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imaginespazzi · 18 days

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Part 7: Home

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

These hands had to let it go free and this love came back to (us)

(In which with bittersweet feelings, a nostalgic writer, finally writes the end of the story)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst and Fluff

Words: 7.1K

TW: Swearing, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Hello my loves! I can't believe we've actually reached the end, who would have thought huh? I'm not sure if there will be an epilogue, mainly cause I don't know what I'd write but never say never. I don't really know how I feel about this chapter and if I've done the end I pictured justice but I really hope y'all like it anyways. There's a fair amount of creative liberty taken with WNBA logistics but please just accept it for the plot. Per usual, did I edit? Yes. Are there grammar mistakes and typos anyways? Yes. As always, let me know what you liked and disliked. And finally, to all my lovelies who have liked, reblogged, commented, sent in an ask, dm-ed me or simply just silently read this fic, I just wanna say thank you guys so, so, much, y'all have made writing every word worth it and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much I enjoyed writing it <3

August 2018

Paige swears, tonight, there are stars in the Minnesota night sky she’s never seen before in her life. The summer sky has darkened with nightfall, yet the shine of the moon and its companions make it still seem ever so bright. Or maybe, it’s just the girl lying next to Paige that makes tonight feel luminescent, sparkling with the promises of something not quite like friendship that Paige has never felt before. She’d spent the whole day with Azzi at the Minnesota State fair, trying to suppress these new butterflies in her stomach that seemed to have taken birth over their time in Latvia. Or well, maybe they’d been there from the start, but they’d really only started this dance of theirs, the one that makes Paige feel all tingly when Azzi smiles, over the course of this summer.

“Paige it’s cold, stop hogging the blanket,” Azzi chastises, breaking Paige from a trance, as she tugs on the pink and purple blanket covering the two of them, “I knew we should have brought two of them.”

“It’s barely on me” Paige argues for the sake of arguing but she shifts anyway to allow the younger girl to pull the blanket, so clearly meant for one person, a little more towards her, “besides, it’s about sharing body heat.”

“You’re not even warm enough to share body heat,” Azzi mocks as she makes a show of tracing a finger down Paige’s arm and everything in the blonde feels like it’s been lit on fire at the touch. And she wonders if Azzi feels it too, the electricity, the sparks of this could ruin me that scatter through her veins before finding themselves setting her heart ablaze. It’s too much and Paige shakes Azzi’s hand off with a little more force than she means too.

When Azzi sends her questioning look, she splutters through an excuse, “your hands are cold too. Can we just do the boring shit we’re here to do.”

"Stargazing is not boring,” Azzi says indignantly, opening the little stargazing booklet she’d brought with her, flicking through the pages looking for something specific.

To be honest, sitting still in an open field and squinting at the sky trying to figure out a distant constellation isn’t really Paige’s brand of entertainment. She’s a fidgety person by nature, constantly embroiled in the urge to be moving. But Azzi had brought it up the other day, with pleading eyes and a hopeful grin and well, sometimes it felt sinful to deny Azzi of anything she wants. And that’s how they’d ended up at a campsite, not too far from the State fair, lying on the grass, heads tilted towards each other, with a single blanket shielding them from the summer breeze.

“Okay,” Azzi says after a while, using her fingers to point out a pattern in the sky, “I think that one’s Cassiopeia.”

“If you say so,” Paige nods, not really sure what she’s supposed to be looking at.

“Paaaaige,” Azzi whines, “focus.”

“Dude I can barely see anything, the fuck am I supposed to focus o-”

Before Paige can finish her sentence, she feels herself being pulled by the younger girl, the side of her body fitting into the crook’s of Azzi’s like a perfect puzzle piece. She looks over at the brunette, and the protest dies on the tip of her tongue, as she realises just how close Azzi is to her now, all semblance of air leaving her lungs. Paige gulps, eyes tracing every inch of her best friend’s face, stopping of their own accord at Azzi’s lips, before guiltily flashing back to meet the younger girl’s eyes which are just as focused on Paige. And it feels like there’s no force in this world right now that could make either of them look away. Except maybe the force of friends don’t do this.

“Just focus,” Azzi breaks contact first, turning her face back at the stars, before gently grabbing hold of Paige’s hand so she can guide it in the pattern of the constellation. And Paige still doesn’t really see it, doesn’t even particularly care about seeing it, but if it gets Azzi to hold her hand, soft skin putting light pressure against her palm, she thinks she’ll try to see some random lines in the sky forever.

“It’s pretty.”

“You don’t see it do you?”

“Nope,” Paige’s grin widens when Azzi chuckles, shaking her head fondly. Something in her blooms, delighted at being the reason for that. And she’s always prided herself in being funny, she thinks of herself as a little bit of a comedian really, but she’s never wanted to make anyone laugh quite as much as she wants to make Azzi laugh.

“Well that’s enough stargazing for us then,” Azzi rolls her eyes, closing her little booklet and making a move to sit up but Paige is quicker, pulling the younger girl back down and interlocking their fingers. Her own overeagerness causes a tinge of embarrassment to race up her cheeks, and she hopes it’s dark enough that Azzi won’t see the pale pink blush taking over her face.

“It’s peaceful out here,” she says quietly, sounding shy even to her own ears and she can’t help but wonder when the hell that happened, “you wanna stay a little longer?”

“Yeah okay let’s stay longer,,” Azzi agrees and sometimes when Azzi speaks like that, her voice lyrically soft with a secret smile hidden in it, Paige wonders if maybe it would be okay to hope for, to feel something more because maybe, just maybe, Azzi feels it too.

“You know you should come to the state championship,” Paige says after a second of silence, trying to keep her voice nonchalant but she can hear the wishfulness bleeding into it anyways.

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “isn’t that in March? That’s like months and months away.”

“Yeah but- well-” Paige shrugs, cheeks burning just a little bit, “you probably wanna book in advance cause like tickets and stuff you know?”

“You don’t even know if you’ll be in the state championship. There’s still a whole season to go.”

“Oh I know. I know we’re definitely gonna be there.” Paige smirks, cockiness back in full-fledged form.

“Then I’ll be there,” Azzi says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “you better win though Bueckers.”

“Watch me,” and she’s jutting her chest out in arrogance sure, but really everything inside her is swelling with something else, a feeling she’s starting to understand a little too well, a feeling that terrifies her, a feeling she doesn’t think she’s quite ready to let herself feel yet, “it would be nice you know, to win a championship together at some point.”

“I don’t think my parents would be on board with moving to Minnesota.”

“I’m sure I could convince them,” Paige feels a little giddy at the thought, “but I meant more like college, like UConn.”

It’s a topic they’ve stumbled upon a couple of times, with each other, and with the other girls at Team USA. And as much as Paige would love for her other teammates to follow her to her dream school, she’s practical enough to know they might have other priorities. But the thing is that with the rest of the girls, it’s just something she’d like to happen but with Azzi, now that Paige has said it out loud, she’s beginning to realise how desperately she wants that, her and Azzi, on the same team, fighting the same battles and winning the same wars, together.

“Don’t think you can win a national championship without me Bueckers?” Azzi smirks, twisting her head towards Paige, eyebrows cocked in arrogance.

“Of course I can,” Paige’s face softens, the vulnerability that only ever seems to come out around her best friend seeping on to her features, “but I think it would be fun to win one with you. Someday.”

“Someday, “ Azzi whispers back, giving Paige’s hand a light squeeze, and then her eyes widen at the sky, “holy shit is that a shooting star? Oh my god Paige look up, quick, it’s beautiful.”

In the dark of the night, a rare flicker of gold shoots across the obsidian Minnesota sky. Paige has never seen one before but it seems fitting really, that she’d see one tonight.

“We have to make a wish,” she whispers and Azzi, never one to really believe, rolls her eyes but she follows Paige’s lead, closing her eyes. And the thing is Paige could wish for a lot of things really, but she finds herself thinking of only one word that sums up all she could ever want: someday.

***

August 2026

They’ve been playing against each other for years now and yet the thrill of the face-off still hasn’t quite worn off. Back in the handful of games in high school, it had been quickfire friendly trash talk, two best friends going at it like the competitors they were. College had been drastically different, each game, each play, underlined with the tension of two people who still hadn’t quite figured it out. But Paige thinks her favourite version of them as opponents is definitely this one, the one where they might be on different teams in the WNBA, but off the court, they both know they’re on the same side, together.

Their relationship isn’t quite a secret; it would have been impossible to hide if after the kiss at the 2025 national championship. But they’d kept as quiet about it as possible, skillfully dodging media questions, wanting to shelter it from the prying eyes of the public. It makes playing each other on national television, just that little bit more entertaining, trying to keep things as cordial as possible. If Paige’s hands end up just a little too close to Azzi’s waist, lingering a little longer than necessary against the patch of skin she’d marked with a hickey earlier this morning, and it makes the younger girl shiver, then that’s just a tactic to win. And if Azzi breathes seductive thoughts of what she’d like to do after the game when guarding Paige, and it makes the blonde want to turn around and kiss the smirk off of her girlfriend’s lips, well that’s just another innovative defensive strategy.

“Be a good girl for me and move,” Paige whispers, the double entendre in her voice apparent, as she tries to dribble the ball past Azzi. There’s only a minute or so left in the last meeting of the regular season between Paige’s Lynx and Azzi’s Mystics -funny how that had worked out- and the score is painfully close, with the Mystics closing in on the Lynx’s two point-lead.

“Always a good girl for you P,” Azzi smirks, her voice the quietest it could possibly be, but Paige hears her next words like they’re on a loudspeaker in the area, “it’s why I’m wearing your favourite purple panties.”

It takes a second, a second where Paige’s eyes gloss over with lust, as her mind rushes back to the last time she’d seen, the last time she’d touched the silky undergarment, for the ball to be stolen from her hands. She’s a step too slow to recover and by that time Azzi’s already scored the easy lay-up to tie up the game, a mischievous grin adorning her normally stoic game face.

On the other end of the court, Napheesa draws a foul and Paige and Azzi end up next to each for free throws. Paige is seething, unsure if the heat curling up her spine is from the game or the girl standing next to her.

“Sorry baby, all’s fair in love and war right?” Azzi teases, pinky brushing against the blonde’s, “I’ll make it up to you later if you want.”

“You’re such a fucking menace,” Paige practically growls. She does want, in fact she’d like it right now if it was possible. Two years they’ve been together, longer if you count the inbetween, and still, every time Azzi lights a match, Paige feels herself burn just as brightly as the first time she’d felt that magnetic pull.

“Learnt from the best,” Azzi hums with a grin as Napheesa hits both free throws.

The rest of the game passes in a blur of frenzied shots and hurried fouls but the Lynx pull out an eventual, much-needed win, to better their chances of clinching a higher seed in the playoffs. After missing the playoffs in 2024, the Lynx, despite having relatively low odds, had secured the no.1 pick and there had never really been a doubt that they would pick Paige. She’d helped the team get back to the playoffs last season but they hadn’t made it out of the first round. A championship doesn’t seem quite possible yet, but Paige has her fingers crossed that they’d at least make it to a semi-final this time.

“The two of you are terrible at this,” Aaliyah’s the first person to hug Paige during the handshake line, “I thought you’d jump each other’s bones in the middle of the game today.”

“We’re not that bad,” Paige rolls her eyes at her former teammate. She high-fives a few more of the Mystics team until she gets to Azzi, who’s already smiling, despite the loss. The cameras are quick to crowd them, clearly wanting a more sensational picture than the one they’re likely to get. Still, despite the unwanted attention, Paige lets herself nestle into the crook of Azzi’s neck.

“You owe me twice tonight,” she whispers into the younger girl’s ear, “one for the win and one for that bullshit you pulled on the court tonight.”

Azzi’s voice is breathless when she replies, “I can give you way more than two.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a promise.”

***

“With the new rules, after this season you’ll be a free agent, have you given any thought to that?”

Waiting for the Lynx’s turn in the media room, Paige hadn’t been paying much attention to the questions being asked to the Mystics players, her focus solely on how hot her girlfriend always looked post games. But the words ‘free agent’ pique her interest. The W had changed the rookie contract rules for first round draftees to two years and that meant both Paige and Azzi would be free agents after this year. But while it hadn’t reached the media quite yet, the Lynx were likely to use their core designation on Paige. Which meant the only one of them making any decision about next season would be Azzi. It was a subject the two of them were cautiously tip-toeing around, using the shield of distance to avoid talking about what it could mean for them.

