sixteenth day, it was four cassette mixtapes of all the songs they listened to when they went on some of their most meaningful dates and that played in the most memorable, intimate moments of their lives. Now it made sense why she was thrilled to learn and watch him prepare the mixtape he made for Cas. (It was better afterwards when his skills and patience were more than noticed by her and she—anyway, it was hot sex.) As for the love letter, it was profoundly clear that she wanted to praise and show she recognised his expertise, intelligence, and skill (not that she hasn’t praised him for it before).

For the seventeenth day, he got a Katana. He didn’t need it, he didn’t even know he wanted it until he held it in his hands and unsheathed it. God, that was awesome. Of course he’d probably almost accidentally hurt himself playing around with it, using it unnecessarily in the kitchen—just as an example.

For the eighteenth day, a sex position book with over 300 sex positions to try. It almost offended him, but after looking through a few pages, he was convinced that she was right and they needed to try some of the kinkier positions.

For the nineteenth day, she handed him a lengthy collection of mint condition Batman comic books. He was so not cool about that, gushing and grinning, holding her tightly until she pushed him away to breathe properly.

For the twentieth day, he received some new vinyl records of his favourite songs from his favourite bands to nearly complete his collection of music. And as always, he found a love letter relating to the gift she gave to him where she’d ‘hid’ the vinyls above his desk.

For the twenty-first: an old photo album filled with photos he’d never seen from his childhood and up to last year. Some he never even remembered living, but they did skip a few memories that made him smile sadly. She confessed she got Cas to take her back into the past to sneakily take pictures of him and everything he lived through. It was oddly… endearing. Then, she gave him an empty photo album, only their New Year’s kiss was placed inside a protective, plastic pocket. Ready to be filled by him, this time around.

For the twenty-second, a custom made Batman costume. The story for this one was that she made a deal with one of Charlie’s old LARPing friends: if she got rid of a ghost in his house, he’d make her the costume. And after that, she got one of the Dean’s from another universe to act as the model for the measurements Charlie’s old friend took to make the costume fit him perfectly. There were a few ideas Dean had regarding that costume, and he’s more than a hundred percent sure Y/n’s been thinking the same thing ever since he tried it on.

For the twenty-third, a twelve month pie subscription, obviously on National Pie Day. And he got to try the first one that day, rhubarb pie that made his mouth water as soon as the sticky insides made contact with his taste buds. How many times does he have to say he’s lucky in his mind?

And today, he had yet to find out.

He was spoiled.

Lavishing in her love for the past twenty-four days—more so than usual, soaking in it like the waffles he drowned in syrup for breakfast in the morning.

Right after his birthday blowjob as soon as he woke up.

He ate those soft, perfectly crunchy, warm waffles in bed while basking in the golden afterglow of his orgasm. Breathless and dazed, he didn’t worry about a single thing as he moved from one waffle to the next, eating his favourite fruits, jams, chocolate chips, maple syrup, honey… all the things she knew he loved indecisively.

And while she licked her lips clean of his cum, he licked his lips clean of whipped cream.

God, he was lucky.

She was awesome. More than awesome.

There were no words he could find to describe her.

The only problem with today was that he wasn’t gonna be the centre of just her attention. He could deal with that. He loved it, in fact. What he did not love was having to be the centre of attention with all his friends and family around.

He just felt… maybe… shy. Embarrassed? Old?

He wasn’t used to it. Not to that kind of attention from his friends, anyway. As much as they loved him and as much as he loved them. It was different. New.

He was anxious about it.

It was usually a phone call, a text, or nothing. He was fine with that. He didn’t really care. He was always hunting before. They were always busy with their hunts or their lives and birthday were always… whatever.

He was used to Y/n. To the way she loved him. Worshipped him, even. Daily. It was almost the same as any other day, except for the gifts—which were grand, more… thoughtful and loving. As if she lived in his brain and heart, digging through his wishes and dreams to find the perfect gift to make him feel special. Something that lasted, something to be used, something to be loved by him.

He was used to Sam. To the occasional, remorseless thieving of his little brother to get him what he thought he’d like. The singular, impactful gifts or the silly-joke gift he gave first to trick him into thinking it was something meaningless, thoughtless. The pat in the back, the hug, the pie, the childish decoration, the alcohol… a typical sibling birthday party meant to be laughed at.

He was getting used to Cas. To the overuse of emoticons in the birthday text. The awkwardness in the hug before it settled and became comfortable to do. The thoughtful gift he recieved, something Dean mentioned whenever they hung out—even if it was ridiculous. Cas could get it. He’s an angel. And the best friend Dean could ever ask for.

Jack… was, well, he’s Jack. He tried to copy Cas, Sam, Y/n. A mixture of all of the things they did, taking notes of what they were up to, finding something that was… him and not all of them. Dean’s heart softened and he cut Jack some slack, appreciating the effort, the thought he put into it, even if sometimes it was… bad.

But now, some of his closest friends would be making their way to him and he was just not prepared for all of that.

What he was prepared for, was his girlfriend’s skillful ability to make a larger-than-necessary Rice Krispies Treat cake just for him. She liked it as much as he did now, replacing the traditional birthday cake—she wasn’t much of a cake fan. But his stomach’s heart did love those tres-leches cakes.

Dean got dressed up as a cowboy as soon as Sam left to help Eileen prepare for the mini birthday party. He knew it did things to Y/n, even if she refused to admit it to him every time he brought it up or teased her about it.

He tried to cling to her the whole day.

He failed.

She was up to secret stuff.

He only got to be in her presence when she cooked or as she decorated the library where they’d later be embarrassing him with their loving attention. He helped her with all of that, of course—despite her protests. He’d hold her for a few minutes, kiss her a little bit, and then he’d follow behind her as if he couldn’t find anything better to do himself.

He watched her pull out game after game, after game, and set it down on different tables. Cards Against Humanity. Loteria. UNO. Bingo. A few other classics, some from his childhood. And she was texting Sam the whole time for the location of each game, where to set it, agreeing on some and putting others away.

Dean didn’t mind. As long as there was something that took most of the attention away from him and towards something else.

He played with the die from one of the games as he followed her around. His eyes traced over colourful candles, little horns to blow funny sounds out of, balloons, string, paper, confetti, banners, funny hats and glasses, and a dozen other items and decorations that made him feel like a kid again.

Dean liked to watch her, and she liked watching his reaction to whatever she pulled out of the plastic bags he remembered watching Sam and Jack coming in with a few days ago.

Dean was happy once she was done and finally resting from all the planning and tasks she was completing. She’d play with the buttons on his suit jacket by buttoning and unbuttoning them boredly as she took a break before heading off to the next activity.

After she made the cake, she made extra for both of them to snack on—even though she’d also given him a piece before she prepared the Rice Krispies treat. The two of them waited for their friends to get to the Bunker and ate the small slice while watching a random movie on the television.

Dean started to wonder what his brother would be getting him. Or Cas. Jack. Claire. Jody. Donna. Oh. He wanted to be sucked up into the couch, no, into Y/n’s soul. Just the thought of receiving a gift from everyone other than the people who currently lived in the Bunker made him flustered and embarrassed.

He had no doubts the gifts would be good. Still, there was something about gifts and birthday parties that made him… uncomfortable. As much as he loved each and every single one of them, as much as he secretly adored being loved.. it felt like asking too much, even if this was all their idea.

Even though he would do this and so much more for them.

Dean didn’t know they were up to this until last week when Sam randomly brought it up. Y/n jumped on board immediately, then Jack did, and Cas. Jack and Cas were in charge of buying the snacks, which Dean appreciated because Sam tended to get distracted and would forget to buy some of the most important items—according to Dean, of course. The pie, being the main item.

Dean realised that neither he nor she were really paying attention to the movie. Their plates laid abandoned on the table next to the green leather couch they sat on. The cowboy hat was abandoned on Dean’s bed. She was tucked into the corner with one leg propped up in it with the other dangling over the edge. Dean settled on his back in between her legs with his head on her shoulder.

That was just the first step in seducing her.

He wondered if he’d get more lottery tickets from everyone. If they’d bring some of the funniest, endearing birthday cards where they had to change the main title to for his age because he had the taste of a kid. He hoped they wouldn’t do something illegal like he knew Y/n and Sam were doing to make this the best birthday party for him. (Though, Dean was generally feeling pretty smug about their naughtiness.)

He wouldn’t mind repeated gifts at all, as in… if Claire wanted to go mini-golfing with him and gave him another ticket… or if Jack simply wanted to try fishing with him again. He’d love that. To spend time with them. The people he cared most about.

He played with her slim fingers, traced her knuckles, and teased the soft skin of her arms with his fingertips when she slipped them around his waist. He lifted her hands up to his lips, worshipping one thoroughly with his lips, warming them up for her.

Her other hand rested over his chest where his heart was beating rapidly at the thought of what he wanted. Her hand laid still for a few seconds before she began to play with the buttons of his white dress shirt, then tapped her mossy-green nails against the ovaloid metal buckle of his belt.

He dropped her hand gingerly to let her play with his clothes using both of her hands and he took to tracing her legs with his fingers over thick, warm pyjamas. He could feel her body release the tension of her stress, and for a moment, he smiled softly and felt his body do the same thing.

When he turned to look at her, she glanced away from his chest where she was gently scratching his shirt to make the funny sound of cloth being scraped. He kissed her when she smiled at him, one small peck, not entirely innocent.

The movie was long forgotten soon after that. Not that they were paying attention to it before anyway.

Dean scooted up slightly to kiss her properly with one hand on her jaw, his fingers entwined through her soft hair, bringing her plush lips closer to his. It was unhurried, lazy, the slow build from firm, deep kisses, to demanding, heated ones that caused a blush to flare up their faces.

Breathlessly, she began unbuttoning his shirt while he unbuckled his belt, but they continued kissing. His tongue slipped between her sweet lips, tasting more sweetness from the marshmallow and rice treat they ate not long ago.

She brought the white t-shirt up his chest—excruciatingly slow—when she fully unbuttoned his dress shirt. Her fingertips slipped up the soft flesh of his tummy, his toned and freckled chest, then she flattened her palm over his rapidly thudding heart. Leisurely, she smoothed her hand down his soft, slightly scarred skin, brushing past the fine, blonde hair trailing down beneath his belly button.

Dean moaned into her mouth and impatiently lifted his hips from the couch. She snuck her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and curled her fingers around the base of his hardening length. Dean gasped against her kiss-swollen lips and closed his eyes tightly, promptly rolling his hips to push his cock through her fingers.

“You look so hot like this,” she whispered against the corner of his lips. Dean squirmed and spread his legs when he planted his feet flat on the floor to aid each of his thrusts. Gently, she placed her other hand around his neck to tip his head back and to the side to place a feverish kiss to his cracked, pillowy lips.

She continued moving her hand along his length, from root to tip, playing with the precum that began to accumulate and stain the cotton of his underwear.

Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly with each breath, attempting to hold off his orgasm. His thighs tensed, muscles constricting beneath thin dress pants as she twisted her hand up and down his cock inside his slacks and boxers. His lips moved desperately against hers and he swiped his tongue across hers, his brows furrowed in mind-numbing pleasure.

Dean’s fingers dug into her thighs on either side of his body, trying to keep himself stable as his hips bucked up into her hand, driving his cock faster through her fingers. Her hand squeezed at the sides of his neck and released to make his brain fuzzier, neurons hazed with lust and need.

“Please… I wanna be inside you, baby,” Dean panted against her lips as she kissed him. Instead, she rapidly continued to tug at his cock, her fist wrapped tightly around him until he felt like exploding. “I can’t- please- I need you,” he begged, but never dared to stop her as her lips trailed away to his jawline, to suck a dark mark on the sensitive skin of his neck.

She suddenly loosened her grip on his cock and slowly slid her slick palm up the front of his body. His orgasm began to fade away and his body slumped against hers, his chests heaving with each breath, his heart racing. Her lips brushed against his earlobe, “you’re right…” she murmured.

“A-about what?” He mumbled, lifting himself up to turn and face her. She was smiling at him when he gazed at her, her eyes soft and full of love, mirroring the much more dishevelled expression on his own, pink face.

Her eyes flickered away from his dewy green eyes when he leaned into her. He watched them travel up his body, from his thigh pressing into the leather next to her leg, to his boxers shoved low on his hips, exposing curly, light brown hair, his unzipped slacks and therather belt hanging losing around his hips, up to the opened dress shirt and t-shirt beneath draped haphazardly over his chest, and then her eyes stopped at his mouth.