“I’m focused on the season, this team and the rest of our games. I’m not really thinking about the future,” Azzi answers diplomatically.

“You’ve obviously got very strong ties to the DC area but you also went to UCLA, if the Sparks or maybe even the Valkyries, considering your connection to Steph Curry, were interested, and there have been rumours that they are, would you consider it?” the same reporter prods.

“Again, I’m not currently thinking about any of that,” to anyone else Azzi probably sounds neutral but Paige has studied the sheet music of Azzi’s voice to the point where she knows what’s hidden behind every note, behind every little indent. The tinge of irritation is masked by a smile, but the line of questioning is clearly unappreciated.

“And what about the Lynx?” the persistently oblivious reporter continues and this time Paige sucks in a breath, “you have some ties to that team don't you? Have you given some thought to maybe going there?”

Azzi’s eye twitches ever so slightly, “the Lynx just beat my team. The only thoughts I have right now are about how to beat them next time.”

That elicits a laugh from the media and finally the rather obtuse reporters seem to understand that he’s not going to be able to pry anything newsworthy from Azzi’s mouth. But even if he hasn’t achieved his desired effect, he’s succeeded in making Paige’s mind start running in circles. She hadn’t let herself think about it yet, the potential of Azzi joining the Lynx, the potential of playing with Azzi, the potential of finally just being with Azzi. Because facing the potential for all of that, facing all the things she wants means also facing the potential that maybe Azzi doesn’t want any of that.

***

The air in Paige’s living room is thick with a suffocating tension as she and Azzi sit on opposite ends of the couch. It reminds Paige a little bit of the before, a dreaded version of them she’d foolishly thought they grown out of, until something reminiscent of their past problems had reared its ugly head, and suddenly it feels a bit like she’s playing a losing game.

“Will you please stop that,” she bites out, referring to where Azzi’s foot is incessantly tapping on the wooden floors, “it’s giving me a headache.”

Azzi’s eyes narrow, flashing with irritation, “is it my tapping or the alcohol giving you a headache Paige?”

“I didn’t even drink that much,” Paige says through gritted teeth and Azzi scoffs.

It’s a lie. After both teams were done with post game pressers, she, Azzi and a couple of the other girls had ended up at a local bar as they often did when the other team didn’t have to fly out til the next day. Paige had been tense the whole evening and trying to pretend not to be, especially when Azzi could see right through her façade, had only made the whole thing worse. She wasn’t one to drink too much, always happy just being sufficiently tipsy but then she’d gotten in her head too much. And when the first shot didn’t quite hit the way she needed it to, she’d kept on going, receiving worried looks from all the girls, until Azzi had finally stepped in. The ride back from the bar had been a sobering experience, one look at Azzi’s stoic face, giving away her irritation.

“That’s why you still reek of tequila?”

“How the fuck would you know? You haven’t come near me all night.”

“Don’t you dare try and turn this on me Paige. I tried to talk to you all night til you decided you wanted to act like freshman frat boy,” Azzi spits out, hurt and anger colliding in her voice, “we barely get to spend time together during the season and the one night in forever that we do, you pull this shit?”

They haven’t had an argument like this since they’ve been officially together, the kind of argument that has them balancing on a delicate tight rope, too afraid to take a step backwards in their relationship, and too prideful to take a step forward towards each other.

“I didn’t think you cared about spending time together during the season,” Paige accuses and there’s a sensible part of her, one that’s currently being held captive by the dangers of liquor, that knows it’s a ridiculous allegation.

Azzi stares at her, lips opening and closing in disbelief, “excuse me?”

“It’s pretty simple really Azzi. If you wanna spend the whole season together, the option is right fucking there, but I- I can’t even tell if you’re interested in taking it,” Paige is pacing now, teeth gnawing at her lips like they always do when she’s nervous.

“What- what are you even talking about?” Azzi asks, clearly confused.

“Free fucking agency. They asked you about it and you said you hadn’t thought about it at all. That’s really great to hear Az, really great to know you haven’t thought about how that could literally change our whole fucking life,” and even as the words waterfall out of her mouth, Paige knows she’s being unreasonable, but the mix of stress and alcohol churning in her stomach is just enough to keep her from taking the words back.

“I didn’t- that’s not even what I said. Jesus fucking christ Paige,” Azzi rubs her face, looking defeated.

“So you have thought about it then?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it, “ Azzi throws her hands up, “but I wasn’t gonna tell the media about all of that. But you- you seriously think I haven’t thought about what this means for us? You don’t- do you really think I’m not thinking about you- about us- while trying to make this decision?”

“Well you definitely didn’t think of me- of us- when you chose UCLA,” Paige’s eyes widen at her own words, knowing immediately that of all things she could have said, those were the worst ones, “I- I didn’t mean it like that.”

In front of her, Azzi has gone deathly still, face completely devoid of emotion, until the first tear drops and all of Paige’s anger dissipates, the guilt clawing back with full force.

“I thought we were over that,” Azzi whispers, voice trembling, as she looks down at her hands, “but maybe we’ll never be over that.”

“We are,” Paige sinks to her knees in front of the younger girl, tugging Azzi’s hands into her own, “we are over it. I just- it just slipped out.”

Azzi’s quiet for a moment before she pulls her hands out of the blonde’s grip, sidestepping her as she stands up and Paige feels empty and cold and just a little bit broken.

“Are you leaving?” she whispers, peering up at Azzi through tear soaked eyelashes.

“I think I should, before anything else just slips out,” Paige flinches and Azzi’s expression softens, “I know- I know you didn’t mean it like that but I just- I need some space.”

Panic filters into Paige’s lungs, wrapping its dirty hands and squeezing so tight that she can barely breathe. She’s not sure when she’ll see Azzi again, now that there’s no more Lynx-Mystics games left in the regular season and it’s unlikely with their expected seedings that they’d meet at some point in the playoffs. It’s not like distance is new to them, but in the last two years, they’ve only ever said goodbye with an i love you attached to the end.

“Are you-,” Paige gasps for air, “are you leaving me?”

And it must be written all over Paige's face, just how petrified she is of this moment, because that's all it takes for Azzi to rush back into Paige’s space, hands cupping her cheeks, “oh baby of course not. I just- you’re still drunk and I’m upset and I don’t want us to say anything we don’t mean. And I- need time to think about free agency and I think you- you need time to think about why that slipped out.”

Paige sighs, melting into Azzi’s touch as the knots in her stomach begin to untangle themselves, “you’re so logical.”

“Someone has to be,” a half-smile flitters across the younger girl’s face as she wipes at Paige’s tears, “we’ll figure this out okay? Just- just give me a little bit of time.”

Give me time. It’s a familiar line, so similar to what Azzi had asked for when she was making a decision about college and Paige would be lying if she said there isn’t a part of her that’s terrified fate is going to make them repeat the same mistakes. But part of growing up, Paige surmises, is letting time test you with the same trials and tribulations, and the next time, coming out of the other end on the right side.

And so she squeezes Azzi’s hand, matching the younger girl's half smile, with a soothing one of her own, “okay.”

***

November 2027

Paige doesn't know when she ended up in a love triangle with Azzi and the state of California but she wishes she was competing against an actual person. At least then she could throw a punch at the other guy. The W season is barely over and it seems like every front office has thrown themselves headfirst into convincing free agents to join their team. There’s a couple of teams interested in Azzi, but no one seems to be trying harder than the Los Angeles Sparks. Paige thinks whoever gave that city a name meaning “the angels” could not have been more wrong because really it’s a city full of devils constantly trying to steal her girl and no she’s not being dramatic.

They’re supposed to be leaving for thanksgiving dinner when Azzi’s phone rings and Paige can’t help but roll her eyes when Cameron Brink’s name flashes on the CallerID. The Sparks seemed to have put her as head of their recruiting Azzi campaign and Cam had been diligently doing her part.

“Azzi, Cam’s calling again,” Paige yells out to her girlfriend who’s still not quite finished getting ready.

“Can you pick it up?”

“Do I have to?”

“Paige,” Azzi whines and Paige sighs, hitting the green answering button.

“The amount of times you’ve called my girlfriend this week, Brink, should I be concerned?”

“Jealous I’m replacing you as her favourite blonde?” Cam’s voice always sounds like she’s smiling and Paige can’t help her own smile. Goddamn Cameron Brink for always being the sweetest soul on this planet.

“As if,” Paige scoffs, “it’s a holiday Cam, give the recruiting a rest.”

“Hey, I’m just calling to wish her a happy thanksgiving,” Cam defends.

“Mmmhmm where’s my thanksgiving wish?”

“Oh please, the two of you are basically a unit. Wishing her is wishing you,” Cam is quiet for a second before speaking again, “the Sparks would be a good fit for her Paige.”

Paige sucks in a sharp breath, “I’m not the one you’re gonna have to convince.”

“I know but you know your opinion means a lot to her. I know you want her in Minnesota and she'd be good there too and I- I know it isn’t my place to say any of this but just- just don’t discourage her from doing what’s best for her,” there’s not a hint of malice in Cam’s words, there never is, but they pierce at Paige’s skin anyways.

“Okay I’m ready, hand me the phone,” she’s saved from having to answer by Azzi waltzing into the living room and prying the phone from her hands.

Paige watches silently as Azzi talks animatedly with Cam, noticing the way her girlfriend’s smile widens while talking about certain spots in L.A. They’d subconsciously decided not to breach the subject of free agency after that night. Paige hadn’t interfered in any of the Lynx’s conversations with Azzi, deciding that this time, she’d stay out of it. It hadn’t been easy, every little bit of her itching to pitch why the Lynx were the perfect fit, why Paige was the perfect fit, but she was determined to give Azzi the space -the time- she’d wanted. This time she’d leave the choice solely up to Azzi and whatever she decided, Paige would find her happiness in that.

“Paige you ready to go,” Azzi waves a hand in front of Paige’s face, eyebrows raised in question when the older girl doesn’t make a move to get off the sofa, “hey, you good?”

“Cam says the Sparks would be a good fit,” Azzi stiffens at Paige’s words.

“Paige-”

“She’s right,” Paige concedes, fingers fidgeting as she averts Azzi’s gaze.

The younger girl blinks at her, clearly not having expected that, “she is?”

“Yeah. They need a shooting guard and you,” Paige smiles, reaching out to pull Azzi onto the couch with her, “you’re the best there is.”

“I wouldn’t go that far-”

“You are to me and it’s why I want you on the Lynx,” they both let out a breath with that. It’s not a secret of course but Paige hasn’t said it out loud before.

“Paige-”

“But it’s okay if you don't wanna be on the Lynx, if you wanna be on the Sparks or stay here with the Mystics or on any other team, if you think it’s the right move for you and for your career then that’s fine. It’s okay and you don’t- you don’t need my permission or anything of course but I just- whatever you decide, I’ll support it okay? What I said that night about UCLA- it wasn't- it wasn’t about you. I thought about it like you asked me to and it’s me. I was scared that I would fuck it up again and I’d lose you again-”

“You won’t,” Azzi grabs Paige’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, “I won’t let you.”

“I know. I know now that whatever happens, we’ll be okay. And so you can choose whatever team you want and it won’t- it won’t affect us, I promise. It won’t be like last time I swear. When you make your decision- I just- I don’t want you to make it for me or for us, cause you and me? Baby we’ll be just fine no matter what. Wherever you go and wherever I am, we’ll make it work, just as we have for the last two years,” Paige smirks, “besides I kinda enjoy kicking your ass.”

Azzi lets out a snort as she climbs onto Paige’s lap, thighs straddling her hips, “you really had to ruin it with that last part huh?”

“Was getting a little too sappy for me,” Paige mumbles and when she looks up, the emotions floating in Azzi’s eyes make Paige’s heart stutter. Because no one else gets this Azzi. This Azzi, who wears her heart on her sleeve, who lets her walls down, only for Paige’s eyes to see, only for Paige’s mind to memorise, only for Paige’s heart to keep.

“You mean it?” Azzi whispers, brushing a strand of hair out of Paige’s face, touching lingering, “you’d be okay with anything?”

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Paige cups Azzi’s cheeks, brushing her lips against the younger girl’s, “whatever you choose, we’ll be fine. No matter what, I believe in us.”

***

January 2028

Paige groans when her phone rings at 2 a.m., fumbling around in the dark trying to answer it.

“I swear you better be dying if you’re calling me this late,” she grumbles into the phone, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Not quite,” Azzi says, and Paige’s eyebrows furrow at the amount of background noise she can hear behind her girlfriend.

“Dude where the hell are you at 3 in the morning?” she asks, now a little more awake as she sits up.

“I uh- I had a bit of a revelation,” and Paige can practically picture Azzi, wherever she might be, fidgeting with her fingers and biting her lips.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“I know. I know. Shit, I was supposed to do this in person. I had a whole plan but apparently being with you has made me impatient,” Azzi rambles.

“You’re still not making any sense,” but Paige’s heart is starting to beat erratically fast in anticipation.

“I had this realisation while I was in the gym today, it was really quiet and peaceful and I was fine you know- all day I was fine- just doing daily routines and then I just- I missed you. I miss you all the time do you know that?”

Paige does know, knows it far too well. Sometimes she thinks missing Azzi comes as naturally as breathing, an innate part of her day to day, a constant ache that she’s felt since she was 15.

“I miss you too,” she whispers.

“And I’ve learned to survive with that feeling, with missing you constantly. I mean it’s been more than 10 years at this point, how could I not? But what I realised today is that just because I can- just because I can live missing you- doesn’t mean I want to.”

“What are you saying Azzi?”

“DC is my childhood. My family is close to there, it’s part of where I grew up. It’ll always be my first home. And LA is where I found myself, my identity, and for a while it felt like home too.”

“Azzi,” Paige breathes out, hands gripping the phone as tight as possible, wrapping that one syllable in emblems of give me forever.

“But my forever home isn’t in DC or LA and it’s not really in any other place either because- Jesus this might be the clichést thing I’ve ever said but-,” Azzi lets out a chuckle, “my home is wherever you are Paige. Wherever we’re together, that’s home.”

It feels a little bit like the end of a drought, the wetness on Paige’s cheeks like the rain that comes after. In the pitch black of her room, phone clutched closely to her ear with Azzi’s words floating through it like a swan song, Paige swears she’s never felt the world glow quite like this before.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Beating your ass has been fun as hell but I think we’d make a pretty good team Bueckers.”

And it’s a good thing Paige’s walls are soundproof because the delighted whoop she lets out practically vibrates around the room, all previous wisps of tiredness completely gone from her body. Azzi lets out a tearful laugh and Paige wishes they were together right now so she could tattoo this happiness onto both of their skins.

“The greatest team ever,” Paige affirms, “When are you com-”

“Attention passengers Delta Airlines Flight 1248 to Minneapolis will be boarding soon, please have your passport and ticket ready to check at the gate.”

“About that,” Azzi says shyly as Paige’s mouth drops open at the announcement, “I uh- I had a moment of spontaneity.”

“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my overthinking girlfriend?” Paige demands and Azzi giggles on the other end of line.

“I know it’s last minute, like really last minute and it was meant to be a surprise actually but I just- I really wanna see you. Is that okay?”

“Is that okay? Fuck Azzi, it’s all I want. Baby,” Paige breathes out softly, “come home.”

***

Time isn’t going nearly fast enough Paige thinks as she checks the arrivals board for the nth time. She’d tried for about four seconds to fall back asleep after hanging up the phone but her entire body had been buzzing with excitement. And so she’d gotten to the airport far earlier than necessary, and had maybe one too many cups of coffee if the jittery shake in her left hand is anything to go by.

She swears she feels her before she sees her. The air is electric as if the whole city, the whole state is waiting for Azzi too, for them to get their elusive forever. This moment feels like years in the making, and Paige is ready, ready to grasp it and make it hers. And then there’s Azzi, a clearly chosen-at-last minute wrinkled t-shirt, eyes drooping from the tiredness from not having slept all night, baby hairs in a frenzy across her forehead. To Paige, she’s still the prettiest girl in the entire universe.

Azzi’s eyes scan through the airport until they land on Paige, a dazzling smile illuminating her exhausted features. It’s the exact same smile that Paige had first elicited from her on the flight back from Argentina when she’d told Azzi she had a feeling they'd make great friends. It’s her Paige smile. The world is still for a second, everything melting away except them and the whispers of the journey it had taken them to get to this point. Every delicately placed step towards each other feels like an ode to every year they’d spent apart. And then Paige is running, not caring about everyone else around her. She jumps into Azzi’s arm, all 6 feet of her, tangling her legs around the younger girl's waist while her arms fasten around the neck. It forces Azzi to let go of her small carry-on, not caring that it falls to the floor with a thud, as her hands wrap around Paige’s back, steadying her girlfriend’s weight on top of her.

“You’re here,” Paige whispers, still a little in disbelief, “you’re really here.”

“I’ve been in Minny plenty of times before,” Azzi quips, adjusting her balance to properly hold the girl clinging to her like a koala.

“Shut up you know what I mean. You’re here forever this time.”

“Well I don’t know about forever- OW,” Azzi shrieks, as Paige pinches her arm, “do you want me to drop you woman?”

“You’re never allowed to leave.”

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Good because it definitely is a threat,” Paige says before pulling Azzi into a searing kiss, “welcome home baby.”

***

October 2028

There are moments in life you remember forever. Sometimes you know they’re going to happen, sometimes they take you off guard and sometimes, it’s a combination of both. The Minnesota Lynx’s journey to the WNBA finals this season had always felt inevitable but the journey there, for a team that had unexpectedly fallen to the 4-seed despite pre-season clamour of them being number one, had been filled with bitter losses and moments of pure uncertainty. In a way, it perfectly mirrors Paige and Azzi’s relationship.

There’s 11 seconds separating the Lynx from their 5th championship trophy as they lead the Sky by two points. The crowd is up on their feet, ready for their cheering to turn into roars the minute the final buzzer rings. Paige has the ball in her hands on the inbound, Coach Reeves yelling at her from the bench what to do, as she makes eye contact with Azzi. There are no words, not even a gesture that the other team might be able to interpret, but they know exactly what play they’re about to run.

Truth be told it hadn’t been the seamless transition the two of them had expected when Azzi joined the Lynx. They’d been naive to think years of not playing together wouldn’t have affected the backcourt chemistry they’d had almost instantly once upon a time. The first few games, there had been an embarrassing disconnect between the two of them that had resulted in a nasty berating from Coach Reeves and a subsequent argument between the two of them that had lasted into the next morning. It had taken several more practices, and a couple more games of flailing around, for them to finally become the duo Paige had always known they would.

The game buzzer beeps and Paige throws the ball to Azzi who immediately returns it back to her, and then she’s running off screen after screen to get herself open on the wing, her sweet spot. Paige dribble penetrates into the paint, dragging an extra defender with her as they try to prevent her from getting a layup, the other defender blocks her from stepping back into a pull-up. Azzi’s defender has a momentary lapse in judgement, falling for the age-old trick of thinking she should help on defence, and that’s all it takes. A second for Paige to see Azzi open on the corner and pass it to her. A second for Azzi to shoot it.

The three-pointer falls through the next with a perfect swish. Dagger shot.

A small smile flits across Azzi’s face, the only emotion she’s shown all game and Paige can’t help the much larger grin that starts to flash on her own face. She can almost taste victory on the tip of her tongue, the two seconds left in the game are the only thing separating her from finally getting her version of the things we live for. Behind her she can hear Coach Reeves yelling at them to not foul, the 5-point lead enough of a cushion for them to withstand a last minute shot. But the Sky barely make it over midcourt and when Marina Mabrey heaves up a last second prayer, Paige doesn’t bother to see if it goes in as the buzzer sounds throughout Target Arena. The Minnesota crowd explodes in noise and colour as confetti falls from the sky.

Despite the chaos of everything, Paige has never seen Azzi clearer than in this moment. Since she’d met the girl, in all of Paige’s prayers about winning a championship, one thing had always been constant, that when they’d come true, they’d come true with Azzi by her side. And she had been. The high school state champion, the college national championship, Azzi had been there for both but on the bleachers, as a spectator and as Paige’s biggest fan. But this, winning a championship with Azzi as her teammate, as her ally, as her partner, means something more. This win is theirs.

“Do you remember when we saw that shooting star?” Azzi says softly, as they find their way into each other’s arms, not caring that there’s a thousand cameras capturing their every move. Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, every inch of her body pressing into the other girls until she’s not sure where she begins and where Azzi ends.

“That was years ago,” Paige remarks but she can see it clearly, two young girls underneath the stars, unaware of what their future would be but sure that the other would be in it. Those girls would probably laugh at how long it had taken Paige and Azzi to figure out what had seemed so simple back then.

“Yeah, yeah it was. Do you remember what you wished for?” Azzi asks, smiling when Paige nods, “do you wanna know what I wished for?”

“What did you wish for Az?”

“Before we saw the star you- you said it’d be nice to win a championship together someday. And so I-,” Azzi looks down shyly, “so I wished for someday. I wished for today.”

Paige stares at Azzi, drinking in the sincerity on the shooting guard’s face, silently letting herself absorb the meaning of Azzi’s words. And then she lets out a laugh because of course of course.

“I didn’t realise I’d said anything funny for you to be laughing at me,” Azzi scrunches her nose, looking slightly offended.

“God baby no,” Paige cups Azzi’s face, and she thinks this smile on her face will last forever as long as this is her reality, “I’m not laughing at you. I just- do you know what I wished for?”

Azzi shakes her head.

“This. The same exact thing you did. For someday.”

It’s not quite the shade of blue Paige had imagined them in, the Lynx blue its own shade, something inbetween UConn’s navy one and UCLA’s sky one. But it’s perfect nonetheless. And when Azzi crashes her lips against Paige’s, someday feels a lot like forever and always.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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tonixe · 6 months

Text

Charade...

a/n: Omg, like guys I'm lowkey obsessed with Coriolanus Snow, like obsessed, but I can't like to stop, like I'm literally going crazy for this white boy like lemme just love you like pleaseeeeee. Also, I got heavily influenced to write this after watching the charade movie, this fic will have lyrics connected to it, so you can listen to it or not, the choice is yours. The song I used is Charade by Henry Mancini.

warning: angst, mentions of some sort of cheating, reader being used, yelling. proofread (?) maybe, idk.

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

word counter: 1.6k

When we played our charade...

You stood there fitting on your dress, one of the maids tightening up your corset on the back of your dress. You were going to attend an event, being seen by the public of the people of Panem. Well, being the first lady of Panem, organizing, and attending thousands of events in your husband's honor. Your role was to keep a smile, even when it was a good time for you or your country. You served the public and served your husband, looking inside yourself into the mirror in front, as the maid finished fighting your dress up. It was a red, burgundy dress that he personally picked for you, to match your husband's suit.

We were like children posing...

You weren't originally supposed to be in the position, you weren't even supposed to be married to him. You only know if when you were kids, him and his cousin, Tigris. You were familiar, knowing her more than you knew him. But time came to pass by, and you managed to know more about him, his likes, and dislikes, he was always around his grandmother when he stopped by you. It was always a vivid memory for you, playing seek with the younger version of himself and running around the park, you really missed him, but now it didn't feel like him at all.

Playing games..acting out names..guessing the parts we played...

Placing your hand near where your heart lay, staring at the mirror hoping it would break. It was a small world, you both went to the same academy, where you met him again after a little time apart, you still sent letters to him though, hoping he read every last word you marked on the page. You manage to reunite there, spending your time with him, talking, walking to classes, and doing everything together.

Oh, what a hit we made...