She tilted her head and met him the rest of the way to press her lips against his, placing a soft, adoring peck. “I do think cowboys are fucking hot, especially you,” she smirked, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, playing with the tiny hairs behind his head.

Dean bit his lip, mirroring her expression, and hummed, “is that right?” She nodded, her other hand slipping down to tease the waistband of his boxers. Dean’s calloused hands travelled up her sides, sneaking beneath her long-sleeved shirt, up warm, soft skin. “I already knew, just wanted to hear you say it.”

She laughed shortly, allowing Dean to lift her thick shirt up and off her body. Dean’s lips came down to her neck, hot and open-mouthed kisses flushing her skin. His hands traced her sides and eventually hooked at the top of her leggings to pull down the material covering her legs. He carefully let her lay down as she shifted to fully remove her leggings and underwear.

But she sat upright once more before Dean could settle between her warm legs. Dean remained fully clothed and he laughed against her breasts when she impatiently shoved his slacks and boxers lower. His hands remained firmly on her body, exploring inches of familiar skin—squeezing, pulling, and holding.

His soft lips moved over the expanse of her chest, teeth nibbling on sensitive flesh, his wet tongue tasting her velvety skin. Her hands made their way down past his cock to cup his balls, which made Dean’s brow rise in pleasant surprise, his mouth freezing around her nipple.

He moaned around her skin and brought his own hand down between her legs as his cock bobbed excitedly. Warm slick coated his fingertips when he slid his fingers through her folds. With a pleased hum, she reached back to grip the wooden handle of the couch, and gently pressed her palm against his balls.

He played with her clit, coating it in her arousal, then buried his middle finger inside her. She bit her lip and arched her back, a jolt from his thumb pressing into her clit causing her to moan. She removed her hand from between his legs—much to his disappointment—to dig her nails into his taut thigh.

Dean dragged his tongue across her chest to attend to her other breast and dipped a second finger into her. Her pussy fluttered around his scissoring fingers, she whispered his name, moving her legs over his hips in a more comfortable position. Her hand slid up to bunch up in his shirt as her thighs twitched, screwing her eyes shut as the pleasure dazed her.

Her shift in position brought her centre closer to him and he pushed a third finger into her, working her open thoroughly, expertly. Her wetness drenched his thick fingers, making every push and pull swift and easy. They curled inside her, rubbing delectably at her g-spot, pressing delightfully into the most sensitive parts of her walls. Her toes curled and she lifted herself up higher in his lap, implicitly urging him to skip to the fucking.

Dean instantly did as she wordlessly requested and pulled his glistening fingers out of her warmth. He stroked his cock a few times, first, watching her watch him coat himself in her excitement. He looked back down between their flushed bodies when he began moving his cock through her dewy folds, moaning contentedly at the sensation of her against him.

She unclenched her hand from his shirt to bring up behind his neck, her delicate fingers slipping between short hairs. Finally, Dean pushed himself into her deliberately, then out gradually. Over and over they created a rhythm.

With one foot on the floor and his knee pressing into the backrest, his hands gripping her hips tightly. His lips connected to any part of her he could reach, moaning and gasping softly against her skin with every clench of her pussy, every measured thrust to feel every inch of her slide across his cock.

Her arm flexed behind her as she moved with Dean, her fingers gripping the wooden arm of the couch tightly, timing each roll of her hips with his. Occasionally, she met every one of his thrust and brought his face closer to her with her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

His breath dampened her already steamy skin and his hands started to wander lovingly over her shiny body, feeling the exertion of her muscles beneath his calloused palms.

Gradually, they began to move faster against each other.

Dean’s body built up more heat with the clothes still covering every inch of him. His mouth went dry with every open-mouthed breath and he searched for her lips as a tingle ran up his spine, his stomach clenching to foreshadow his impending orgasm.

He felt her breath against his lips and her fingers moved deeper into his hair, tugging so his mouth fell open. Her lips moved over his, her wet tongue bringing moisture back into his mouth, and over his chapped lips. Dean kissed her back with so much more force, easing his tongue into her mouth when she pulled hers out to smirk into the kiss.

He squeezed her ass, painfully pressing his fingers into her back, desperately trying to feel her against his body. He fucked into her briskly, with strong thrusts that pressed his cock deeper into her channel until she squirmed from how good it was. He swallowed her pleased groan and brought her closer with his arm around her waist and his palm flat against her back.

Dean’s thrust became erratic, every slam of his hips and every roll of hers made contact with her clit, bringing her close to the edge with him. Every touch of each other’s bodies, every hot and lewd kiss, every heavy and fast breath, every breathless and pleasured sound, every wet and hot sensation built up like volatile chemicals.

With a few final thrusts, Dean came with a groan of her name by her ear. She squeezed his cock tightly and cursed at the sensation of his hot cum coating her insides. Her thighs pressed into his hips as she orgasmed with a sharp gasp, clinging to him as they rode out their climax.

Dean ground his hips up into her, keeping himself deep inside her as she shook and held him in a tight embrace. Their lips met once more for a softer, more elated kiss as they became blanketed in the afterglow of their release. She released the wooden arm of the couch to cup Dean’s scruffy jaw and Dean’s arms circled around her waist.

He moved backwards carefully and laid her down onto her back, allowing her to fully wrap her legs around his waist. Dean shoved his suit jacket and dress shirt off as they kissed. She smiled against his mouth and let him pull away fully from her lips to watch him throw both items onto his bed.

“It was cold before, but it’s hot now,” he muttered, pulling his t-shirt up over his head by the back of the neck. She giggled and brought her hands to his ass, moving his pants and underwear lower, past his thighs.

“Well…” she trailed off, gazing at him as he slowly pulled his cock out of her. “Hey,” she pouted, moving his attention away from the mess between her legs and the mixture of their spendings leaked out of her.

“Uh, yeah?” He grinned, moving off the couch to kick off the cowboy boots, and everything else so he was fully naked before her.

“Your last gift,” she started, looking over to the bed. Before returning to his spot between her legs, Dean followed her eyes and lifted a brow. “It’s under your pillow,” she smiled shyly, looking up at him as his lips parted and then made an ‘o’.

“Awesome,” he murmured, making his way to his side of the bed. He searched underneath with a swipe of his hands beneath the cool pillow and grabbed the small, somewhat heavy box decorated with pink wrapping paper and a silver bow. “What is it?” He asked, shaking it curiously.

She laughed at him, taking the unused napkin from the table to clean herself up, which distracted Dean from his gift. He was about to protest, offering to clean her up, but she laughed. He pouted at her, but settled back in her arms in the same position as before once she finished.

“I really… really hope you like this one,” she whispered against his shoulder. Dean looked back at her and smiled softly—his eyes reassuring her that he’d like anything that came from her. He carefully pulled at one end of the bow to watch it fall apart into a straight line.

He ripped the paper to reveal a wooden box. Dean imagined a necklace, if the thud against the soft cushion inside the box revealed anything about what it actually was.

A ring? He planned on proposing, but he’d say yes if she turned the tables. He smiled at the thought, but he doubted that they were stepped enough into a normal life for that. If it were up to him, he’d have asked her to marry him ages ago.

He opened the box slowly and blinked at the steel key.

“A… key?” He asked out loud, turning his body to look at her as she waited for his reaction anxiously.

“I… bought a house?” She squeaked, her cheeks turning dark. Dean’s lips parted. He wanted to question her, to make a comment about what the place looked like or where it was or how much it cost, to say anything, but his throat tightened and clogged any words from escaping. With his tongue heavy in his mouth, there was no hope to ease her anxiety. He shut it instead. “For you- us. You and me…” she rambled, wrapping her hand around his to shut the box as if it were Pandora’s box—unleashing her deepest fears, but worst of all, her hope.

“I…” Dean trailed off, staring at the wooden exterior of the square container. A little box that would give him the future he’s secretly always yearned for with her. He was too much of a coward to ever do anything and go for it. Her hand moved away from his and she shifted behind him awkwardly, pushing him off her so he’d face her instead.

“You don’t…” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “It’s okay, if you don’t want… this…” She snatched the gift away from him as if she’d show him her deepest secret and had been judged for revealing what it was.

“No! I-I do want this,” Dean reassured her and quickly took it back to open it, and remove the key from inside. He placed it on his palm, cold, small, and light against his sweaty skin. “I just…” His eyes flickered up to hers, the guarded and nearly stony expression on her face twisting his stomach in regret. “I love you,” he breathed, pressing his lips against the corner of her lips.

“Are you sure?” She bit her lip, her eyes dancing over his face to gauge any emotion or shift that would hint to reveal he was truly feeling. “I don’t want you to be unhappy… if you don’t want this, it’s okay. You can tell me. I have a backup gift anyway,” she shrugged casually, moving to sit on her legs next to him.

She gazed at the side of his face as he continued to make her heart plummet with the long stare at the key in his hand.

“Why?” He asked with knitted brows, looking at her. He could tell she felt much more bare and vulnerable as she crossed her arms over his chest and kept herself covered with her own body.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to give it to you just yet,” she admitted. Dean frowned. “But after today… the way you followed me around and helped me.. I changed my mind,” she shrugged again, “but it’s okay if we both want something different, if you’re not ready… you know I’d wait…” She smiled nervously, so it didn’t last, and her mouth returned to a straight line.

“No more waiting, baby.” Dean shook his head and put the key back into the box, leaving it beside him to take her hands. He lifted them both up to his lips, staring into her eyes to demonstrate his earnestness, “you waited long enough.”

“I promise you that I’m ready,” he reassured her, brushing his thumbs against her knuckles. “This gift… it means so much to me. I do, truly, love you.” Dean tugged her hands and she finally laughed, allowing herself to be happy with him. In this moment. And forever. No more waiting.

As he held her, Dean pictured the future they could have together and let his body rest without fear of everything else going on. For once, he’d let himself be happy. It was the one way he could let go of Sam, allowing both himself and his baby brother a shot at a normal life, something Dean wanted for himself and Sam for so long. This was the first step to freedom.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” she whispered against his forehead, kissing the tiny scar that resided there.

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dean’s 45th birthday celebration masterlist

do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#dean’s 45th birthday celebration #dean x female!reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female!reader #happy birthday dean <3 #happybirthdaydeanwinchester #happy birthday dean

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nobodyfamousposts · 11 months

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Another Miraculous Crossover Nobody Wanted (DCxML)

In the midst of so many Batfamily/Miraculous crossovers, the thing I feel so many people forget is that the Waynes are...well...themselves.

Sure, they're awesome vigilantes. Trained in martial arts and with great mental fortitude to help them against the likes of Scarecrow's fear gas, Joker's venom, and Mad Hatter's manipulations.

...the problem is that Hawk Moth is a whole different ballgame.

He doesn't target their fears or dreams. He targets ANYTHING. Like petty annoyances. Frustrations. Sleep deprivation. Obsessions. Things the Batfamily generally try to ignore on a regular basis.

If he can akumatize and reakumatize the same man over his love of pigeons and people who feel they've been wronged over silly reasons, there's SO MUCH that could come from the complete dysfunction/emotional constipation that is the Wayne family. Remember, ANY frustration or annoyance or upset counts.

Meaning Ladybug and Chat will be having their hands full with the Waynes until they leave.

And given that Hawk Moth comes up with the silliest costumes and powers...

...the others would never let them live it down.

...

It was a beautiful day in Paris. And an absolutely wonderful vacation to the City of Love, where everything was peaceful and nothing was wrong.

Dick stood at the window looking out over the city.

Tim was on his computer doing some reports. Possibly Wayne Enterprises work, but more likely mission work.

Damien had apparently gotten tired of grumbling and was focused on sharpening his sword—which Bruce really shouldn’t have let him bring. But given the situation, he couldn’t argue against letting Damien have something that would help him stay calm.

Cass had found a magazine to occupy her time, though she seemed somewhat confused as to the male teen model that kept appearing in nearly every line.

And Jason…

…he was grinning. And watching Bruce with such anticipation, looking downright hopeful as he waited. Not helping was that he was holding what appeared to be a brand new camera, fully prepared to start recording.

Bruce knew why.

But he would not give him the satisfaction.

Because nothing was going to happen.

Absolutely nothing.

Bruce twitched.

SNAP!

And his pen cracked from the sheer amount of pressure he was putting on it. Which was admittedly an annoyance, but wasn’t that big of a deal…

…if it wasn’t the 15th pen he’d broken in the past three hours.

It was fine though.

Nothing was wrong.

He was calm.

Calm.

A muffled voice could be heard from outside despite the room being on the seventh floor of a building. Which of course was a coincidence and not because someone was actually right outside the room….and the building.

And perhaps if Bruce tried really hard, he could convince himself was just someone singing a line out of “American Pie” and not someone talking about butterflies.

No.

Because there were no butterflies outside. Because he was fine!

Not the slightest bit upset!

At. All.

“That’s thirty-three…” Dick counted.

…

…Dammit.

Bruce sighed.

“Did she come back to the roof?”

“Actually, she never left.” Tim confirmed, not even looking up from his computer. “She stopped leaving after the last incident and has just been standing there for the past couple hours now, catching them as they come.”

A long pause.

“How…?”

“Her partner has been bringing her water and snacks. And keeping watch whenever she has to leave to hibernate or use the little bug’s room.”

Bruce groaned.

Why couldn’t it be a villain? Or a fan or stalker? He could deal with those. He dealt with them all the time.

It was the well intentioned young superheroes that he had a harder time dealing with. The ones that wanted to help but were misguided in not understanding that their help wasn’t necessary.

“Gotcha!”

“Thirty-four.” Dick droned.

…no matter how many magical butterflies implied otherwise.

“Maybe we should do what the nice Ladybug hero asked and finish up our business in Paris?” Tim suggested.

“I refuse!” Damien shouted, jumping to his feet. “This villain has made a mockery of us and it must not be allowed to stand! I will not leave until he has been caught and my sword has tasted his blood!”

“Damien, we don’t kill, remember?”

“I wouldn’t kill him.” Damien said, looking away with a pout. “Just…dismember him a bit.” He frowned, consideringly. “Maybe cut off his arms. He can’t continue villainy then, right?”

Tim sighed.

“So that’s a no on going home early then.”

They heard a noise from the roof.

“Is she leaving?” Bruce asked, trying to hide how hopeful he was.

“Nope. It’s her catboyfriend back again.” Dick replied, blithely.

Bruce sighed.

“Do you think they’re dating?”

“Dick.” Bruce warned.

“Because the city seems to be really hamming up the romantic angle between the two and it’s kinda hard to not see.” Dick continued.

“Dick.”

“Even if it is kinda weird that they’re essentially shipping teenagers.”

“Speaking from experience there, Dickie Boy?” Jason cut in, cheekily.

“Stop it. Both of you.” Bruce ordered. “The goal of coming to Paris was supposed to be to deal with the emotional terrorism from Hawk Moth.”

“A little hard with all your emotional constipation there, B.”

Jason smirked.

“Or should I say ‘Justice Man’?”

Bruce twitched.

#ml fic #ml crossover #dc crossover #bruce wayne #batfamily #dick grayson #jason todd #damien wayne #tim drake #ml crack #ml humor #miraculous ladybug #bruce wayne is bad at feelings #jason is having too much fun #yes I'm making fun of them #I do it out of love

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pepsichrry · 3 months

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Theo Nott Headcannons/Information

Information:

•Theo was mentioned in the Harry Potter books (The Philosopher’s Stone, Order of the Phoenix).

•He is only referred to as ‘Nott’ during the sorting ceremony in book 1.

•He isn’t mentioned until book 5 as one of the only three students in the Care of Magical Creatures class who are able to see Thestrals, meaning that he had witnessed somebody die. He supposedly found it unpleasant as he watched one eat and he wasn’t fond of the creatures.

•His appearances in the books are described as ‘weedy’ and ‘stringy’ meaning that he is likely canonically tall and thinly built.

•It is unclear when he is born, but it is said that his father was an older or elderly man who had been previously involved with the Deatheater Army during the First Wizarding War.

•Theodore was mentioned by Hermione in 1996 as one of the group of Slytherin boys whose fathers had been outed as Deatheaters by the magazine ‘The Quibbler’. His reaction seemed to differ from his friends as his reaction was the only one which was not specifically threatening or negative, suggesting indifference.

•At the end of his Fifth Year, Theodore Nott Sr. was captured in the Department of Mysteries as a member of Deatheater forces who participated in a raid of the Department and was exposed as an escaped Deatheater.

•With his father in Azkaban and his mother seemingly dead, it is unspecified who cared for Theodore during the summer holidays.

•In sixth year, Theodore was not asked to attend the Slug Club due to his fathers involvement with the Dark Lord, this is because of Professor Slughorns inquiry about Theo’s family from Blaine Zabini, who was later invited to the Club.

•Theodore was one of the few students who progressed to N.E.W.T level Potions. They seemed to poke fun of Hermiones Blood-Status and were skeptical of the effects of Amorentia.

•He attended his Seventh year at Hogwarts and was treated well due to his Blood Status.

•At the Battle of Hogwarts, it is unclear whether he joined Voldemorts side or Evacuated, but since he is not shown or mentioned defecting to the Deatheaters before the Battle, we can assume that he didn’t end up fighting with the Deatheaters.

•It is also mentioned that he was later taken into custody for owning illegal Timeturners. We can infer from this that he could possibly have made them with dark magic, or he bought them for a hefty price. (Said in TCC, so possibly not Canon).

•Theo is mentioned to be very intelligent, but more of a Loner, since he didn’t participate in many groups like the one led by Draco Malfoy.

Headcannons:

•Theodore watched his mother die when he was young, leaving him in the sole care of his father, who was a cold and bitter man.

•Theo didn’t have many friends when he was younger except for Draco Malfoy, but he opened up slightly more at Hogwarts, though he still liked his alone time.

•He had a set path for him created by his father. He was supposed to work in the ministry and provide for a family, but Theo wanted to be a Potioneer like his uncle and much of his other family on his mother’s side.

•Theo’s mother left all of her belongings to him, and made sure that his father wouldn’t be able to take possession of any of it. In his inheritance, he gained a large portion of money and an estate in rural Italy.

•His mother was from Florence, Italy and was married to his father through an arranged marriage, where she suffered abuse from Theodore Nott Sr. She died slowly due to a failed suicide attempt.

•Theodore had trouble connecting with people because of his parent’s relationship and the things that he’d witnessed in his childhood. He feared becoming his father more than anything, so he did all that he could to prevent it from happening.

•He’d never had a real relationship and never would despite how many girls he’d slept with. He didn’t want a commitment.

•Despite how quiet he was, Theo was a very funny person and to his friends, he was often the life of the party

•Theo was prone to addiction and often used unhealthy coping mechanisms like smoking, drinking and drug use, though he only took drugs at parties.

•Much like Draco, Theo took the Dark Mark as a punishment for his father’s mistakes, not out of willingness. He received it a week after his fifteenth birthday and struggled to adjust.

•He was 6’2” feet tall

•He tanned very nicely in the summer, leaving him with smooth, olive skin just like his mother’s.

•During the Battle of Hogwarts, Theo ran away with Blaise Zabini, purely because he wanted to avoid fighting people that he’d previously called friends.

•As his life went on, Theo learned from his mistakes and prejudices and slowly but surely became a better person. He was clean by the time he was 20.

•As a request from the Dark Lord, Theo created a Timeturner for him. But since he’d learned how to do it, he created more and gifted one to the Malfoy Family and kept one for himself. He didn’t use it to change the past, but he’d travel back to his old house to watch his past, specifically, to watch his mother, trying to piece together parts of her life and his. It was the only way of truly knowing and remembering her because he was so young when she died.

•Theo died before he turned 30, ending the Nott family line. He’d died alone after taking his own life to avoid being sent to Azkaban for his possession of illegal Timeturners.

•He lived a life of longing for love without receiving it. Secretly, he wished for a loving relationship and a family, but he didn’t want to repeat the cycle of abuse that he was trapped in. He felt that his family line didn’t deserve to be continued, he felt that he was atoning for their sins by ending it.

#theo nott #harry potter #draco malfoy #theodore nott #hogwarts houses #headcanon #canon #death eaters

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hussyknee · 5 months

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They put Motaz Azaiza's face on the cover of GQ Middle East for his coverage of Gaza while he's still trapped in there and being targeted by quadcopters and not one Arab government has done more than be like "oh that's sad tsk tsk". He's really pissed off about it obviously; man's been pleading for a ceasefire for nearly two months live from the seventh circle of hell and liberals slap his face on the Sexy Man magazine and draw hearts around it instead. Fucking clown world.

#motaz azaiza #we've been checking on him nearly every hour because he's been tweeting about how obviously the drones are targeting him #and then this #do you think being a famous middle eastern face will discourage israel from killing him or something #have they been living under a rock. is this their first day outdoors #this is why open bigots are preferable to liberals #their idea of support is more destructive to morale and more insidiously dehumanizing #it wasn't even a good picture of him #gaza genocide #free palestine #knee of huss

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weemssapphic · 10 months

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in my head (series)

Chapter Twelve: in my head

Larissa Weems x f!reader

previous chapter | series page

words: ~3.7k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings/content: mentions of alcohol, nsfw (smut) - cunnilingus, fingering, tribbing, praise kink

chapter summary: An evening with Larissa cements the love you share for one another.

A/N: Welp. It's here. The last chapter. I am very sad to see this fic come to end - I will miss our lesbian idiots dearly <3 huge thank you once again to @afeatherformills and to my lovely girlfriend for being here for the whole journey to beta for me, and thank you so much to everyone who has read, interacted with, and supported this fic - I appreciate you so much!!

Larissa Weems looked stunning that afternoon, like straight out of a fashion magazine; hair and makeup styled to perfection - there was no doubt about that. But there was something about Larissa now as she stepped out of her bathroom - face fresh and devoid of makeup, damp hair down from its usual updo and hanging over her shoulders, clad in a t-shirt and drawstring shorts - that made your heart beat faster and your stomach flutter pleasantly.

You were sitting on her bed, towel drying your hair, wearing only an oversized t-shirt of Larissa’s and your underwear. Larissa approached the bed, standing in between your legs and running her hands over your bare thighs as she leaned in for a kiss.

“Can I interest you in a glass of wine?” Larissa husked. At your confirmation, she disappeared into the kitchen, returning shortly thereafter with two glasses and a bottle of red.

“You said something about looking at photo albums?” you suggested innocently as Larissa began to pour the wine. She stilled in her movements, glancing over at you, her expression unreadable. You pouted, batting your eyelashes for good measure. “Only if you want to, of course.”

“How am I supposed to say no to that face?” she said with an exasperated sigh, though her lips curved into a smile that gave her away. “Very well, let me find them.”

That’s how the two of you found yourselves sprawled across the rug that adorned Larissa’s bedroom floor, photo albums and stacks of photos surrounding you as you sipped your wine and listened to Larissa talk about her childhood. Raindrops pelted the windows and dark clouds cast a shadow over the little apartment, which was illuminated only by the warm glow of various odd lamps.

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” you teased, gesturing to the many albums that littered the floor.

“I like to keep records, I suppose,” Larissa mused with a sip of her wine. “I don’t have much contact with my family so it’s nice to have the photos.”

You hummed in appreciation, watching Larissa’s face as she flipped through one of the leather-bound albums.

“This one was taken at my seventh birthday party,” she said, poking a red-tipped finger at a black-and-white photo of a young girl blowing out the candles atop a decadent cake. Her pale blonde hair fell in loose curls onto the girl’s shoulders, bright eyes were trained on the lit candles as her chubby cheeks puffed out.

“Your cheeks!” you squealed, earning yourself an eye roll from the woman beside you. You reached out to pinch her cheek, but she playfully slapped your hand away before you could accomplish your goal.

“Try that again and I’m putting these away - no more photos for you,” she warned, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Fine,” you huffed, dropping your arm back down to your side.

“Good girl,” Larissa purred seductively, and a heat began to spread through your entire body, your cheeks blazing. You turned your head and took a sip of your wine.

She began to flick idly through pages upon pages of photos, some of herself, some of various strangers who you assumed to be family members. “These are my parents.” A photo of two adults - a man and a woman - with a young Larissa, possibly around twelve or so, sandwiched between them. The photo felt very formal - it looked like it could have been taken in front of a church on Easter Sunday or something of that nature. Larissa was already starting to grow - she’d almost reached her mother’s height.