You felt your heart pumping when you were near him, his nice demeanor making you feel safe. He was your everything, you didn't think he thought the same but you still kept the feelings to yourself. Remember sitting in the library after hours, studying next to him, feeling yourself getting drowsy, almost falling down on your open textbook. "Are you tired?" You turned to him, he didn't look at you, his eyes looking at the textbook. Your cheeks flushed, before he turned to you. You felt your palm getting sweaty, and the pace of your heart increasing, "No" You lied, turning back to your book, "I know when you lie, Y/N" He tapped his shoulder, your eyes widening, "You sure?" You asked. He nodded. You placed your head on his shoulder trying not to make him uncomfortable or distracted. Smiling to yourself, before closing your eyes, you swore to yourself that you saw a little smile on his solemn face.

We came on next to closing...

You were really satisfied when you were with him, a smile never leaving your face. Spending time with him whenever you can, and he loved it too. A smile is always on his face when he sees you in the hallway, running towards him.

Best on the bill..lovers until...

He was familiar with your family. Your mom liked him. Your father respected him. You were happy, but happier when he confessed his feelings to you, your cheeks felt hot. Everything felt like a dream to you, this was what you wanted. His hands were on your face gently, as he pulled you into a kiss, you closed your kiss, loving every minute of it. You felt on top of the world, and your crush liked you back, isn't that what you wanted the whole time.

Love left the masquerade...

Everything took a sharp turn when reaping day came, he was in the top 24th of the best students in the academy, pairing in the Hunger Games as a mentor. You were happy for him, hugging him and giving him kisses. Him, laying down on your lap, as you played with his hair, as he voiced his wants to you. You listened to him, enjoying his ribboning voice to your ears, kissing him on his forehead.

Fate seemed to pull the strings...

Until you saw Lucy Gray, on the holographic screen. You never saw her as an opponent, she actually made you curious, about her voice and how she represented herself. She was from District 12, with a voice only found in the country of Panem, and a nice one too. Your eyes seemed to tune on to the TV screen, watching her. She was going to be the ticket for Coriolanus to win, hoping in your heart that she would win the hungry games. Though she physically didn't suit the standards of a fighter. You gave out prayers at night for her to stay alive for Coriolanus.

I turned and you were gone...

Time... when you Coriolanus would hang out was shortening. His time is consumed by the Hunger Games. Most of his time, his thoughts, and mind went to her. You understood why he couldn't talk to as often as you wanted, but a small part of your heart panged from the thought. Many thoughts rushed through your head, thinking that Lucy Gray would replace you as a seal upon his heart, you tried to wash them out, but couldn't. It was irrational to think that of your boyfriend, you wished you didn't believe too.

While from the darkened wing...

You tried to voice your thoughts to him but were met with a quiet stare. Your face was worried, and your heart was slowly crumbling. "Coriolanus, wait..please!' You exclaimed you cried out, but he kept on walking down the halls, before he turned to you, "Y/N, how can I..pay attention to the games, if you distracting me" That was the first time he raised his voice at him, your eyes widen, you felt your eyes getting glossy. It was the first time he ever raised his voice at you, "C-coryo, I'm just worried, please" You begged, he was getting irritated by you, "I just don't want to lose you" Your voice died out, your chest heaving, tears leaking onto your cheeks. Hearing his footsteps coming closer to you, his hands on your cheeks, "There is nothing going on with me and Lucy Gray, alright" He looked at you in the eyes, and your stomach dropped. Before he released it and walked down to the halls where the games were going to resume.

The music box played on...

Your heart beating in your chest, as you collapsed to the floor, Wanting to tear up but couldn't feel anything to let out. Your heart pumps a sad symphony as you place your hand on top of your chest, holding yourself close.

Sad little serenade...

You watched on your TV, your siblings, and your parents peering into the television. As you walked to the parlor room, looked at the television, looking at Lucy Gray being the last one alive in the games. Your heart jumped, feeling elated for Coriolanus and his victory being secured. You wanted to run to him, hug him, give him kisses on his cheeks, but the pang still ringing in your heart. Knowing that the seal of his love was won by another person, though it wasn't official, you still felt it.

Song of my heart's composing...

You went to the academy, going to your classes. You wanted to see Coriolanus, and hug him after his victory, waiting what felt like hours for you to go and run to him. Entering into the classroom and sitting down, looking to the side where Coriolanus was supposed to sit. It was weird, your dear Coryo. Would never missed any days of the academy anything, he always put his education first. You turned to your left, seeing Clemensia. Wasn't he his partner in class, "Um, excuse me. Have you seen Coriolanus" You asked, hoping for answers for yourself. She shook her head... wasn't it strange. The day after his win, he was magically gone. You needed answers...

I hear it still, and I always will...

The news hit you like a truck, Coriolanus volunteering his time in the military. it was odd, his goal, or dreams better to say, was graduating, and then going to a university, it didn't make sense at all why, he would go that route. He wouldn't do anything, he didn't tell you, right.

Best on the Bill...

You wrote letters, though time did pass

you still wrote letters to him, though you didn't send them, not knowing his direct location, but you hoped he was still alive, safe, and sound. Sending some prayers for him to come back, every day and night. Though you didn't give him a proper goodbye, you still felt you were entitled to do it.

A total of three years passed, you counted them. 365 days every year, waiting for him to come, maybe for you. But you just wanted to see him again.

Charade...

You heard a knock on your door and opened the door to see a matured Coriolanus at your door. Your heart dropped. It didn't feel real to you at all. You wanted to cry and hug him, but you kept yourself composed, looking him in the eyes, he didn't say anything. He offered you a dehorned, red rose. His appearance changed, his blond curls shortened, he was wearing a red suit and his face was stern, less gentle than you remembered. You took it, placing it in your heart, "I missed you" You whispered, feeling tears rolling down your cheeks.

But now, you are in his mess. Going out into the hall, as he waited for you, putting your hands around his, he turned to you, whispering into your ear, "You look beautiful" As you both walked into the awaiting people, waiting to see yours and his appearance.

Hearing the symphony die out, as you reached the shining light of the chandelier above.

#hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus x you #tbosas #tbosas x reader #tbosas spoilers #tbosas movie #tbosbas #president snow #president snow x reader #young cornelius snow

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coryosbaby · 8 months

Note

Pls write more Hoffman stuff T-T I’ve been reading it repeatedly for the past couple of days along with your Adam stuff. I’m gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure. I love your writing <3

𝒞𝑜𝒸𝓀𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑀𝒶𝓇𝓀 + 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒮𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒽𝓂 ♡

Cw: nsfw . Slight dubcon towards the end, cockwarming, p n v, exhibitionism, daddy kink, age gap, threeway, creampie

A/N: u ask u shall receive 🙏🏻 this is Hoffman & strahm + maybe a lil hint of Daniel Rigg but I’ll be writing more of just Hoffman soon if that’s what u prefer 🩷

The days spent in Mark’s office can either be incredibly boring and painful, or incredibly fun and painful.

And on this day, as his hard cock slides itself inside of you, you decide it’s going to be a fun but painful day— quivering, you let out a small whine as he fills you up in his desk chair. His cock, thick and long, is causing an ache and burn in your core. But how could you care when you’ve been wet for him all day?

Mark is barely paying mind to you; being a detective means having a lot of paperwork, and that he must finish today. But that doesn’t mean he can’t squeeze in a little time for you, right?

“Daddy..” you mumble, adjusting the ends of your skirt. He had just slid right in, with absolutely no warning at all! He was so mean sometimes. Batting your eyelashes, trying to get him to look at you, you add, “Cmon, why do you just fuck me?”

“Quiet.” He grunts. He’s flipping through a page from a case file. Although it’s confidential, he never minds letting you see the cases he works on. You’ve kept worser secrets for him, after all. “Keep yourself occupied, why don’t you?”

Oh, that’s rich coming from the man holding you down on his dick. You pout, crossing your arms across your chest. You purposely squirm on his lap, then. He exhales sharply, as you clench your walls on him.

And just then, a knock sounds.

Your face becomes bright red, and you’re quick to try and get off of Mark’s lap. But he tsks, holding you down with both hands and keeping you in place. Your eyes widen in fear.

“Come in,” Mark states.

And of course, the person who opens the door is Peter Strahm— someone you’ve grown to dislike since you heard him whisper something about the “young piece of ass” Hoffman had laying around in his office every day. You were quite offended by that statement, even though Peter has grown to be— in your opinion— too nice to you.

“Hoffman,” he says, trying to avert his gaze from your flushed face. You pray that he can’t see Mark’s unbuttoned pants and your pussy wrapped around him. “I need to talk to you… alone.”

Mark rolls his eyes, pushing his hips up. Letting out a tiny gasp, you can feel his cock sliding against your walls— and with shame, you try not to pay attention to the way your cunt gets slicker at the thought of Peter catching you being such a whore.

“You can say it here, Strahm.” He pats your hip, ruffling your skirt. “I can assure you, her pretty little head is empty right now.”

You should be offended, but really, you can’t think. Peter’s sleeves are rolled up today, his arms and hands exposed and— fuck, why do you want them to touch you?

“It’s about the Jigsaw case,” Strahm presses. His eyes land on yours again, and he watches the expanse of your legs. Your face flushes furiously, and you feel a drop of slick begin to run down your inner thigh.

Shit.

“And?” Mark teases. “It doesn’t matter to her. What is it?”

“It’s..”

Peter’s eyes are on your tits, your thighs quivering. You bite your lower lip, and you can’t help but let a fuzzy feeling take over you as he watches you.

“Cat got your tongue, Strahm?”

Mark smirks, and when he grabs your hips and pushes you further down on him, you can’t help it— you let out a moan, a desperate and sex crazed moan.

Peter doesn’t even know what to do or say— just stands there, his mouth open and a tent forming in his jeans. Mark continues to bounce you up and down on him.

“No—“ you whimper. “Mark! Peter, ‘m so sorry—“

“Fuck..” Peter whispers.

“You want a piece of her?” Mark chuckles, lifting up your skirt. Your cunt is exposed, all creamy and wet, little clit throbbing. You begin to rock your hips back onto your boyfriends hard length. “She wants you to fuck her. Don’t you, angel?”

You can’t help but nod, watching as Peters hand goes down to palm his crotch. He looks at you with a hungry stare.

Mark lifts you up with his strong arms, getting out of the chair and dragging you to the front of his desk. He slips out of you, pushing your body down onto the hardwood. Your cheek presses against a stack of papers as Mark spreads your legs with one of his feet. He lifts up your skirt, revealing your aching cunt for Peter to see.

“Cmon, Strahm,” Mark urges. “Don’t you wanna fuck her pussy? She’s so tight, so warm…”

And fuck, as wrong as it is Strahm is practically hypnotized by the sight of your gaping hole clenching around nothing. It needs something to fill it so bad, he thinks.

Fuck it. He stalks over, gives Mark a little shove to get out of his way. He unbuckles his belt. Mark begins stroking his cock at the sight of your doe eyes looking up at him. Peter pulls his throbbing length out of his pants, and rubs it up against you. You feel like heaven— and when he pushes into your hole, presses his balls firm against your ass, his eyes almost roll back into his head. It’s been a while since he’s fucked such a young, tight pussy.

“Oh—“

You whine as he pulls out and pushes right back in, incredibly hard. His skin smacks against yours as he begins to pound you against the desk.

Mark, chuckling, pats your cheek with his palm.

“That’s my girl.”

He’s stroking his cock over your face now, and Peter groans and spreads your asscheeks apart to get a better view of you.

“Been keepin’ this sweet thing from me all this time, Hoffman?”

His differences with the other man seemed to be forgotten because of your warm, wet cunt.

“Would’ve let you fuck her sooner if you weren’t such a prick.” Mark replies, and grunts when the tip of his cock hits your lips. “Don’t cum inside her. That’s something only I can do.”

Strahm huffs, displeased, but doesn’t say anything. He listens to your whimpers and moans. His mouth begins running, spewing harsh words to you as his cock moves in and out of your slick folds.

“Such a slutty little girl.”

“God, baby, are all the men you fuck always twice your age?”

“Knew you were a filthy whore the moment I saw you walk into big man’s office. Shit, yeah, clench like that again, bitch.”

Although Mark should be angry at these remarks, he knows it’s just a way to break you down on Strahm’s cock. He knows that you love being degraded and used.

It’s not long before Mark’s length fills your mouth, and as you swallow him down your throat Peter begins to rub your clit in harsh circles. Choking on Mark’s cock and squeezing your walls around Peter, your orgasm washes over you in harsh waves. You spasm against the both of them, your release dripping onto Peter’s thighs.

Peter is close, too, and he can feel it. Pulling himself out of you is probably the hardest thing he’s ever forced himself to do— and this even includes when he had to stick a metal straw in his neck because he almost drowned to death. He rubs himself against your lower back, letting out a small, “fuck yes, baby, such a good whore for daddy,” As he spills thick ropes all over the tramp stamp adorning your skin. He relaxes against you for a moment, then pulls away and tucks himself back into his pants. He nods at mark, then murmurs a small, “thanks, honey.” To you as he approaches the door and makes his way out. Mark pulls himself out of your mouth and makes his way over to your quivering form.

“Okay?” He murmurs softly.

You nod, head empty and hole clenching as Mark lines himself up. Much thicker than Strahm, he adds a harsh sting to the mix of your overstimulated cunt once again. He thrusts in and out of you at a harsh pace, his cock practically ripping you in half as it pummels your guts. You can feel that neediness coming back, that urge to cream all over a cock again.

“Yes, daddy,” you mewl. “Please. Please, I need it..”

“Yeah?” He says harshly. His fingers dip into your hips, watching the puddle of cum forming at the base of your lower back. “What if I called the whole office in here, huh? Two cocks not enough for this greedy cunt? Maybe you need to be smothered by another detectives pussy. Maybe you need another fat cock to split you in half…”

And Jesus, Mark’s filthy fucking mouth has you squirming and aching for another orgasm. He grabs your throat with one of his strong hands, bending your body back towards him. Strahm’s spend leaks down in between your ass cheeks and smears all over Mark’s lower stomach, leaving white strings stuck between your body and his, but he doesn’t care. Chasing his release, the mess adds to the amount of pleasure coursing through him.

Your fingers move up to hold onto his hand, as a way to loosen his grip. But you know he won’t let up— once Mark is set on a brutal pace with you, he always has to have his hands around your neck. His cock is bruising, kissing your cervix in just the right way and —

Oh.

Your eyes now, have averted to the office window. A breath of air leaves you as you realize that the blinds, ever always closed, are now open.

You try to get Mark’s attention— try to find a way to get him to let up so the window can be covered again. Thankfully, no one has walked by. It’s an empty hallway. But anyone could be willing…

“Mark,” you wheeze. His eyes flit to where you’re eyes are focused. To your surprise, the man doesn’t stop fucking you— in fact, his thrusts only seem to increase. His smell evades your senses, all cologne and herbal soap and laundry detergent, and you feel fucking dizzy.

And then, a shadow crosses that hallway. A familiar figure, with a stack of papers in his hands.

Daniel Rigg.

There, walking right across the office window. Noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, his body freezes midway, and he turns to look at the both of you.

Eyes filling with tears , you can’t do anything but take Mark’s cock and watch the man. And slowly, you recounted that you hadn’t seen Strahm when he had left the room— hadn’t seen him pull on the string of the blinds. Hadn’t seen Mark’s small smirk when he saw them being opened.

“Looks like we have an audience.” Mark teases.

You notice the tent forming in Detective Rigg’s pants, and your eyes flit down. He begins to stutter on his movements, and the papers in his hand drop to the ground. He shuffles, quickly picking them back up. And, with embarrassment and an urge to stroke his now hard cock, he begins to walk, fast, away from the scene.

Those motherfuckers.

#mark hoffman #Peter strahm #mark hoffman x reader #Peter strahm x reader #mark hoffman x fem! reader #Peter strahm x fem! reader #mark hoffman x reader x peter strahm #mark hoffman smut #Peter strahm smut #costas mandylor #saw #saw 2004 #saw franchise #saw x #saw fanfic #mark saw #Peter saw

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lundenloves · 7 months

Text

〝 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 〞¹

≔ mandatory therapy on base, simon is not for it. originally a two part collab with @mistydeyes look to her for the second (medicines and diagnoses, doctor etc rather than a second therapy sit down)

⤷ i wanted to write something of the sort, so here we are. i’ll gesture to this piece of work lacklustrely and let you form your own like or dislike. we’re almost at 2k so i’ll be back and active (writing-wise) for that.

∷ no warnings, primarily angst and lack of cooperation. 2.5k

masterlist | taglist | request info

“It’s not a question, Simon.” Price dotted his pen, leaning back in the chair and spinning to pull a file from the cabinet beside him. “These files. These evaluations, they’re not changing.” His eyes flicked to the red stamped folder, laying it out on the desk after sliding a sheet from within.

Simon’s tongue ran along his inner cheek, watching his superior closely. “What evaluations?” The question was flat, said without inflection and more venom. His palms flat on the edge of Price’s desk, each finger tapping in succession of the one before.

“The psych, Simon.” A beat. “You’re still hitting subpar levels.” Price shuffled the papers together in his hands, brow lifted at a few of the concerning results. “It’s not good.”

“I’m hardly failing them.” Simon replied curtly.

The captain sat back in his chair with a finger sliding across the page. “Overkill. Aggression. Isolation. Sadistic.” He paused to look up at his lieutenant before continuing. “I quote: ‘I didn’t want to update Lieutenant Riley over the comms, none of us do. We’ll choose Sergeant MacTavish instead.’ Do you know why?”

“That’s not my problem.” He crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance.

“It’s exactly your problem. It’s among a few other reasons we can’t progress you to be a Captain.” Price held his palm face up, leaning forward and pushing the papers back into the file. “We need to sort it out, Simon.” His tone was that of a disappointed parent, yet still firm enough to land.

“I’ve excelled in every physical, John.”

“There’s zero doubt in physicality.” He cleared his throat, taking a short moment before continuing. “I’m re-enlisting you back into therapy.”

“What the fuck, Captain.” Simon’s eyes bored solemnly into the man before him, as if this was an extended form of betrayal.

“It’s necessary you work out these knotholes, they’re now holding you back.” Price spoke slowly, as ever aware of Simon’s reluctance over his past. “It’s no longer an option. Three times a week, you’ll sit down with Dr. Kaufman. I can’t have recruits feeling unsure around you, Simon.”

“I already had therapy.” His own voice was low, leant close to his superior and practically growling.

“Years ago.” Price stood, silently telling Simon to back up through the action. “The colonel is asking why you’re unable to rank up after five years. What do you suppose I reply?”

“That he hasn’t given me the fucking points.”

The captain sighed, pushing the file back into his cabinet and sitting down to scribble something on a post-it. “It would likely be a formal document stating you’re not mentally fit for the step. Past psych evaluations attached as evidence.“

The small post-it was slid across the desk, Simon’s eyes dropping to the uniformed writing. “I expect you to attend, yeah?” The note read thirteen hundred hours, room eleven.

“Fucking hell.” He said to himself after swiping the note, taking steps backward until reaching the door. “This is for today?” The paper held up between his pointer and fore fingers.

“Today.” Price confirmed.

Simon said no more, walking out with a nod and head hung low like he’d just been kicked in the gut. Passing soldiers ducked their own heads to avoid his habitual glares, angling their shoulders inward to not encourage his barging against them. The halls fell silent as he walked, each conversation seemingly pausing until he was out of earshot.

A breath of annoyance was taken, heavy footsteps taking a handful of lefts — a direction he was never inclined to go, considering everything medical resided within the left side of the barracks — before reaching the rehabilitation wing. An egotistical side of him was embarrassed to be seen standing even anywhere near. And a harsh grunt came with his step toward room eleven, begrudgingly wandering down the ever winding corridor before finding his fate.

“Fuck this.” He muttered, two hard knocks battering on the door.

“It’s open!” Came an answer.

Simon pushed the door open, immediately under imagined scrutiny of the doctor before him. He didn’t speak, not one word, hands anxiously busying themselves by gripping the back of a soft chair. “Simon, Simon Riley.” She confirmed with a warm smile, gesturing he take a seat. “I’m Dr. Kaufman. Lily, Kaufman.”

His stare felt hostile, eyes narrowing at her false show of friendliness. “How are you?” She began typing on her laptop, eyes only briefly meeting his and he couldn’t help to assume she was writing about him. Each key tapped to create a jarring noise against her acrylic nail, Simon’s jaw tightened.

“How long will this take.” His curt words weren’t asked in a question, but rather a mumble of inconvenience.

“It’s an hour long session.” She flipped a sheet of paper, eyes skimming across it. “As set by a— captain John Price.” Simon grumbled at the thought, pointedly kicking his boot against the floor before taking a seat.

His silence was deafening, although Kaufman had grown accustomed to such. He did nothing but stare, arms crossed over his chest, legs in a wide manspread — one recognised to be a subconscious attempt to gain control of the situation, the room even. “What brought you to therapy, Simon.”

“Price.”

She nodded, clasping her palms together over her desk. “And why do you think he did so?”

“You have notes.” He sighed, resting his neck on the back of the sofa and looking to the ceiling.

“Yes, I have formal notes,” She paused, almost for effect until Simon had craned his neck to look at her. “But I'm asking you. Why do you think he did so?” Her question provoked a shrug from him, broad shoulders lifting only briefly

“Psychs.” He mumbled, sticking two thumbs into his eyes before sitting up. “Fucking— the things, the evaluations.” Words strung out impatiently, each one punctuated by a tap to his thigh.

“You failed them?”

“No. I’m just not at the standard they would…” Simon’s eyes skimmed across the room, merely decorated in order for less distraction. A bright looking plant in the corner almost mocked his lack of life. “Prefer.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m angry.” His gaze then dropped to hers, the instant words seemed like a jab. “I get angry.”

Kaufman nodded, her silence was a signal for him to continue although he didn’t take the bait. “Is that the only reason?” She asked, taking pen to paper on the way his leg had begun bouncing anxiously.

“How many fucking questions?”

“This is trust based. Whatever is said here, stays here.” His jaw tightened at her words, boot impatiently stomping into the floor once more. “And we need to get to know one another to start building that trust.”

His stare dropped to the floor, “We’ll take our time.” She continued, pulling her lips inward and smiling once he had looked back up. “You’re in control here.”

The room fell to silence once again, the only sounds being the cracking of his knuckles and the scribbling of her pen. It wasn’t awkward however, Simon’s breakage in eye contact was new — his finger grazed over the only sliver of skin he had on show, his exposed forearm between sleeve and glove. “What do you know.”

“Whatever you’re happy to share with me. This is a clean slate, your session.” He sighed though it came out as a grumble, pulling his arms back across his chest. Kaufman noticed his shifting, “Aren’t you overheating in that mask?” She spoke softly.

“I’m used to it.”

“How long have you worn it?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, almost judging her question before shrugging. “Years.” She eyed the intricacies of the stitching, how almost every thread was uneven and needled with different shades of grey. It was a handmade job.

“Did you make it?”

“Why.” He bit, his heel kicking against the floor to create a thump sound.

“It’s clear it has a lot of meaning for you.”

Simon nodded slowly, fidgeting with the seam of his pocket before looking back up to her. Eyes dead and fixed to her own, it was beyond obvious he would rather be anywhere else. “I don’t ever take it off.” Kaufman had caught onto the subtle change in his tone, one that warned her not to venture further.

“We don’t have to talk about it. Remember, you’re in control.” She reasserted and Simon rolled his sleeves up, exposing a tattoo on his left forearm. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions. You don’t need to go into any detail, it’s just to help me understand you better.”

“Right.”

“Tell me about your tattoo.” She began, nodding toward the ink and watching as he lifted his arm to look at it himself. “What does it mean?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. It’s a bit shit, I got it when I was young as a cover up.” Sullen face lifting only briefly.

“Covering other tattoos?”

“Mh-hm.”

“Do you regret doing so?” Kaufman asked, playing the field to see if he was an impulsive person. Simon was surprisingly unaware of her techniques despite seeing right through his last therapist.

He laughed a dry laugh, one that lacked humor. “No.” Eyes squinted at her smile.

“Would you get more?”

Simon shook his head once more, this time accompanied by a frown to further his point. Eyes naturally narrowing with the action. “Any particular reason?”

“Getting older.”

Kaufman smiled with a tilt of her head, flipping a few pages backward in her notes. “You’re still young.” She pressed her finger to the paper with his basic information.