She’d gotten her hair and her eyes from her mother, that much was certain - the woman standing next to her was the picture of a bombshell blonde, dressed similarly to how Larissa might dress now, in a formal skirt and a blouse. Her hair was done up and she wore a string of pearls around her neck, smiling haughtily at the camera.

The rest of Larissa was clearly her father though - he had a kind smile, the same high cheekbones as Larissa. He was a tall man - that was clearly where Larissa got her towering height from. The slight dent in his nose mirrored Larissa’s, and his eyes crinkled at the outer corners as he beamed at the camera, reminding you so much of the woman you adored.

“You look so much like him,” you murmured. “He would’ve been really proud of you, you know?”

Larissa smiled. “I know.”

~~~

As the evening wore on you ended up lying side-by-side on your bellies, shoulders touching, wine glasses empty. You felt like you were getting to know a new side of Larissa through the photos - Larissa with her parents at Christmas, Larissa playing with her cousins as a child, Larissa on vacation at the sea, Larissa as a teenager with classmates at Nevermore.

Without thinking, you reached for the wine and took a swig straight out of the bottle. You held it out to Larissa, who took it without question. Her fingers brushed against yours and it might’ve been the alcohol, or the sentimental mood that clung to the air around you, or the depth of emotion swirling in Larissa’s bright, sapphire eyes, but you suddenly felt warm all over.

You watched, your arousal growing by the second, as Larissa’s lips parted to sip the wine from the bottle, as her throat bobbed, as her pink tongue darted out to lick a stray drop of wine from her upper lip. She passed the bottle back to you and flipped the page of the photo album.

“This one was taken before the concert.” It was a photo of Larissa and her father, standing in the hallway of an unfamiliar house - probably the residence of her family in London. Both of them were beaming at each other, caught in a candid moment, bright smiles stretching from ear-to-ear - she looked happier here than in any of the other pictures. You could feel the love between the two of them radiating off the glossy page.

You turned your head to look at Larissa. She was staring down at the photo, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows. Taking her chin between your fingers, you turned her head towards you, her eyes reluctantly leaving the page to meet yours. You leaned in, your lips meeting the spot between her brows, softly kissing the creased skin. When you pulled away, you could see her eyes had fluttered shut. The crease was all but gone, her entire face relaxing.

“Would it be alright if I kiss you now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” she murmured, opening her eyes which landed immediately on your lips.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” You smirked and Larissa shook her head gently as you leaned in once more, this time pressing your lips to her own. They were soft and pillowy, and the kiss was tender and emotional - you tried to convey everything you wanted to say to her, all the words that died in your throat, all the love and care that you felt for her. And you felt, with the way that she kissed you back, that she understood.

Your hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, gently tangling itself in long tresses. She sighed into your mouth, twisting her body so that she was propped up on her side and could pull you closer by the waist.

You could feel desire coursing through your veins, thrumming deep within you as you kissed Larissa with unmatched ferocity, desperate to show her how much she meant to you.

This time, Larissa was the one to slow you down - she pulled back, breathless. “Darling, I-” She hesitated, seeming to struggle for words. Then, softly: “Let me take care of you tonight. Like you’ve taken care of me.”

You surged to claim her lips, letting out a desperate whimper into her mouth which she immediately swallowed as she deepened the kiss. Her hand slid down to your hip and rucked up your shirt, slipping underneath it and caressing the bare skin of your waist.

“Riss,” you mumbled into the kiss as you felt her shift next to you, moving into a seated position and pulling you with her.

“Yes, love?” She had both hands under your shirt now, fingers tracing every inch of skin as she pushed your shirt up higher and higher, until it was pulled over your head and tossed to the side.

“Please.” You didn’t know what you were asking for, but Larissa seemed to. She stood, pulling you with her, her lips chasing every inch of skin she could reach. She pushed you gently backwards onto the bed, leaning over you and tugging down your underwear.

Her lips found your pulse point, soft kisses turning into gentle nips and lighting a fire in your abdomen.

“I want to see you,” you whined through your lustful haze, roughly pushing at Larissa’s shirt.

You could feel Larissa smile against your neck, her teeth grazing the tender flesh. She stood, making a show of pulling her shirt over her head and exposing her chest - smirking at your sharp intake of breath. Tugging at the drawstring of her shorts, she pushed them over the swell of her hips and allowed them to drop down her long, long legs, exposing her soft, creamy thighs. Her underwear followed and then she was hovering over you again, straddling you, her eyes dark and filled with lust as she met your gaze.

“Darling,” she purred. “You make me so wet.” You were about to reach your hand down to feel her when she swiftly grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. Then you felt the little curls on her mound tickle your abdomen, before Larissa lowered her cunt fully onto your stomach. Her lips parted as she did so, a small gasp escaping her throat and mixing with the moan you let out as you felt her slick soak your skin.

Larissa began to rub herself against you, rolling her hips to gain friction against her swollen clit. She held your gaze the entire time, watching your pupils dilate as you stared into her face. It was impossibly hot, this stunning goddess using your body to pleasure herself.

You could feel your own arousal drip down your inner thighs as you watched Larissa’s eyes roll back in her head, breathy moans spilling from her kiss-swollen lips.

“You like this, don’t you?” she teased as her movements became more urgent. You nodded vigorously, only to be met with a raised eyebrow. “Be a good girl and use your words, love.”

“Y-yes,” you replied, swallowing thickly. “God, Riss, you’re so hot.”

Larissa hummed, her chest pink and heaving slightly as she rutted against your stomach. Her grip on your hands loosened as she got closer to the edge, and you used the opportunity to hold onto her waist and guide her movements.

She came with a soft cry - her thighs trembled and her eyes screwed shut as she rode your stomach. Her body became heavier atop yours as she came down from her high, and you gently stroked her hip bones with your thumbs as you watched her regain her breath.

“Gorgeous,” you murmured, and Larissa’s eyes fluttered open to look down at you. She shifted her weight onto her knees, whimpering at the loss of friction against her heat, then leaned down to press her lips to yours.

A plethora of warm, wet kisses were placed down your throat, your collarbones, your sternum, until Larissa’s lips reached your stomach. She looked up at you through soft, blonde lashes, barely a sliver of sapphire visible around her widened pupils as she stretched out her tongue and licked up the remnants of her arousal from your skin.

Her tongue was like velvet as she happily chased her own juices - you groaned, burying your hands in her hair. Her hands reached up to fondle your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they were almost painfully hard. “Please,” you mumbled, squirming underneath her as you felt your clit throb and your walls clench around nothing. Larissa resumed her trail of kisses, reaching your hip bones, the soft curls between your thighs, littering your inner thighs with kisses and bites that would surely leave tiny red marks in their wake.

Finally, finally, her tongue found your soaked folds, dragging a slow path up to your clit.

“You taste divine, my love,” Larissa moaned, before closing her lips around your clit and sucking gently. Your hands tightened in her hair as you began to buck your hips against her mouth.

“That’s it.” She explored your folds, lapping hungrily at your arousal. “So pretty for me, so perfect.” Her hands held onto your thighs, which trembled with your increasing desire. She dipped her tongue lightly into your entrance, drawing a soft moan from your throat.

“C-can you… go inside?” you panted. Larissa hummed in acknowledgement, her tongue finding your clit once more as she gently teased your entrance with a finger. Slowly and gently she pushed the digit inside, allowing you to get used to the sensation for a moment before beginning to move in and out at a tantalizing pace.

“Fuck, Ris-sa,” you mewled as she curled her finger into your sweet spot, simultaneously flicking her tongue across your throbbing bundle of nerves. You squeezed your eyes shut, allowing yourself to get lost in the heavenly shocks that were coursing through your body.

Larissa added another finger, stretching you out and eliciting a deep groan from your chest. Your walls fluttered and contracted, as if trying to pull her in even deeper as she thrust in and out of you, her pace steady and languid.

“Look at me, darling,” she commanded, her tone low and raspy. With some effort, you opened your eyes and looked down the length of your body, your gaze meeting Larissa’s. The sight of her between your legs, lapping hungrily at your pussy while she peered up at you with doe-eyes, pupils wide with desire - it was nearly enough to send you over the edge.

Without breaking eye contact, Larissa allowed her teeth to graze your clit as she curled her fingers just right - you whined in response, fisting at the bed sheets for dear life.

“Keep looking at me,” she said firmly as your eyes threatened to shut again. You felt your breathing quicken in time with the increased pace of Larissa’s fingers and you forced yourself to keep your eyes open.

“Good girl.”

Her words drew a moan from your throat - you could feel your thighs begin to close around Larissa’s head, the coil in your abdomen seconds away from snapping. “C-can I… please…”

Larissa responded by sucking fervently at your clit, giving you a slight nod and coyly batting her eyelashes. One last curl of her fingers and you were sent over the edge, your entire body tensing as your walls clenched around Larissa’s fingers and your back arched off the bed. A rush of euphoria flooded your body as you watched Larissa watch you, her eyes hooded, her fingers flexing against your thighs.

Your eyes fluttered shut of their own accord as you felt yourself sinking into the mattress, the tension slowly leaving your body. You were vaguely aware of Larissa’s fingers sliding out of you, her tongue soothing over your folds and your inner thighs. You felt her move, the mattress dipping next to you as she settled by your side and pulled you closer to her, pulling your head onto her chest.

One of Larissa’s arms wound around you, enveloping you in her warmth. Her other hand rested on your hip, fingers tracing soothing patterns across your skin as your breathing slowly evened out. Tonight you relished in the feeling of Larissa’s bare skin pressed against your own, nuzzling your head into her chest, allowing yourself to completely let go - it would be the first time you knew you could stay, and a deep calm spread throughout your body at the realization.

“Can I ask you something?” Larissa’s voice was soft and thoughtful, her chest vibrating slightly with every syllable.

You hummed and opened your eyes, mind still foggy as you twisted slightly in her grip in order to better see her face.

“What was Miss Sinclair talking about earlier? When she said something about you reading Miss Addams’ mind?”

You tensed, hesitating for a moment. You didn’t think Larissa would ever judge you for your ability per se, but conversations about your mind reading had never really gone particularly well in past relationships. When you began to speak, you avoided her eyes, feigning great interest in a loose thread on the bed sheets.

“Enid came to see me last week. Wednesday was ignoring her and she needed advice. She asked if I would read Wednesday’s mind for her, see what she was thinking.” Larissa watched you contemplatively.

“I didn’t, of course, I would never do that,” you added hastily as Larissa opened her mouth to speak, your cheeks burning for a reason you couldn’t quite place. Maybe you worried she would think you an unfit teacher. Maybe you worried she would come to distrust you. Maybe you worried she would think you’d read her mind without permission.

“I don’t think you would do that,” she said gently, brushing a lock of hair off your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. “I do have another question, though.”

“Okay?” You furrowed your brows, trying to stop your mind from jumping to the worst possible conclusions as it tended to do.

“You don’t use your ability often, do you?” Larissa’s voice was low and her fingers never let up in tracing soothing patterns all over your hip.

“No… More so when I was younger, unintentionally though. It’s… not exactly ethical to read someone’s mind without consent, and I haven’t found many people who are eager for me to search every crevice of their brain.” You tried for some dry humor, smiling wryly, but Larissa didn’t laugh - she simply looked pensively back at you.

“Is that hard for you?” she murmured finally.

“Pardon?”

“Is it hard? Neglecting a part of yourself like that?”

No one had ever asked you such a thing. Was it hard? You hadn’t spent much time considering that - usually, you were more concerned with the morality of what you were doing - as a child, it had been hard to control, though it had gotten easier as you’d aged. The few times you used your ability as an adult had left you feeling guilty and ashamed (well, aside from that waiter when you’d gone out with Larissa, though you could’ve done without the obscene visuals you’d gotten from that).

“I guess? I haven’t thought about it that way. Sometimes it feels like… like a blind spot? Or like a muscle that hasn’t been stretched in a long time.”

“That feels… unfair.”

You shrugged, choosing to play with a lock of Larissa’s hair, twirling it around your finger. She fell silent for a time after that, seemingly deep in thought.

“Does it bother you?” you asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

“Hmm?” Larissa stilled in her ministrations for a moment, looking genuinely confused.

“Does it bother you that I could read your mind, if I wanted to?”

“Not at all,” she said firmly. “I trust you.”

Then she hesitated.

“What if I wanted you to read my mind? Right now?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Larissa, I can’t-”

“Can’t or won’t? I just told you you could.”

You searched Larissa’s eyes, finding nothing but fierce determination.

“Okay.” You sighed, trying to concentrate, holding eye contact with Larissa as you did so. Her mind was unbelievably calm, only one thought repeating like a mantra:

I love you.

Quickly pulling out of her mind, you couldn’t help but stare at Larissa in shock. “Riss?” you whispered, your voice impossibly small. Larissa licked her lips nervously, her eyes flicking between yours.

Warmth flooded your body. Larissa trusted you, enough to allow you to see inside her mind. Larissa loved you. The revelation was everything you could’ve ever hoped for and more.

“I-I love you, too, Riss.”

The smile that unfurled on Larissa’s face was blinding as she closed the gap between you two and pressed her lips to yours. “I love you,” she murmured against your lips. “Maybe it’s too early but at the same time I have the feeling we’ve always been together…”

Deepening the kiss, you pulled Larissa closer, until she was almost on top of you. You didn’t pull away until your brain was begging you for oxygen.

“Thank you. For trusting me like that. I promise I will never take it for granted.”

Larissa rested her chin on your chest, looking up at you through long lashes, her eyes the brightest blue you’d ever seen. “Your ability is not something to be ashamed of, darling. I believe I recall you helping me feel less ashamed of my own.” Pure adoration was woven into her smile, flooding your heart with a surge of love for the shapeshifter.

You had never felt more understood, more wholly loved than in this moment - you hoped you could provide Larissa with the same feelings of love, understanding, safety, warmth, that were all flooding your heart. Judging by the way she snuggled in closer, the content expression on her face as her eyes fluttered shut, burying her face in your neck and gripping your waist tightly - you would say she felt the same.

“Darling?” Her voice was thick and raspy - she was clearly fighting sleep.

“Hmm?”

“You’d better be right here when I wake up,” she mumbled sleepily, possessively tightening her grip around you.

You let out a low chuckle as you recalled her pout when you’d tried to do her a favor and get up earlier to make coffee the morning after the Rave’N. Truth be told, you thought as you pressed a reassuring kiss to her shoulder, you were looking forward to holding Larissa and watching her slowly wake up in your arms.

“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

A/N:

Here, have a little bonus "scene" that I toyed with incorporating but didn't:

“You know Enid said we won a poll on her blog for cutest couple at the Rave’N?”

Larissa stared up at you, lips parting in shock, her cheeks slowly turning pink.

“Riss? You okay?” You smiled teasingly at her.

She cleared her throat, a shy smile creeping its way onto her face. “I suppose even the students noticed before we did.”

“At least we got there in the end,” you teased. She let out a low chuckle, one which you matched, before nuzzling her face into your neck.

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #larissa x reader #principal weems x reader #principal weems #in my head #in my head series

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sir-griswold-of-macelwain · 2 months

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OK so I think the only way for season 7 to work is if there's a substantial timeskip. I don't necessarily mean "let's go straight to 1940 and have WW2", but at least eight years or so. Have the grandkids be teenagers (well the three eldest anyway). Not as old as Rose, so it gives us another kind of storyline, but old enough to start taking their place in society while still being outside of it.

Give us Mary feeling anxious over George's incoming coming of age and the fact she'll have to rule over the estate with him since I'm pretty sure he owes like half of it. Give us Lucy doing her best to keep Sybbie in check but it's hard, man, it's super hard, to control a teenage girl who's not your daughter but also is. Give us Edith juggling the magazine and the marchioness title as well as she can, perhaps planning to hand the magazine over to Marigold when she becomes an adult, since it was Gregson's. Heck, give us Marigold learning who she is!!! Give us Johnny Bates and Caroline Talbot friendship. Give us Talbot & Branson motors news! Have they gone into production now? Are they still car salesmen? What about a secret, seventh grandchild? After all, it's not out of the realm of possibilities that Mary, Edith or Lucy would have become pregnant again during the timeskip!

Give us the Three oldest grandkids start getting involved in politics! once Robert dies, it's George who will have a seat in Parliament! Sybbie literally can't not have a political opinion of some sort, with her heredity, or make her not give tuppence about politics and Tom being despaired by it! And for the absolutely cruel, dramatic irony, have Marigold be the one (there's always one in series happening during the rise of fascism) who's seduced by the fascist ideals! And then discover her bio dad was killed by brownshirts! And then have a crisis!

Give us Atticus and Rose coming back from America, perhaps because Lord Sinderby died and Atticus inherited the title! Give us Atticus and Rose with more children born in the mean time! Give us Robert being convinced there won't be a war and Cora not being so sure, and give us Daisy who runs for the local elections as a joke and becomes Downton's first labour party mayor! Give us Anna Bates being trained by Mrs Hughes to take her place when she retires (she can't afford to retire because of her sister, sure, but what about the B&B she opened with Carson? give us news of that, too!!).

Anyway i'm starting to ramble about everything i hope will happen instead of just things I think would make it a good set up but also I'm cautiously optimistic while also being super thrilled it's happenign!!!!

#downton abbey #da season seven

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bradshawsbaby · 1 year

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to the nines

pairing: rhett abbott x childhood friend!reader

author’s note: this was originally supposed to be a drabble, but it got away from me slightly and turned into something a little longer (surprise, surprise).

based on this prompt from @therebeccaw. i also tried to incorporate a request from @mermaidxatxheart about the moment when rhett decided he wanted his relationship with his childhood friend to be more.

special thanks to @luminousnotmatter for being the best outer range viewing buddy™️ (even when i jumped a couple episodes ahead of her 🤭) and @whisperofsong for not being mad at me for falling in love with her man 😉

warnings: some brief language, mentions of alcohol, and fluff sprinkled in for good measure.

You and Rhett were friends.

You always had been friends.

You always would be friends.

Just friends.

“He’s just a friend,” you’d insisted hotly in the seventh grade when some of your classmates had been teasing you about your “big ol’ crush on Rhett Abbott.”

“She’s just a friend,” Rhett told the boys who had been ribbing him and making lewd comments when they found out he was taking you to the junior prom.

“We’re just friends,” you’d chorus together whenever you happened to travel with Rhett to cheer him on at an out-of-town rodeo and elderly women in the crowd commented on what a cute couple the two of you made.

So, like the good friend that he was, Rhett had been gracious enough to agree to attend your former college roommate’s wedding as your plus one. You knew all the other friends and acquaintances who’d be attending would have boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and wives on their arms, and the thought of showing up alone had been too wounding to your pride to even contemplate. You and Rhett always had a good time together, and you knew he’d make sure the night was memorable.

What you hadn’t known was that he was going to take your breath away and make it damn near impossible to concentrate on anything beyond the sight of him in that suit.

You’d known Rhett Abbott for almost your entire life, and never had you known him to get as dressed up as he was tonight. The closest he’d ever come was when Cecilia managed to wrangle his butt to church on Sunday and force him into a respectable button down. Hell, even when he’d taken you to the junior prom, the most he’d managed was a “clean pair o’ jeans and my nicest flannel,” as he’d put it.

But tonight.

Tonight, Rhett Abbott looked like one of those Hollywood actors the ladies at the hair salon in town loved to swoon over as they flipped through their magazines while waiting for their dye jobs to set.

Dressed to the nines, he looked like a million bucks and you found yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him.

You’d nearly tripped and fell down the damn stairs when he’d come to your house to pick you up earlier, the sight of him in that crisp black suit and tie, with his hair slicked back and his eyes somehow looking bluer than you’d ever seen them, enough to rob you of all coherent thought.

Rhett had just chuckled in that easygoing way of his. “It’s a monkey suit, I know,” he grimaced, holding out an arm to you as he walked you to where his truck was parked outside your family’s home. “But when you told me the wedding was gonna be in Laramie, I figured a clean pair o’ jeans and my nicest flannel wasn’t going to cut it,” he added with a wink, helping you up into the cab of the truck.

“You clean up real nice, Abbott,” you managed to get out past lips that suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper.

Real nice? He’d never looked better and you’d never wanted him more.

For all that you’d spent years trying to convince everybody—especially yourself—that you and Rhett were just friends, you knew in your heart of hearts that it wasn’t true. You wanted more. You’d always wanted more.

You wanted him to be your real plus one, not just the childhood pal who’d agreed to tag along so you wouldn’t have to go stag.

As silly as you knew it was, you couldn’t help the rush of pride you felt when your former housemates and classmates from your college days rushed to bombard you at the reception with questions about your “sexy date.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Does he have a twin brother?”

“Is he as good in bed as he looks?”

You laughed and shrugged and hoped your embarrassment wasn’t too apparent as you told them, “Oh, no, we’re just friends.”

Lucy, who had been one of your housemates during your junior and senior years, arched a skeptical brow as she sipped on her Dirty Shirley. “Please. You have not been able to stop eye fucking that guy all night. Just friends my ass.”

“Lucy!” you gasped, feeling your cheeks and neck grow warm in mortification. You glanced around sheepishly, praying that Rhett wasn’t within earshot. He’d gone off to the bar to get the two of you a couple of whiskey sours.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Lucy smirked, swirling her straw around in her glass. Then she suddenly leaned in closer. “But don’t be embarrassed, sweet pea,” she whispered conspiratorially. “That boy hasn’t been able to keep those gorgeous baby blues off you either.”

Before you could fully register Lucy’s comment, let alone unpack its meaning, your friend was stepping back and grinning, her gaze landing just beyond your shoulder. “Oh, heya, Rhett.”

Stiffening slightly, you turned and met his blue gaze, warm and steady and quite determinedly fixed on you. You instantly felt your mouth dry up again. Damn this man and that damned suit.

“This little sweet pea and I were just talking ’bout how much we wanna dance,” Lucy went on, slinging an arm around your shoulders and nudging you pointedly. “So I better go find my husband before he finds himself another partner,” she added with the exuberant laugh she had always been known for, flouncing off and leaving you torn between wanting to strangle her and wanting to laugh at her tenacity.

Left alone with Rhett, you looked up to find his gaze still fixed on your face, his lips upturned in a smile that almost looked shy. But when had Rhett Abbott ever been shy around you?

Setting down the whiskey sours he’d obtained, still untouched, on the table, he held out a hand to you. “What do you say then, sweet pea?” he drawled, teasing the nickname Lucy always used for you. “Wanna dance with me?”

Trying to pretend your stomach wasn’t currently doing about fifty consecutive somersaults, you just nodded and slipped your hand into his. It was rough and calloused and absolutely perfect.

Just as Etta James’ At Last started thrumming through the speakers, Rhett pulled you onto the dance floor and tugged you into his arms, one arm wrapping around your waist as he maintained his grip on your hand with the other.

“Just like junior prom,” he grinned, his thumb gently brushing against the back of your hand as you swayed to the music.

Funny, you didn’t remember feeling like every nerve ending in your body was on fire when you were at junior prom.

“Mhm, though I have to say you clean up much nicer tonight,” you laughed, resting your free hand on his shoulder as you gazed up at him.

“I’ll have you know that was the nicest flannel I owned at the time,” Rhett scoffed, feigning hurt.

You just giggled in response, which made Rhett’s facade crack as his face split into an amused grin.

“You looked beautiful that night,” he murmured suddenly, his grip on your waist tightening by a fraction. “But I think you look even more beautiful tonight,” he added, his expression suddenly serious.

It was strange how your mouth managed to feel like the Sahara, while your legs felt like water.

“Thank you, Rhett,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your brain was so addled that you weren’t even able to come up with a teasing response.

“County fair’s coming up soon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject, though his piercing blue eyes remained trained on your face.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, nodding slowly. “I think my mama’s gonna get a booth.”

“I was thinkin’ you and me could go together,” Rhett said, his voice suddenly sounding even lower and deeper than usual.

“Of course,” you nodded, not phased in the slightest. You and Rhett had been going to county fairs together since you were kids.

What did phase you was the way Rhett leaned in close and brushed a loose lock of hair away from your cheek, his lips skimming your skin as he whispered in your ear, “I don’t want to go as your friend.”

Your breath caught in your throat instantly and you were immediately grateful that he was holding onto you so tightly. “A date, Abbott?” you questioned, peering up at him as your pulse pounded in your veins.

“A date,” Rhett nodded, not a single trace of hesitation or ounce of a waver in his voice.

“You sure?” you asked, a slight tremor in your voice. There would be no going back if you did this.