His mask made it difficult for Kaufman to distinguish his feelings. It was a complete distancing tool, one that worked well. She figured it was worn to separate himself from the job. “On base, you go by—“

“Ghost.”

“How did you come about that?”

“Long story.” He shrugged, picking at threads by his pockets with an unnerving nonchalance to his tone and Kaufman nodded. It wasn’t difficult to see his reluctance, she pushed backward in the conversation, watching as he rubbed his opposite hand against his arm.

The tattoo was stretched to the crease of his elbow, old ink faded to a dark grey rather than black and many scars adorned the space, creating gaps of blank skin in the artwork. “Do you enjoy your job?” She asked, gaining a slow blink in her direction, one that begged for reason.

“Would you enjoy it?” He mumbled, looking up at her with a drawn out sigh.

“I’d imagine it takes a toll.” She sucked her lips inward, allowing the silence to settle and to create a landing pad for her pending words. “It’s intense.”

Simon grumbled to himself, landing his boots to the floor abruptly one more time after shifting positions. Arms crossed over his chest in subconscious self pacification while pointedly staring at her — a complete and natural embedded military tactic of control. He didn’t want to speak, so stared. Stared to show acknowledgment and active dismissal, Kaufman took note.

“Do you have a family, Simon?” She clicked her pen once more, beginning a fresh page.

“Mh-hm.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“Girls, boys—“

“Girls.”

“Young?”

“Six and eleven.”

“And am I fair to assume they know you as Simon, rather than Ghost, yes?” She was slow with her wording, deliberate in the pacing of each and every syllable as opposed to the quickfire questions prior.

He sat back, pushing a stiff hand across the back of his mask before dropping his arm like it weighed a tonne. “Yes.” Lip pulled up as if he was uncertain in his own answer, eyes absently directed to the plant in the corner of the room.

“You seem unsure.”

He shook his head. “It’s different.” Although his voice hadn’t quite grasped confidence, instantly clearing his throat before sitting up precipitously to cement his statement. Kaufman’s silence invited more words from him, suddenly at a point of talkativeness to jump at his own defense of fatherhood. “I don’t take any of this home with me.” He gestured toward his gear, “It’s different.”

“Do they know the mask?”

“They’ve seen it.” His sudden leer was one that assumed he had been tripped up, falling right into her fucking verbal minefield.

“So Ghost does come home with you?”

Bastard, Simon thought. “No.” A bite.

Kaufman took a minute to think of her next question, one that would simultaneously calm him down while also wedging the door to his openness ajar just enough for her foot. “Do you look forward to taking the mask off?”

He shrugged, retreating back into a slouch. A short note was made of his action. “Possibly for the burden it carries?” She offered and Simon let out an audible groan, one that cut her short.

“There isn’t a fucking burden.”

She observed as his hands clenched into fists under crossed arms, the impatient tapping of his heel against the vinyl flooring was something of another warning. “Are we okay to circle back to your family?”

“Hmmh.” He mumbled an affirmative noise though his body language was completely closed off.

“Would you like to tell me about them?”

His foot stopped moving, leg stretching outward to cross his ankles over one another. “Depends what you ask me.”

It was evident that Simon relied on guidance and instruction. Kaufman had gathered that much in the first ten minutes she had spent with him. The constant need for grounding and clarification was the first thing she noticed bar his body language, even when he had tried his best to seem contained.

“You can tell me as much or as little as you’d like.” She put it plainly, watching his eyes narrow and chewed down fingernails fidget against his belt loops. A flurry of thoughts intruded her mind at that, was he anxious at home? The bitten down nails said as much, evidently picked at without his mask on.

“How are your kids?”

“They’re fine.” He shrugged, setting his hand across the sofa edge.

“Yeah?” Kaufman smiled, dotting her pen and Simon nodded, rubbing his brow momentarily before blinking at her lamely. “That’s good.”

Her wrist raised to check the time, an action Simon shifted at, eyes running to the door instantly.

Though Kaufman took no eye to his impatience, writing a few notes before closing her book over, all at her own pace. “Time?” He asked readily, eagerly, bitten nails fidgeting with the loose seams of his jeans once again.

With a brief glance to her wrist, Kaufman gave him the go-ahead. “Yeah. Yeah, that’ll do us for today.” She was left watching pointedly as his shoulders dropped at her dismissal. “May I ask you one final question?” Her pen was placed back on the desk, in perfect adjacency to the mentioned notebook.

“Hm.” A grumble.

“Do you believe in therapy.”

His brows furrowed under the mask, already standing with a hand on the door to solidify her point. “No.” And with that came a nod of departure, the words landing like an opinionated knife — easy to slot in, hard to take out.

Kaufman had her work cut out.

≔ dude i want him. i want to fucking hug him and tell him everything will be ok wtf, this man being emotionally inept is my roman empire.

simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @iluvoaldmen @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @st4rluvrz @spencerreidisbae123 @paperbag-prncss @cookiecutta @sluttyforsimon @loveangelic

as always, comments and reblogs are mighty appreciated. thank you for being on the taglist too!

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw fanfiction #simon riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley fanfic #cod fanfic #cod ghost #cod mw3 #call of duty mwii #call of duty #ghost call of duty #cod modern warfare

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wwouldvecouldveshouldve · 5 months

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warmth

what makes their heart warm?

[ ft. verlaine, dazai, atsushi, and kyoka. can be interpreted as platonic or romantic (kyoka is strictly platonic!) ]

Dazai isn't someone who easily trusts people, that's for sure. The only way to get to his heart is consistency and being genuine.

It starts with noticing how he doesn't eat much, and you heard him mention how he likes canned crab. So you got him just that one day, and left it on his desk. He'd figure out who it's from easily, I mean, it's Dazai we're talking about. When he needs something, you'll be there. You respond to texts and calls on time, and get him thoughtful things from time to time. Not to say that you aren't firm with him. He's gotta do his work, he's gotta fill his share. Over time, you'll get to him- without a doubt. It'll take an ungodly amount of patience to get through with everything, but so long as you're both together in the end, that's okay.

Atsushi is precious, but that's obvious! Little things from the people he cares about make him so, so happy. You helped him finish some documents? RWIJBSWEWSILDEM. You made him lunch? YOU'RE TOO KIND! Every little thing people do for him makes him feel warm inside. Just knowing people care for him and will take time out of their schedule to do something for him makes him unimaginably happy. Still, sometimes you have to reassure him that he isn't a burden because you did that. You're doing this because you care about him, not because he's being any sort of a burden to you. You want to do that, especially because he isn't a burden at all. (Potentially just makes him cry more but it's happy tears, I swear)

Verlaine is not open to affection at first. Still, patience is a virtue, and you'll stick through it to pry open his heart a little. It starts with spending some time together, getting to know each other from an arm's length. You get to know him at least a little, and you see what you can do from their. He's fascinating, so of course you want to learn more. So you do, and since you know how to keep a promise, he tells you a little more. Next time you come, you think of a gift he'd like. It's a journal, so when you're not there to talk with him, he can at least empty his innermost thoughts onto the page. You dare not read it, it's not yours to read. It's a long time later when he tells you about his so-called lack of humanity. You laugh in the face of his bullshit- he's never been any less than human to you. Since he seemed to like using the diary, you come around more so he can have someone to talk to face-to-face. And so comes a dynasty of trust and late-night confessions.

[ strictly platonic! ]

The moment you heard Kyoka some of Kyoka's likes and dislikes, you knew exactly what to do. Some days a little rabbit plush would appear on her desk when she had a bad day, other times a plate of tofu when she forgot to eat lunch. You would chat with her on missions every once in a while. You looked out for her instead of looking to use her, so she returned the sentiment. She figured out who was doing the gifts so she began to do the same with you, so it was mutually helping each other out through without actually saying a word about who was doing it with the other. You two never even talked about the gifts, even though you two talked all the time with each other. You acted like siblings, which does entail talking about dumb things and doing even dumber competitions, but that's only to get each other's minds off of bad days. Just caring for her when she's vulnerable is heartwarming.

----------

And that's it for my first post. Sfw requests are open! I love you all and have an amazing day.

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inkedobsidian · 1 year

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~ Book-ish - S.R ~

summary: good domestic cuteness between the gang

pairing: Y/N X Spencer Reid

warnings: none, all the fluff

word count: 623

a/n: Requests are open! Prompt list is there if you guys want extra ideas!

Master-List - Prompts

There were often moments after cases where the entire jet remains silent, even when the cases end well. Everyone seemed to end up sitting in the same places, like a family routine. Y/N was lying across the sofa her head against the wall and her nose practically in another book. Spencer and Morgan sat across from each other on the 4x4 seats consumed in their own world of research papers and texting. The rest of the team was dotted around the plane consumed in light conversation about cases past. Y/N read remarkably fast, not as quick as Spencer but faster than anyone else. All the plane could hear from her corner was the quick flipping of pages from the two resident geniuses. Morgan then watched from his seat as Y/N closed her book, removing the bookmark and pulling out her laptop and a completely separate book.

"Damn kid, how many of them things do you bring on every trip?" Derek said looking at Y/N. She finally realized that he was speaking to her when the silence of no one replying to Derek hung in the air. They finally met eyes and her body shot up in excitement to talk about a book she was reading or a list she was making.

"I am glad you asked," As she said this Spencer also turned around to face her, a smile forming the minute he saw the excitement on her face, "So this is a list I created that has all the books I currently own, I started it when I came here as I was building up my library. It has multiple collums; genre, author's name, book name, rating out of 5 stars, and the date when I finished it." Spencer was glued on to every word she said even scanning the words on the screen to grab a bit of insight into her likes and dislikes.

"So how many books are on there?" Spencer says, hoping she'll use it as an excuse to talk more about her interests, he did love listening to her talk. With that small invitation, Y/N grabbed her laptop and moved over to sit next to Spencer on the 4x4 seats scrolling up and down the screen explaining all the 5-star ratings and all of the 1-star ratings. Only about 2 minutes had passed before Derek stood up excusing himself to get more coffee. Which gave the two geniuses more time to discuss all the books. Spencer takes notes of the books she marked as 5 stars in his mind, remembering to read them sometime, even if they are in her words 'stupid little romance novels'. He knew she was mainly downplaying it out of embarrassment but he still took the mental note.

"You should help the pretty boy make his own list, I wonder what the numbers would look like on that," Derek said taking his seat back across from the two, freshly brewed coffee in hand.

"Oh now we know how the good doctor feels about technology, plus it would take me longer to make the list than it would for him to finish the next book," Y/N said placing her hand on Spencer's shoulder when she says the good doctor. He felt Morgans's eyes on his shoulder when she placed her hand down, then his eyes flicked back towards Spencer's eyes attempting to gauge some reaction. Just then the laptop against the wall beeped and Penelope's face appeared on the screen, sometimes she popped back in just to check on the gang after a case. Saved by the bell he guesses.

"What's up earth mighties her- why is Spencer's face bright red?" Garcia's voice boomed over the speakers. Guess he was NOT saved by the bell.

#criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid

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anzulvr · 3 months

Note

hey there how are you doing? :3 may I request Karma and Itona (separately ofc! [I read the request page, hehe] )x reader where reader is kind of awkward in nature? Like reader will stand behind them and internally motivating herself but if they turn around before reader is ready and ask her if she wants something, reader will get flustered and walk away while throwing some mean words like,"Like what makes you think I want something from you?" And moment they are out of sight, she's like 'why I say that?' I know I how have simply mentioned a tsundere reader but they are usually violent but I really need was awkward and a flustered reader,,,, oh well hopefully it isn't confusing much. don't forget to eat your meal and stay positive<3

— Karma / Itona with Akwkard! (Fem, Tsundere) Reader

SO CUTE. So relatable. First Itona one on my page too so pretty fun thank you for the request!

KARMA:

He’s the type to catch on to your feelings quickly, because he’s so perceptive (and his slight ego) you’re not hiding your feelings from him no matter how many times you deny it.

He pushes it, making fun of you every chance he gets because he knows you’ll give a reaction.

“[Name]? Focus on the board not me, this is why you don’t understand the homework.”

“No one is staring at you! And I actually do understand this one!”