“Never surer,” Rhett replied, his fingertips gently pressing into the small of your back as he pulled you closer.

“Alright then, Abbott,” you smiled, barely able to contain your excitement. “It’s a date.”

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #rhett x reader #x reader #x female reader #outer range #lewis pullman

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 2 years

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“If the practice stopped, top-level women’s sport as we know it might cease to exist.”

Full text below cut

My wife and I are lifelong runners. It’s the sport we fell in love with, and ended up excelling at—during our wedding, every speaker from the preacher to the best man mentioned some variation of “Can you imagine how fast their future kids are going to be?” My wife, Hillary, is by far the more accomplished athlete. I made the NCAA championship; she was an All-American. I had dreams of qualifying for the Olympic trials; she actually did it. By many measures, she’s simply better. But not by all of them.

We both got our start in middle school. When Hillary was in seventh grade, she ran a 5:42 mile. At the same age, my best was virtually identical at 5:40. If we had lined up for a race, there would have been a close dash to the finish line. Fast-forward to ninth grade, and we were both ranked among the top freshman runners in Texas. But a clear difference had emerged: Her time had steadily decreased to 5:13, while mine had shot all the way down to 4:22. At the end of our collegiate running careers, the massive gulf remained: She ran 4:43 and I ran 4:01. I didn’t train more, care more, or possess more grit. She surpasses me on all of those things. I just had an inherent advantage: my biology.

It’s no secret that sports-performance differences between sexes are a flashpoint in an American culture war that goes beyond athletics into ideology and identity. I’m not here to tackle the tough and important questions of sport and sex, such as how to include trans athletes and people who have differences of sexual development in a sporting world that is mostly divided along binary lines. What I am here to address is one of the simplest debates. Over the past few years, some cultural commentators and sociologists have minimized the impact of sex-based biological differences on sporting performance. Some claim that men’s biological advantages in speed, strength, or endurance are scientifically debatable. (This magazine recently published such arguments in an article about youth sports.)

Here is what the facts say. Sport for women is generally undervalued and under-resourced in America, and this can affect women’s performance levels. Coed sports at recreational and youth standards—played as part of living a good life, not to develop elite athletes—can be both fun and competitive. But at the highest, rarefied levels of many professional sports, men and women appear to have different performance ceilings.

The research is clear: The difference in my wife’s and my athletic progression is not unusual. With young kids, the best boys tend to be only a hair better than the best girls. We can see this in age-group records: The boys’ and girls’ records for the 9-to-10-year-old 100-meter-sprint are nearly identical (12.73 versus 12.85). But in the 15-to-16-year-old records, the gap has gone from a crack to a gulf (10.51 versus 11.34).

A study by Mike Joyner and his colleagues at the Mayo Clinic found the same trend when analyzing the top 100 freestyle-swimming times of boys and girls from ages 5 to 18. Before the age of 10, both sexes are remarkably similar in performance, with the best young girls actually tending to swim faster than the best boys. But after 10, the boys get ahead. By 17, the average difference is 8.4 percent. Researchers found the same trend when evaluating more than 400,000 ordinary kids in the P.E.-class shuttle run: similar speeds early on, but an ever-widening gap starting at about age 10.

The reason for this is simple: puberty. The overwhelming driver for the sudden jump in male performance seems to be the surge, at this specific time of an athlete’s life, in the steroid hormone testosterone. This hormone influences muscle size and strength as well as the amount of oxygen-carrying red blood cells in our body. A large analysis on running, jumping, and swimming found that the rise in testosterone during puberty in males coincided with a steep improvement in performance. When puberty occurs, girls, on average, continue steadily improving their sporting performance into their teens. But boys get a rapid shift upward in their trajectory.

When looking at elite runners—whether sprinting 100 meters or racing many miles—once athletes hit physical maturity, the best men have anywhere from a 9 to a 12 percent advantage over the best women. A significant gap can be seen in cycling, swimming, speed skating, high-jumping, and a variety of other athletic feats. The gap is even larger in sports that depend highly on strength. For example, when looking at elite weight lifters in the same weight class, the performance gap is about 24 to 30 percent.

It’s important to note a few caveats. First, most of the best research is on sports that are easily quantifiable. For example, there’s no way to directly compare the skill levels of elite tennis players to measure for tiny performance differences unless they play one another. What we know is that the less a sport relies on speed, power, or endurance, and the more it relies on skill, the smaller the gap is. In sports like shooting and archery, the difference between men and women is negligible at best. Second, the performance gap of course doesn’t mean that all men will triumph over all women all the time. My comparatively unathletic brother would get beaten by thousands of women in a mile-long race. And if my wife showed up to a local turkey trot, she’d likely decimate all the men. Third, because there is significant overlap between males and females in performance, female outliers can shine, particularly in niche sports with a small number of competitors (e.g., ultrarunning).

But at the top of the top of the athletic world, in widely played sports with elite coaching, the gap between the sexes seems almost insurmountable. Take the queen of track and field, Allyson Felix. The 11-time Olympic medalist’s best 400-meter time ever is 49.26. In just the 2022 season, that would have put her 689th on the boys’ high-school performance list.

None of this is meant to disparage the phenomenal women athletes at the top of their game. But if we stopped dividing sport by sex, elite women’s sport as we know it could cease to exist. We might miss out on Megan Rapinoe at the World Cup or the spectacle of Sydney McLaughlin effortlessly gliding over hurdle after hurdle. Acknowledging the performance differential should encourage us to do everything possible to make sure female athletes can keep competing at these levels.

But how do we know that the gap between the sexes isn’t sociological, like we’ve seen in fields such as math, where research suggests that social factors explain much of the gender gap in average performance? The history of sport is rife with sexism that has held back women. Take, for example, the 1928 Olympics, where Knute Rockne, the famed Notre Dame football coach (and newspaper columnist), reported in The Pittsburgh Press that after the 800-meter final, five women collapsed and that “it was not a very edifying spectacle to see a group of fine girls running themselves into a state of exhaustion.” Following public outcry, the 800-meter was removed from the Olympics for 32 years. But the reports were false—women weren’t collapsing left and right. The top-three women actually broke the former women’s world record that day.

Women today still face inequality in sport. Many professional sports have a significant pay gap, limiting the ability of women to focus solely on it as a career. Media attention for women’s sport is severely lacking, with 95 percent of sports TV coverage in 2019 going to men, according to a USC/Purdue University study. In some colleges, a significant difference in funding and severe lack of female coaches—who act as both a role model and an advocate for women’s sport—can impact participation rates. Yet even in sports where sexist sociological barriers have been lowered, a performance gap can persist.

Women were barred from major marathons for much of the 20th century. The Boston Marathon, for example, didn’t allow women to compete until 1971. At that point, the women’s unofficial world record was about 2 hours and 45 minutes. At the same time, the men’s record stood at 2:08:34. That’s a massive 30 percent performance gap. By the summer of 1984, when women were finally able to run the marathon in the Olympics, they’d massively cut into the men’s lead, leaving only a 11 percent gap. These kinds of gains bred a sense of optimism. “We’re nearer and nearer the men now,” said the second-place female finisher of the 1983 Boston Marathon. But the trend faltered. In the nearly four decades since then, women have kept improving, but the current gap still stands at 10.7 percent.

Every sport is different. Some are still like 1970s marathoning—the chasm between men and women is caused in large part by discrimination. Those gaps need shrinking. But the same trajectory we saw in the marathon occurs in most women’s sports that remove sexist barriers. For example, a 2010 study traced the progression of male and female performance across the prior decades in 38 athletic events in five different sports: swimming, cycling, speed skating, weight lifting, and track and field. It found that the gender gap had been fairly stable for more than two decades, and concluded, “After a significant narrowing of gender gaps, women and men now evolve in parallel, in the same direction.”

The upside of acknowledging that sex differences in performance exist is that we can discuss the vital, knotty debates that emerge from this biology. For example, would creating more coed sporting opportunities before, say, age 10, keep girls in sport longer? How should schools and clubs handle a young female athlete who wants to play football even though there’s no girls’ team? Should we get rid of sex-based divisions in sports like shooting, where the performance gap is minimal? We certainly need to figure out better answers for trans athletes and people like Caster Semenya, who, because she has differences of sexual development, is allowed to compete in the 5K but not the 800-meter race.

To solve these questions, we need to first accept the premise that puberty can create unequal sporting ability. Doing so doesn’t mean that we stop fighting inequality or dismiss tricky edge cases. It actually should free us from arguing over what should be a noncontroversial claim. We can then shift our focus to making sure women have the space, resources, and opportunities to show their talents. We can acknowledge that though I might have run faster at my peak, my wife’s performance and achievements are undoubtedly more impressive. We can stop judging female athletes against their male counterparts and enjoy their athleticism on its own accord.

Steve Magness is a performance coach and sports scientist. He is the author of Do Hard Things: Why We Get Resilience Wrong and the Surprising Science of Real Toughness.

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oldcountrybear1955 · 9 months

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Seventh Man Magazine SS 2012 - Paolo Anchisi - Photographed by Fred Jacobs

#seventh man magazine #paolo anchisi #fred jacobs

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delicrieux · 3 months

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𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 3. summer 1972, late august

pairing for this chapter—sirius black x f!lestrange!reader warnings for this chapter—sirius hates his brother word count—4.3k

in which you show an act of bravery worthy of a gryffindor. if the come up, that is, wasn't so inherently slytherin.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

all of sirius' records are bought by andromeda. no one ever speaks of her. it’s bad luck. might split the sky in half, or disentangle the galaxy and all of its atoms; unravel it all, suddenly, like aunt druella falling to her knees at the mention of a well-loved name. she claimed a fainting spell, but you knew. the lights were particularly dim that evening at dinner.

no matter, you're well-meaning enough not to bother. everyone is allowed their own interests. you find it in the depths of father’s coffee cup and the curious hills and swirls the grounds make as they dry. how they shift in the wispy morning light, or become swallowed by your shadow. andromeda’s lay in things not known by the lestranges, or perhaps things frowned upon. she mails her curiosities to sirius via the muggle post. when a strange man appeared at the gates of the lestrange manor, everyone had fallen into a frenzy. the whole household, all twenty-some-or-more staff and four inhabitants (discontent house-elf and mother excluded).

this foreign officer referred to himself as 'the postman,' whatever that meant. grumpily (he was left standing in the rain, see), he shoved a parcel into your affronted butler's hands and demanded a signature. no quill, only a slim, plastic tube that clicked irritably when pressed by his finger. you and regulus watched this whole display out the second floor window, leaning over the ledge for a better look. a whole variety of things came to sirius, it was revealed, all of it contraband in a sort, to your knowledge. a bit of illicit music, a few letters with charmingly fancy stamps. a card titled Miss you that you just managed to save as rabastan threatened to throw it into the fire. a glossy magazine you and regulus were allowed to browse through briefly, only to see for yourselves the unmoving, ugly muggle world.

of course, sirius didn't know of any of this – it was stored away without his knowledge of its arrival. locked up in the attic, where all unpleasant things lie. you and regulus and the staff were sworn to secrecy. sirius musn't ever know his disgraced cousin is sending him strange things and corrupting his impressionable mind. you didn't mean to linger, or listen, or intrude. the pool laid waiting for you, and regulus, impatient by your side, tugged on your sleeve. a plea to leave before your brothers went on a tangent. so many new words to learn. this was, however, the most interesting thing to happen all summer, overshadowing even the long awaited wedding. a muggle postman under the lestrange roof. bella, if she was not away, would have thrown a fit to be outshined by such a thing.

that very night, you sneak out of your room. the hallways are dark in spots where moonlight doesn’t spill; the portraits are asleep, and the landscapes are quiet. the soft echoes of your bare feet against the cool tiles of the flooring make you shudder in your linen. summer heat lingers by the ceiling, though the nights are usually chilly. you creep silently, as you have many times before. you are quite adept, a child who can't seem to stay put no matter the trouble it may cause. and this may cause quite the bit.