(You were staring and, no you didn’t understand the lesson either.)

Being mean to him on accident is a common occurrence, as a result you get mad at yourself for the rest of the day.

During class you’re all outside practicing knife maneuvers, Karasuma demonstrated earlier but you were “having trouble.”

(You could do it just fine but you wanted an excuse to get Karma to help you)

And he does help you, he grabs your hand a mimics the slashing motion, until:

“Alright [Name]- now try it on your own!”

“I still can’t… can you teach me from the beginning?”

“You just want me to grab your hand again.”

You swung the Anti-Koro Knife at him so fast, without a second thought.

All he had to say was, “So, you can do it?”

He’s aware you can’t bring yourself to confess, but he’s not going easy on you- he finds it more entertaining to see you struggle than just telling you he likes you himself!

He’s going to tease it out of you someday, that’s why you’re his favorite target.

ITONA:

Itona has no idea you like him, he’s the most oblivious person ever.

Especially with the way you act around him, all jumpy and awkward- he thought people only did that when they disliked someone.

He was so blind to your advances until Terasaka and the rest of his friends spelled it out for him.

Maehara was especially encouraging, (as much as he can be in his own way!) “You’ve got a chance with [Name] so take it before I steal her away with my charms!”

(Isogai is always right behind humbling him)

“Take your time Itona, don’t worry there’s no way in hell she’s gonna go for Maehara.”

The concept of relationships always felt far to him (this is also true with Karma but they have different reasons. Itona has been programmed to see relationships as trivial and unimportant while Karma cannot stand the idea of anyone being close enough to exploit his weaknesses.)

You were talking with Terasaka of all people, he was making you laugh so hard tears started to fall from your eyes.

Going as far as to grab onto him for support because your ribs were hurting.

Itona was fighting the urge to prove himself better, but he’s not exactly the most socially conscious or extroverted person, so he shook the unfamiliar feeling off.

Usually, he can fight people to showcase his superiority or strength but this wasn’t the same. He couldn’t fight Terasaka to prove he could make you laugh harder. He was confused as to why he would even want that!

He tries to learn to be more sociable by watching how his classmates interact.

When he finally gathers his resolve to make a joke it comes out of his mouth so unnaturally stiff.

The type of delivery that’s so bad it’s funnier that the joke.

Even if it wasn’t for the reason he intended, you still laughed and in his opinion it was way more genuine than when you were with Terasaka.

Sooo he wins!

#ansatsu kyoushitsu #karma akabane #karma x reader #assassination classroom x reader #karma akabane x reader #akabane karma x reader #assassination classroom #assclass #itona horibe #Itona x reader #Itona horibe x reader #horibe itona #anime headcanons

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onemustalwaysbecarefulofbooks · 11 months

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Why I Dislike Rhysand, Part 2: #NotMyHighLord

Part 2 in the rant I have suppressed for the past several years. Rhysand Stans, be warned, this is not for you. Be prepared to see critiquing of SJM’s writing as well. Proceed at your own risk!!

I feel like this section of the rant is going to be the one that most people have seen, heard, or expressed themselves already. I myself have seen many posts and takes on this before. There will probably be the least amount of original ideas in this post. Nonetheless, I can’t turn down an opportunity to finally say it in my own words.

In Part 1 of my rant (and many other posts), I discussed how Sarah J Maas blatantly has an insane sort of obsession with Rhysand. It is impossible not to notice and acknowledge if you read the series from start to finish. All it takes is about 2 minutes listening to her speak about anything related to him for you to see it as well. He is unequivocally Her Favorite and she has demonstrated that by deeming him to be THE MOST of many different things, especially in comparison with others. I made a post last summer about how I really struggle to define what I think of Sarah as an author overall. She has given me some of my favorite fictional characters of all time, written scenes and exchanges between characters that I carry in my heart and soul and overall provided me with an endless amount of entertainment. On the other hand, a GLARING fault I find there to be with her is that she often writes in an extremely puzzling and contradictory way: beating us over the head with something about a character she presents as being true, verbally stated through the dialogue of characters or through the narrative of the story, while having these characters act and behave in a totally OPPOSITE way to the way they are being described by everyone. And this obviously contradictory behavior is never addressed by anyone in the story--or if it is, the ones calling attention to it are vilified and shown in a negative light, even though they are providing commentary on actions carried out canonly by these characters.

In the simplest form, it’s like this: The author creates a character who others routinely say is the most kind, unselfish, loving, and generous person to grace the planet. An opportunity will NEVER be lost to state these things, through the narrative and through the dialogue of other characters. The fandom comes to accept these things as totally canon traits. You hear the author repeat these same beliefs. The character becomes a favorite of the fandom, who praises him/her for being so kind and selfless. You get excited to read about such a character and open the book yourself. . .only to find scene after scene where the character acts in a way that is cruel, selfish, and arrogant. All while everyone else continues to laud them for being so wonderful. There is a direct contradiction between what you’re seeing and what you’re being told. Tons and tons of readers seem to find nothing unusual about this. You’re left with the feeling that you’re in some kind of insane asylum where nothing makes sense but no one questions it.

This is the feeling I get whenever I hear about what an amazing High Lord Rhysand is.

As we’ve established, SJM is obsessed with Rhys. Therefore, she automatically makes Rhys the best at whatever he does. One day I’d love to do a drinking game where we take a shot every time someone reminds us that Rhys is The Most Powerful High Lord In Prythian’s History (he should really just get that phrase trademarked at this point). But in addition to that, we are also often reminded about what a good, just, fair, and progressive beloved ruler he is.

Rhys as High King: he could think of no other male he’d trust more. No other male who would be a fairer ruler than Rhys. And with Feyre as High Queen. . .Prythian would be blessed to have such leaders. (Cassian, ACOSF, page 451)

There are a lot of ACOTAR lines that provoke actual visceral anger and disgust in me. This is probably in my All Time Top 3.

Yeah, Rhysand is SUCH a great High Lord!! Didn’t you know. . . there are no slums in Velaris!!

There’s just, you know, female mutilation going on in the mountains!

Where to even BEGIN unloading?

I guess I’ll begin here: One of the reasons I strongly dislike Rhysand as a character is because he’s a terrible High Lord.

(And what makes me infuriated and passionately dislike Rhysand is the fact that we are beaten over the head by what an exceptionally wonderful High Lord he is despite the glaring faults shown in the text).

I really really fail to understand how anyone can believe any differently, when it is canonly stated that two thirds of Rhysand’s court are hellish and terrible places. Women are oppressed and mutilated, people who are brutal and cruel are basically given free reign to do as they please, there is not an ounce of respect given to their so-called true ruler.

And Rhys, “The Most Powerful High Lord in Prythian’s History” has done. . .nothing. Nothing to truly change either of these places.

Let’s start with Illyria.

We all know how horrible life is for Illyrian females. They are forbidden to train, are viewed as vessels for breeding, and have their wings clipped at a young age so they can’t fly. Cassian’s mother is raped by an Illyrian warrior and then worked to death, when her body is dumped off a cliff. Azriel’s mother has her young son taken from her by the male who sired him and relies on his mercy as to when he can be released from his literal prison cell to see him. Rhys’s mother was starving herself so she wouldn't get her period, which is when her wings would have been clipped when she was saved from her fate by his father’s mating bond. Emerie and her mother are horrifically abused by her father, resulting in her mother’s death. Emerie tells Nesta and Gwyn that he would slam her head into walls, crunch her fingers in doors, and that he broke her fucking back. Like most females, her wings are clipped so she’s unable to fly. Upon her father’s death, she gains control of his store much to the displeasure of her male family members who frequently harass and threaten her about it.

It’s plain to see that these are not randomly occurring isolated situations. Abuse can happen anywhere, with anyone, but there is CLEARLY a cultivated system of abuse and oppression among Illyrian females. Rhys tells us that he has banned the clipping of Illyrian female wings and is slowly working towards implementing changes that will allow women to have more freedom and choices. He tells Feyre that the Illyrians are “slow to change” and that it will take a long time to completely undo the way they’ve lived their lives for centuries.

I’m sorry, I call BULLSHIT.

The attempts we’ve seen towards this so far in the story have been half-assed at best. Rhysand makes these laws but doesn’t put anything into place to actually enforce them. In ACOMAF, we get this from Devlon, the war lord who rules over the Windhaven camp:

“Another inspection? Your dog,” he jerked his chin toward Cassian, “was here just the other week. The girls are training.”

Rhysand’s strategy to prevent female wing clipping: Tell the violent sexist males with all the power in the camps that it’s banned. Send Cassian in once a week to check up on it.

That’s it.

Allow me to demonstrate how utterly ridiculous and contradictory this is.

In ACOMAF, we have the scene where the IC visits the Court of Nightmares (oh don’t worry, we’ll touch on this place in a bit). Right before their departure, Keir insults Feyre and calls her a whore. (Sidenote: no one should ever be called a whore and I am no way in the SLIGHTEST defending Keir but honestly, I don’t know what Rhys expected. It’s like when Rhys goes out of his way to act evil and do evil things and then everyone takes offense to people calling him evil. He dresses Feyre up in skimpy revealing clothing, has her sit on his lap on his throne, and proceeds to basically finger her in front of an entire throne room of people. It’s stated a million times that fae can sense and smell arousal, and both her and Rhys are both completely turned on by this. Feyre calls HERSELF his whore: “The High Lord’s whore. Who I’d become Under the Mountain--who the world expected me to be. The dangerous new pet that Mor’s father would now seek to feel out.” Like. . .buddy, you have her play and act the part of “The High Lord’s whore” and make a public scene in front of a man who has no respect for women, and then are enraged when he calls her a whore. What did you think he would do?? How did you think he would respond?? It’s almost like he was purposely trying to goad Kier into a reaction so he could punish him for it, honestly).

ANYWAY. . .Keir calls Feyre a whore. And Rhys loses his shit:

Night exploded into the room.

People cried out. And when the darkness cleared, Keir was on his knees.

Rhys still lounged on the throne. His face a mask of frozen rage.

“Apologize”, Rhys said. My heart thundered at the pure command, the utter wrath.

Keir’s neck muscles strained, and sweat broke out on his lip.

“I said,” Rhys intoned with such a horrible calm, “apologize”.

The Steward groaned. And when another heartbeat paused--

Bone cracked. Keir screamed.

And I watched--I watched as his arm fractured into not tow, not three, but four different pieces, the skin going taut and loose in all the wrong spots--

Another crack. His elbow disintegrated. My stomach churned.

Keir began sobbing, the tears half from rage, judging by the hatred in his eyes as he looked at me, then Rhys. But his lip formed the words, I’m sorry.

The bones of his other arm splintered, and it was an effort not to cringe.

Rhys smiled as Keir screamed again and said to the room, “Should I kill him for it?”

No one answered.

Rhys chuckled. He said to his Steward, “When you wake up, you’re not to see a healer. If I hear that you do. . .” Another crack--Keir’s pinkie finger went saggy. The male shrieked. “If I hear that you do, I’ll carve you into pieces and bury them where no one can stand a chance of putting you together again.”

Keir’s eyes widened in true terror now. Then, as if an invisible hand had struck the consciousness from him, he collapsed to the floor.

Rhys said to no one in particular, “Dump him in his room”.

Now. . .does this in ANY way, shape, or form seem like a man who has trouble getting people who are opposed to him to do what he wants them to do?????????

Rhys doesn’t even move off of his throne and he has Keir groveling on the floor with his arm shattered into pieces. It takes no effort whatsoever on his part. He is, after all, The Most Powerful High Lord in Prythian’s History, in case you’d forgotten. He later laments to Feyre about how ashamed he is for her to see “that side” of him. Feyre says:

“You’re my friend--and I understand that you’re High Lord. I understand that you will defend your true court, and punish threats against it.”

DO YOU SEE THE RIDICULOUSNESS AT PLAY HERE.

Sarah. You can not have it both ways. You can not have Rhys claim that he is “doing all he can” to defend the Illyrian females and protect them from the violent males in their lives and then simultaneously give us this scene. Keir hates Rhys’s guts and I’m sure would gladly not only refuse every order he gave him, but also run him through with a sword. Does it seem like any bit of this matters in this moment?