you wander to the attic, mind the seventh step with the creaky floorboard, and ascend slowly. patience is a virtue, and when you really want, you possess wells of it. here, the dark is thick, almost tangible, and how and where you move is more thanks to memory than sight. though the dust burns at your eyes, they do eventually adjust, and the outline of a shape becomes easier to see.

austere, sparse. only the sooty remains of old armouries are left. furniture gone to rot, and masses of small boxes and unattended bookshelves. never a pleasant place, even during the day. it sits right above mother's room, and you try to avoid this part of the house entirely. a blind spot, like the corner of your eye. nothing well is ever found here, and you never come searching.

a bit of fumbling and you locate the parcel. it would be good to bring everything, but it's quite heavy, and you'd rather not risk it. you'll let sirius know of his hidden belongings once you have surprised him. you are not as selfless to inform him instantly, no. no, no, to miss an opportunity as this would be a great loss. how else would you show a bravery than going against the collective wishes of the black and lestrange families and blindly grabbing around in the dark for his cousin's gifts?

you sort through the things. lay them gently beside your feet; hear the roll of a crystal charm as it travels down the room and gets lost in a shrouded corner. you thought of waiting for a few days. spun a great tale of being watched and trying to get the presents to him as quick as possible, only to amplify the intensity of it all. your attention span waned an hour into your promise to keep this secret.

you grab for a record and flee. sirius likes music the most. this will make him happy.

carrying your load through the manor's quiet maze, your senses prickle at each shadow. perhaps someone is following you, or you can hear them whispering. the slightest tinge of an anxious feeling comes and goes with each breath. when you were little, regulus needed to hold your hand through the dark, since sirius was too old and too cool for that at eight. the manor at night made his pulse jump under his skin and then, you were the braver of the pair. now, reggie doesn't need your help, and neither do you need his. you’d prefer his quiet reluctance beside you. a want to continue but being too cowardly to make the first step. you’d march together. should you have invited him?

no, sirius wouldn’t like that. he prefers his brother out of sight.

at last, sirius' bedroom door presents itself before you. the faint whistle of the wind rattles the windows. instinctively, you grab for a hand that isn’t there.

you hope he isn’t asleep. he’s too grown to go to bed at an early hour. he must see you in motion, so brave in delivering contraband. contraband is a new word you've learned recently, and you quite enjoy saying it. contraband. this record is the first in, what you presume, a long line of suspicious items you will have to sneak. it will all be worth the effort.

you rap on the door. one. two, three. a forth one for safe measure. no response.

"sirius! i have a gift," you whisper, leaning in close. your cheek presses onto the cool, glossy surface, and thunder rumbles somewhere far overhead. it is not the prettiest song, but you like how deep it is. and sometimes, late at night, when the dark is very deep and the manor is quiet as the grave, you like to hide under the covers, "sirius?" you add, and a beat passes, and it occurs to you might be sleeping.

your plans of grandeur are deflated a little. what is the point of a secret if he isn't there to be surprised?

then, the handle clicks. slowly, cautiously, the door creaks open just enough for him to stick out his head. he's pouting. his gaze flickers, a nervous twitch, "why are you awake?" his voice is raspy from sleep, and his cheeks are splotchy, "aren't you scared of the dark?"

of course not, you had told yourself that the whole trek over. he waits patiently for an answer, despite how tired and annoyed he appears. your heart pounds at the sight. his hair looks funny, tousled. a wave falls over his forehead and the rest stands in spikes. you wonder if regulus' hair will do that in the morning. at breakfast, likely not. if you came to wake him unannounced, it likely would. how embarrassed he’d be.

you hold the record close to your chest, but not too tightly. sirius had once said they are fragile and can shatter if handled unkindly. still, you fear your arms might crush it if the rumble of the thunder shakes it from your grasp, like it would a robber caught red-handed.

"it isn't scary," you try, and tentatively hold out the present, "this came for you. but no one let you have it because, you know, well. it's from, er, you know." can’t say her name, even to someone that would prefer to hear it.

you can imagine a carousel of thoughts whirring madly behind his face. shock. surprise. delight. gratitude. so much more. it's impossible to catch everything, not even in the blip of light. thunder rolls.

"thank you," is his only response. he perks up as he takes his present. perhaps he had gotten over the surprise a bit quickly, or he had expected this to be sent to him all along, but nonetheless, it seems he is rather touched. at least that's what you assume by how happy he's acting, like an eager puppy, "let's go to my bed, 'kay? i've got a record player over there. come on."

you rush after quickly, not one to miss such an opportunity. the room douses in a dim light with a flick of his wand. there are books and clothes and posters slew on every surface and corner, and you overstep a pair of expensive linen trousers carelessly tossed on the rug. next to the bed sits a heavy trunk. he must've been packing. a red and gold scarf peaks over the edge. yours to be, surely.

the space goes mute and settles. like a pop in your ears after travelling via portkey, the sound returns after a small discomfort. a silencing spell. his wand clatters onto the bedside table. you had picked yours only a few days ago, but didn’t dare touch it since you grasped it for the first time.

when you settle into bed beside him, and he sets up the contraption and places the needle, it sings in the quiet. he lowers the volume just a bit.

"muggles like big music, don't they," you remark, though you do rather like it, if it makes him grin so, "can we dance? please?"

a crack, finally, along with thunder. his face splits into a grin, "of course! but a bit quieter. don't want the whole estate to catch you here. come on, now,"

so the pair of you jump and whirl about his room. you're sure he knows real muggle dances. it's very different from waltz, not smooth at all, more free, and not nearly as dignified. but oh, the beats!

as the song finishes and the music winds down, your head spins. not from dizziness, but from pure, unbridled glee. his face matches the feeling. sirius claps, as if he had never been satisfied before now, as if a curtain had gone down. he smiles broadly, a full mouth of teeth, “imagine what people would say if they saw us."

you mirror his expression, "it’s horrendous, isn't it? such disgrace."

a smile and a titter escapes him.

"a terrible affair," he gives a nod to no one, the empty bedroom and his possessions, "it would displease my family greatly. i will never dance another way again."

“what of waltz?”

“what’s that?”

"oh dear, the absolute scandal!" you clasp your hands together in horror, though really, you don't mind at all, "they shall call you a heretic and a bumptious imbecile. surely. won't that be dreadful? your reputation will be ruined."

"utterly! completely ruined. mother will burn my portrait out the family tree."

"what a messy business. tragic. whatever are you to do, young sir black?"

his words and gesticulations and silly faces make you a bit warm. this is quite something to be cherished. him, in his lonely, messy room, and the mellow candlelight. the rain pouring. a nice and pretty tune in the air. dancing is one of your favourite pastimes, besides flying and stargazing.

"hey, wanna play pretend?" he inquires, plopping back onto his bed.

you snort, dropping the audacious accent, "isn't that what we've been doing?"

he shakes his head, though his lips curl and his eyes roll fondly. "different sort. c'mere."

you perch beside him, your head level with his shoulder. his eyes are very shiny. if he told you a story, you wouldn't have trouble believing him, since they tell more than his voice ever would. but that'd be cheesy, and you'd never hear the end of it, if you told him the same. his knee bumps into yours. his head falls forward, just a bit, "tell me a secret."

"tell me a secret."

"no, go first. my secrets are boring, your's are, uh. mysterious. and interesting. and a whole bunch better. pretty please. can i have a hint?"

the compliment, you have to admit, flatters you. so does his prodding and pleading, all his wheedling and how adorable he looks while doing it.

you think of an answer carefully, a plan already forming, "well…someday, i'm going to have to marry, right?"

he groans, "merlin, no, don't tell me you're also thinking of this nonsense?"

your thoughts scramble to change, like little ducklings hurrying away from an unpleasant sound. you frown, a bit ashamed to be rebuffed so unkindly, or you should, but he's still staring at you intently, waiting for you to elaborate. like you had assumed, all boys think weddings silly. sirius is no different.

"is it wrong to think about that? i mean, someday you're going to be married, too," you deflect, "in the future," the distant one, because a child like him cannot comprehend that. or perhaps he can. after all, he will be growing into a man soon, "and besides, with bella's wedding, i suppose it got me thinking."

he has, strangely enough, become flustered. his freckles are darker across his nose, "who says i'll get married?"

"don't you have to?"

"no," he answers defiantly, crossing his arms. how defensive he is suddenly! but with how fidgety he is, it must be a sore subject. perhaps he is being affected more than you'd guessed.

"you're the heir, though," you muss. it's very unlikely walburga won't entangle him into some arrangement. you're sure she already has some sort of ideas for sirius. they are likely being executed as you speak, "you have to make kids to carry on the family, no?"

the odd, stressed look on his face almost breaks your resolve.

"we don't have to do that," he states.

that's news to you, and, logically, seems to be rather improbable. that means you don't have to get married, either. at least you won't have to carry out the other portion of marital duties, of which you are far more squeamish, "hmm," you manage, but you're not convinced. it seems quite rational to you that you should follow the pattern set by generations.

"why would you even want to get married?" he grumbles. the question comes off snottier than intended, "like i'd want some girl telling me how to behave all the time."

"we aren't allowed much choice in the matter."

"the more reason not to, right?"

this conversation had taken a sudden turn, and a sickly, squirmy feeling has taken a seat on the bed between the two of you. the dance music has finished, and the sound of rain overpowers the room. the record spins and crackles.

"we can run away."

the suddenness of his declaration makes the both of you pause, staring at the carpet and bedspread respectively. it’s not a fully formulated thought. can’t be, and in your endless compassion and innate ability to forget audacious ideas, secrets, and suggestions at a moment’s notice, you decide that he never spoke of this, for what he suggested is a breach of trust so careless and terrible that you begin to worry what else lays on his mind. must be many things such as this, dangerous, modern ideas ready to spring free given the proper climate. and the climate is warm, here, built on your friendship and your inability to refuse him.

you decide he had been caught up in the heat of a moment. harmless, silly. he asked you to play pretend, after all.

he amends before the silence could deafen him: "it'll be just the both of us."

you don’t want to listen to this, not in his room, not in your linen, not with the night singing against the windows and the record scratching at the needle. the spin is mesmerizing. he’s older and should understand the implications better. you don’t want to be the one to understand. to be rational, when you only ever wish to be carefree.

you laugh, and it sounds a tad awkward, but what a great big joke! sirius is always funny, "of course. we could live on a raft, or in muggle london. recon there wouldn’t be much of a difference. or perhaps a particularly cosy cave in the scottish highlands. with the sheep."

his eyes narrow, miffed. "i’m serious.”

“don’t suppose i need an introduction, do i?” you smile, but it doesn’t break his frown.

“we can run away.” he says, quite firmly. no more playing, then, “the both of us together," he adds, flicking his eyes away from you. his voice wavers.

"we can't just go and leave,” you start gently, “there's, well, a lot to explain. they’d catch us, too, quickly, i recon. our families. i can’t work, my hands are delicate, even if sheep are a riot. we’d have no galleons.”

"i'd work."

stubborn prat.

"stupid, you're twelve."

"almost thirteen."

"your birthday's not till november," you retort hotly, "therefore: you're twelve. how can you even consider proposing such a stupid scheme?"

his tone shifts, anger showing itself, "don't call it stupid. you haven't thought of a better one!"

you take a deep breath, and fight the childish impulse to sock him on the jaw, "i'm not the only suggesting we run away. that's- you just suggested it, first, no less! all of the sudden!"

"yes! yes, i did, but you were supposed to agree."

you can barely find the words to reply. he just gets so impossibly brattish when he's not having his way, "we can’t leave. that’s positively mental. and we can't leave reggie."

he bristles at the mention of the name, "he's not my problem."

that hurts. for some reason, this cut is especially sharp and stinging, "don't say that. he's your brother."

"only by blood."

such callous words make your face burn. what's this coming from? his posture shifts, back perfectly straight and shoulders taut. this can only mean that his emotions have overcome him. that is never good, "blood is important, though."

his dark eyes glimmer and there's a storm building, something inscrutable, a bad feeling. your mouth goes dry. you had said the wrong thing, a terrible thing. he shan't ever forget or forgive you for this. not to mention the topic itself. these are very dangerous and tender and frightfully unknown waters. you cross your arms and huff, feeling especially very small, "how can you hate him, anyway, when he adores you so much?"

the hard glint in his eyes doesn't leave. in fact, he appears to grow taller and paler with the turn of conversation, or perhaps his skin had always been a rather milky white. his words are colder still, "why are you always defending him?"

"regulus has never done anything bad," your protest is weak. and that isn't what he wants to hear, "he loves you."

"you should be on my side."

"but, why are there sides to begin with?" your tongue feels big in your mouth, and a weird taste bubbles, like metal and rust and salt, "you're brothers, you shouldn't fight."

"he's a rat."

"sirius!"

"and an idiot," he grumbles, "and selfish. a tosser. stop defending him."

this is awful. to see him with such a harsh expression and to be berated as though you're an awful friend and a liar, "stop it."

"what? he's not worth the trouble of you protecting him."

"leave him alone."

"he should leave you alone."

you wince and jerk away. how has everything gotten out of hand so fast? this is his bedside. you brought him a gift, and you danced, and he spoke kindly, and now this. you bite your tongue. your teeth press a bit too hard, “you’re being awful.”

he doesn’t seem to hear you, "why do you even like him anyway?" he sulks. a funny word to describe a very unhappy young man.

"quit it."

"are you fond of him?"

"please, shut up."

"more than me?"

silence. the world tilts, just so slightly, to the right, and spins just a tad bit too fast. does he really dislike his little brother so much? you understand he may feel a twinge of annoyance sometimes, a tad of passive resentment every other hour, which is simply understandable and probably half-decent for brothers, especially those that have nearly nothing in common and no sort of trust. but, there's the matter of an absolute hatred for someone that does no wrong, that would never, by anyone's means, ever hate you back. that isn't fair. it's only heart-breaking.

perhaps you've done wrong not to believe regulus when he confided sirius was terribly cruel to him at times. the thought stings, an acidic sort of shame. regulus wouldn't lie, he's not very good at it. you've only ever seen him sweet and obedient, a boy very different from his older brother. he was honest and soft-spoken, but just as sincere as sirius, though in a subtler manner.

gentle is another good word. or lovely.

one could argue they've both been acting odd lately. regulus had the muddled, far away eyes, but sirius was aggressive in their shared proximity. isn't it expected for siblings to fight and bicker? you and rabastan rib all the time, like it's embedded into your very marrow. you've never grown cold toward him, and you feel this way won't change much, if ever, but there might be a deeper part of you, one that can feel you're much more similar than you originally gave it credit for. perhaps it's the same with them, too.

this discovery makes you itch. it can't be that simple. of course it couldn't be. is this who he is, truly? you almost hope he will suddenly apologize and maybe hug you a bit tighter, or, or make things better somehow, say he's just teasing, tell you you're the dearest most wonderful friend a boy could ask for.

his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper, "answer me. please?"

"you know i'm fond of you both."

"more than him?"

"both."

"so he's your favourite," his voice shakes.

the look on his face…a mixture of embarrassment and genuine hurt. your's must match.

"please don't say that, i don't have favourites."

"you just put up with me?"

"sirius,"

"stop being so vague."

"you're being mean."

he huffs, "fine. whatever, see if i care what you think."

"sirius?"

"don't bother. just leave."

"what?"

his eyes are strangely wet. you reach out to touch his cheek, in the hopes it'll soften him, but he jerks back, like you had attempted to strike him. the two of you gaze at each other wide-eyed and mortified. his eyes keep tearing, but the rest of him is perfectly still and calm. you decide it's probably best to not call attention to his tears, "what should i say then?"

his face hardens, "don't say anything."

"but--"

"go," he mutters, not even sparing you a glance, "just. stop bothering me."

his eyes brim again, and the sight makes your own become glossy. how humiliating. something coils in your stomach, uncomfortable and inescapable. how should you act? but he doesn't know either. all you have are bits and pieces of lessons and rules, none of which apply to this situation, not in a satisfactory way.

he doesn't move. neither do you. his heart beats and you can feel it, too, on your side of the bed. the clock ticks.

time stretches on.

it's a strange feeling, because it's not a foreign one, and you wish it was. the dull sense of loss makes you feel weak and empty, like you've skipped dinner.

carefully, you inch closer, until the tips of your fingers graze his. you clasp them, awkwardly. it's a childish way of keeping the two of you together. your insides hurt. you wonder if his do, too. he feels warm to the touch, solid and real. both of your palms are clammy.

you manage, breathlessly, "i don't want to fight with you."

his jaw remains tense, "no, you want to have my stupid brother's back,"

"please?"

"fine."

your stare at your joined hands.

"i'll leave," you promise quietly.

"good."

a cold silence creeps in after those words. you let go of his hands and step off his bedside, a great, wistful longing coiling in your gut. you gaze, again, hopefully, only for him to sneer. a terrible look, it doesn't belong there, and it doesn't suit him in the slightest. your head drops, you nod once, and step outside his door and out onto the staircase. the air’s tinted with something burnt and foul.

it's dark and quiet and you feel strangely hollow. the stairs twist beneath your feet. you trudge along, mindlessly, hand gliding down the railing you'd perched on with sirius on sunday. what a distance. it feels like an ocean has swelled, swallowing the shoreline. a curious heat rises up from your neck, itching, prickling, spreading all over.

light dances in the parlour room. the hearth cracks and pops strangely. a swish of a heavy robe, a crinkle of parchment, a sniff.

bellatrix.

she's returned. her silhouette stands imposing by the flickering flames. you're not sure why you came here, only that you did.

she notices you lingering there, head propped against the frame, staring. your hair, mused from earlier, likely gives it away, or, the puffiness in your eyes. her wet footsteps line the polished floor. the lull of rain is oddly soothing.

she tilts her head to the side, examining you, "it's awfully late."

you nod. your chin feels sticky. you wipe at it with the back of your hand, the pads of your fingers swiping your cheek and brushing beneath your nose. she holds out her palm and beckons. something in your stomach unravels, just a little. the carpet is rough, and her hand is heavy on your shoulder.

"shouldn't be wandering around at this hour, my dove," her voice is gentle, the light of the fire lapping across her. her eyes shine strangely, blacker, a dark, curious depth. a flash of green pierces through her iris and disappears. she smells like the night, fresh, and something sweetly charred, like a bonfire or campfire, or, smoke, "a proper little lady sleeps early."

a lump in your throat keeps you from replying. you gaze into the fire. the remains of letters and postcards crumple to black ash. a bright, smiling face on the cover of the magazine shrivels up, blackening at the edges and curling, melting in the cinders. andromeda's gifts.

this is why you never want to know anything.

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freddiemercurylegendabovelegends · 6 months

Text

Today, on November 10th, 1978 - Queen Story!

"Jazz" album released in the UK

👉 The seventh studio album

➡️ 12/12/1978 - Circus Magazine

🔸In praise of ‘JAZZ’

The boys conjure up a bizarre junket by Mark Mehler

On Bourbon Street, in the heart of New Orleans’ fabled French Quarter, the sign reads, “Bob Harrington-Chaplain of Bourbon Street.” Upstairs, the freelance minister administers to the wicked minions below, while across the street, the Hotsy Totsy lounge features naked women parading across an oak bar from dawn to dusk, and next door, the “X-rated Shop” specializes in scatological posters and joy sticks.

This is Freddie Mercury’s favourite American city, where the Mississippi ends its majestic flow and zealots with big dreams fight a losing battle against hustlers, procurers, and all purveyors of sleaze. It is Freddie Mercury’s favourite city because the lead singer and bucktoothed front man of Queen is, above all, an actor. And in New Orleans, anyone can be anyone they want to be. Tonight, October 31, 1978-Halloween-Freddie Mercury and Queen have flown in 80 reporters from the U.S., Europe, Latin America and Japan, to see a show and be a part of a show at the same time. The third concert on Queen’s 28-city U.S. tour is in the ornate Civic Auditorium. Above the stage are listed the names of the mighty: Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Cellini, Durer, Gounod. Out of the soft blue and green lights and smoke, Freddie Mercury struts like a rooster, striking ballet poses, under an astral guitar blare that neatly skirts the sharp edges of rock & roll. The melodies are undistinguished, but the constant tempo changes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “We Will Rock You”, keep an audience awake for nearly two hours of uninterrupted music. The lighting show is one of rock’s most ambitious. Eerie purple lights shine out over the heads of the audience, making their hair seem cloudlike and inanimate. At the midpoint of the show, a smaller stage is lowered from the ceiling and 400 lamps meld into the sheer white plane of curtain light. Freddie is a whirling dervish, dominating every corner of the stage.

“Some people call this song ‘Spread Your Legs’, he tells the audience, introducing ‘Spread Your Wings’. “And I like it that way”.

Starting out in black sequins, he comes out for the first encore bedecked in orange hot pants, dancing around like Peter Pan. For the second encore he’s wearing a revealing, white body stocking. As he wails ‘We Are The Champions’, his voice warbles with mock emotion, and he grasps the microphone for support. At the apex of the triumphant denouement, the top executives of Elektra Records, who have sat smiling throughout the show, arise as one and walk out. Moments later, the show closes with a taping of ‘God Save The Queen’. Body and soul spent, Freddie ambles off stage, drained and spark-less. But Halloween night in New Orleans has just begun.

Back in the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, over 400 people have gathered to await Queen and much on a sumptuous table of hors d’oeuvres, such as Oysters Rockfeller and Shrimp Creole. A Dixieland band plays uninspired jazz jingles, until, shortly before midnight, the Olympia Brass band comes marching through the hall accompanied by Queen-the mercurial Mercury, the winsome Brian May, the puckish John Deacon, the velvety Roger Taylor. Suddenly, like a giant circus orchestrated by a deranged ringmaster, a legion of strippers, vulgar fat-bottomed dancers, snake charmers, drag queens, and bizarrely festooned revellers, begin to strut their stuff before the assembled masses. Freddie Mercury is besieged by hungry autograph seekers, groupies and fame-worshippers. People begin shielding their clothes, as an ever-imaginative photographer snaps Freddie signing the bare backside of a willowy transvestite. Freddie begins sucking on his giant overbite nervously, and by 2 a.m., he is mercifully gone. Brian May, who seems to be the true organizer of the night’s carnival, is cornered by persistent Japanese newshounds. “It’s wonderful,” he keeps saying. “It’s so nice to be back.” As the evening wears on, epicene men and butch women act out charades of power that would have embarrassed Hemingway. Three obese black women in g-strings do a pathetic bump and grind, and another female participant amuses a small gaggle of onlookers by putting a cigarette in an unlikely place. People leave to check out the scene on Bourbon Street and drift back to the party like cigar smoke. At 4 a.m., a Queen security guard, haggard and irritable, inquires when it will all be over. “Queen wants the naked disco dancers going to dawn,” informs his partner. And it does. The following day, Queen reappears at a press conference at Brennan’s, one of the French Quarter’s most elegant restaurants. Again, it is Roger Taylor and Brian May who dominate the conversation, as Freddie Mercury seems vaguely preoccupied. The subject of all this is ‘Jazz’, Queen’s new album, which contains no jazz. “People think we take ourselves a lot more seriously than we actually do,” says Roger Taylor. ‘Jazz’, Queen’s reunion with former producer Roy Thomas Baker, offers ‘Mustapha’, an up-tempo Hebrew rocker; ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, a song that owes a lot to Pure Prairie League’s ‘Amie’; and more indulgent rhapsodies like ‘Jealousy’ and ‘Bicycle Race’, with its topical references to Star Wars, Jaws, and Superman. The ad campaign, like everything about the Band, goes to the limit of good taste: 11 bare-chested, major-league-yabboed women racing bicycles.

“It’s cheeky”, admits Freddie, “naughty, but not lewd. Certain stores, you know, won’t run our poster. I guess some people don’t like to look at nude ladies.”

Freddie, 32, was born in Zanzibar and educated in India, and was a childhood table tennis and hockey prodigy. He studied art and became a graphic designer and illustrator, having given up piano lessons in the fourth grade. But he continued singing, fronting his first band at 14 and forming Queen with Roger and Brian in 1970. After the routine easy grilling, Mercury is cornered outside. “You seem to be removed from the character up on stage. Is that really you?”

“No,” says Freddie, “of course it’s an act.”

He denies pandering to gays; or for that matter, to anyone. He hints at a quiet, restless man who needs to step outside of himself for ego-stimulation.

“I have fun wearing all those costumes,” he says. “I can really cut loose up there”.

Freddie is then swiftly ushered out, and again, Brian May is left behind to field the endless questions of the Japanese. The two-day junket, painstakingly directed by and for Queen, ends with a few straggling journalists eating Bananas Foster and being more cynical than usual. Outside, on Bourbon Street, a folk singer entertains an empty house of red velour seats, affirming that a falling tree makes a sound whether it’s heard or not. Which conjures up something Brian May had said about Queen constantly seeking “direct communication with our audience.” For all the words that describe Queen’s trip to New Orleans, direct is surely not one.

#freddie mercury #queen band #london #zanzibar #legend #queen #brian may #john deacon #freddiebulsara #roger taylor #1978 interview #1978 #jazz tour #jazz album #circus magazine

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