One of the responses to this I stumbled across on Reddit literally floored me. Someone brought up this very argument, that Rhys had more power to control the situation in Illyria if he really wanted to, and I saw several people respond with: “Well, if he literally tried to control them, either through physical intimidation or mind control, then he’d be a tyrant, and that’s not who Rhys is. That’s not who he wants to be. Is that really what you’re suggesting?? You want him to be a tyrant who controls people???”

Um. . .YES???

Like. . .do these people hear what they’re saying??? Do they understand the concept of “context matters”????. Do I want Rhys to walk around flaunting his power over innocent law abiding citizens of the Night Court who are minding their own business and not hurting anybody? Obviously no. But do I want him to use his power in a meaningful way to punish people who are physically mutating and beating women to death??? Hello??? The lengths some people will go to to defend this man is incredible.

What is the POINT of Rhysand having all this power if he doesn’t use it to defend the good and the innocent??? What is the POINT of him being “tHE mOsT poWERful HiGH lORD in PryTHIAN’S hIsTorY” if he sits on his power while innocent people in his court are being abused under his watch???

Spoilers for Queen of Shadows: To me, this is like someone saying Lysandra shouldn’t slit Arobynn’s throat in his sleep because it would make her a murderer. Is that what I want??? For Lysandra to be a murderer?? Does the average person deserve to have their throat slit in their sleep?? No. But does Arobynn?? YES.

These Illyrian males, if they are behaving in the ways we hear about in the story, DESERVE to have their asses handed to them by Rhysand! They DESERVE whatever punishment comes their way! Don’t want your arm shattered into a million pieces?? Don’t fucking mutilate and beat your wife!!! Easy as that!!

For real change to come about in the Illyrian camps, there needs to be a zero tolerance policy, with public punishment and humiliation, to send a message to everyone that this kind of thing will no longer be tolerated under any circumstances. There needs to be trustworthy people from Rhys’s court stationed there at all times to actually enforce this. I’m not saying that there wouldn't be things that slip past the enforcers, or that Rhys and the Inner Circle have the power to actually change the will and opinions of the males who do this kind of thing. They almost certainly won’t gain any respect from these males. But at the end of the day, it’s very simple. You don’t have to like it, or us, but you WILL stop partaking in this behavior. If you don’t, your consequence is going to be so severe you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.

One might ask, This seems pretty straightforward, why hasn’t Rhys attempted anything like this already?? If these males are willing to commit such evil deeds, why even waste his time at all with them? Who CARES if they go rogue and refuse to fight for him anymore? Could it possibly be because he needs the Illyrian soldiers as the main component of his armies? He doesn’t want to outwardly anger these war generals so strongly that they no longer cooperate or associate with him?

So, what you’re saying is. . .Rhys turns a blind eye to female abuse in his court . .because he needs the might from these people in his armies.

If I’m wrong and you have a rebuttal, I’m all ears. But I’m not really sure what other conclusion I’m supposed to arrive at. Rhys CAN control, humiliate, and intimidate powerful people who go against him. But he’s choosing not to do it here. . .why? Because controlling and intimidating people is bad?? Even if it’s directed towards those who are killing and mutilating innocent people?? I don’t understand and I don’t think I ever will.

Honestly, I thought the reason Illyria was being left as such a mess was deliberately done, because that was what Nesta’s story and arc was going to revolve heavily around. When they announced in that teaser way back in 2018 that she was going with Cassian to train in the Illyrian mountains, I was fully convinced that that was how she was going to “find herself”, by changing the lives of the Illyrian women and empowering them. I thought she would be a major catalyst in whatever happened there. And. . .that’s not what happened. Maybe that part of the story is still yet to be told, maybe she’s saving it for Azriel’s book or something. . .who knows. For the time being, I guess it’s just there for aesthetics, so the Bat Boys can have a tragic backstory. Still, even if it DOES change in later books, I would still be left wondering why Rhys, who Sarah claims is as different from the other High Lords as humans are to fae, didn’t do something about it sooner.

On the subject of Illyrians, let’s talk about Feyre and her shape-shifted Illyrian wings for a minute. I’m sure everyone knows what I’m going to say, and you might argue that this is a critique of Feyre’s character and not Rhys’s. I both agree and disagree with that and to explain my reasoning, we’re going to have to back up a little bit.

I made a post a couple years ago about how Feyre’s title as High Lady holds no real weight in the ACOTAR world and is nothing more than a fancy title and a sign of respect from her husband. Which is admirable in it’s own right, but it’s not truly what all the stans make it out to be. It’s stated as canon fact in the series that the High Lord is determined by whoever this mystical force (is it supposed to be The Mother? I don’t even know) in each court chooses. It’s not a monarchy. If I don’t like my High Lord, I can’t go out and kill him and declare myself the new High Lord. The magic of the court decides who it is. That’s how you end up having people like Tamlin, who have no desire to be High Lord become one.

Anyway, all of this means that Feyre is NOT equal in power to Rhys, no matter what title he gives her. Let’s pretend their dumb-ass suicide pact doesn’t exist and Feyre can live on if he were to die. If Rhys were to die, Feyre wouldn't continue on as the magical High Lady ruler of the Night Court, while they all just did without a High Lord. The magic would select someone else to be the High Lord, with no regard for her. Feyre is only “High Lady” because Rhys says she is. She has no magical tie to the Night Court. She is a ruler in title only.

Don’t like it? Doesn’t sound very feminist?? Yeah, I’d agree. And for some insane reason, TAMLIN is blamed for the lack of High Ladies in Prythian rather than, uh. . .the woman who created the magic system that made it this way!!!

(Seriously, the fact that Tamlin is shit on for telling Feyre there are no High Ladies is asinine. Tamlin is not giving personal commentary, he is stating fact. Remember how shocked everyone is when the IC shows up to the High Lord’s meeting in ACOWAR and Rhys announces that Feyre is High Lady? There AREN’T any High Ladies of Prythian! But in ACOMAF, SJM has Rhys tell Feyre that there absolutely are. This is what I mean when I say SJM makes Rhys say and do completely nonsensical things simply for the sake of inflating him as a character. Logic doesn’t have to enter the conversation, if it makes him look good, that’s all that matters. Even if it directly contradicts something SHE wrote!!! It’s mind blowing, honestly).

Wow, I got REALLY side tracked!! Anyway, you get the point: Feyre’s role as High Lady is really just a fancy title with no true magical tie behind it. But despite this, she is still Rhys’s wife, and therefore a certain level of respect is expected to be given to her.

And if I were an Illyrian female, I’d find it REAL hard to conjure up any of that respect.

In my opinion, SJM is guilty of not truly writing these characters with the scope that their immortality entails. Feyre is physically mature and an adult by human standards. But what constitutes an “adult” by fae standards? The IC is collectively thousands of years old. I find it hard to believe that they wouldn't have a hard time seeing someone in their early twenties as someone super young and naive. Especially if this someone wasn’t born a fae and was only transformed into one within the past couple years.

Think about it. . .how many times have you had a conversation with someone who is older than you, maybe by generations, maybe by just several years and they’ve made comments about how young you are, or how “one day you’ll feel differently” or “one day you’ll understand”. They speak with a wisdom that they claim comes from simply existing longer and going through phases of life you haven’t reached yet.

Now imagine somehow being over 500 years old and interacting with someone who is 21. They’d be an infant to you!!

My point in saying this isn’t necessarily to say that I think Feysand’s relationship is creepy because he’s so much older than her. It’s really to say that, as I’ve stated, you can’t really hold Rhys and Feyre accountable in the same way as far as being high fae leaders goes. She hasn’t been alive even a fraction of the amount of time he has and she wasn’t born a fae. This isn’t her fault and I don’t think it’s something she should necessarily be disrespected for. She’s definitely smart and capable of making her own observations and decisions but at the end of the day, I don’t think you can really argue that it falls back on Rhys to help to guide and navigate her through this political life they lead. Rhys had been leading a country for 500 years by the time Feyre was shitting in diapers. Their experience is NOT the same.

So at the end of the day, I think that Feyre’s use of Illyrian wings says as much about Rhys as it does about her.

Imagine the pain and the anger you would feel as an Illyrian woman to see your so-called “High Lady” flaunting the wings you were born with and using them to escape to the freedom of the skies, something you had been denied of against your will. She knows nothing of the trials and tribulations you face each day, the abuse you endure. She was not born into your culture, nor does she take the time to try and help you, or get to know you, or learn about you. But she shifts the Illyrian wings onto her back and takes to the sky to do really important things like have sexual intercourse with the High Lord above the most populated city in the court, while you remain trapped on the ground. Imagine the anger you’d feel at your so-called High Lord, who allows his new wife to flutter around Velaris on perfect un-maimed wings, while claiming he wants to advocate for and protect you but does the bare minimum.

To be clear: I most certainly hold Feyre accountable for this thoughtless decision. She is more than capable of deciding for herself what she feels is right and wrong. But as I’ve stated, I have a really hard time not also putting part of the blame on Rhys here. As I established, Feyre was not born into fae culture and she is a child compared to most of the fae living in the Night Court. Rhys, on the other hand, is over 500 years old, has Illyrian culture in his bloodline, and has been living among these people, leading them, for almost his entire life. I’d like to think he’d have the foresight to pull Feyre aside and explain to her that while she may not have initially considered it, it could be viewed as disrespectful and offensive for the Illyrian women to see her gallivanting around with Illyrian wings when most of theirs have been clipped.

If I were an Illyrian women, I think it would be nearly impossible for me not to feel a strong bitterness towards Feyre and Rhysand. One could make the argument that Feyre is young and naive and doesn’t truly understand Illyrian culture. The same argument could NOT be said about Rhys.

So thanks, High Lord, for flapping around shiny happy Velaris with your wife and her fake Illyrian wings, having kinky Illyrian wing sex, while doing the bare minimum to help and protect the women who were actually BORN with Illyrian wings.

Alright, moving on from that mess, let’s touch on the Court of Nightmares.

Now, a lot of what I have to say here is going to be the same as what I said about Illyria. But honestly, I feel like this place gets the even shorter end of the stick.

One of the most truly bizarre things to me in the ACOTAR series is this idea that the people of Hewn City/the Court of Nightmares are somehow just all evil malicious wicked people who are happy to live sequestered in this underground kingdom. This is a super weird notion and I’m not sure at all how Sarah validates it. Especially when a character like Mor exists. You’re telling me she was the only “dreamer” born into the Court of Nightmares? No one else is suffering the way she was? I don’t get it.

I’ve heard the argument made before that it’s quite possible that this kind of wickedness is specific only to Mor’s family. I’ve heard people say that we’ve never really seen anything in the Court of Nightmares other than the household she grew up in. So it’s actually quite plausible, people say, that the rest of the court is just a normal court, there’s no evidence to suggest that this kind of abuse is happening among the entire group of people. (They claim we are “reaching” for things to blame Rhys for).

Yeah, NO. Sorry, that’s just a willfully stupid take. Here’s what we hear about this place from ACOMAF:

“The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed’s rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives.”

“Are they--are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?”

A nod. “In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They’re happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity.”

That was the court he must have shown Amarantha when she first arrived--and its wickedness must have pleased her enough that she modeled her own after it. (pages 175-176)

Not enough to convince you? Here’s Mor explaining it in her own words:

“In the Court of Nightmares,” she went on, that voice falling soft and a bit cold once more, “females are. . .prized. Our virginity is guarded, then sold off to the highest bidder--whatever male will be of the most advantage to our families.”

‘I was born stronger than anyone in my family. Even the males. And I couldn’t hide it, because they could smell it--the same way you can smell a High Lord’s Heir before he comes to power. The power leaves a mark, an. . .echo. When I was twelve, before I bled, I prayed it meant no male would take me as a wife, that I would escape what my elder cousins had endured: loveless, sometimes brutal, marriages.”

“But then I began bleeding a few days after I turned seventeen. And the moment my first blood came, my power awoke in full force, and even that gods-damned mountain trembled around us. But instead of being horrified, every single ruling family in the Hewn City saw me as a prize mare. Saw that power and wanted it bred into their bloodline, over and over again.”

Is everyone sufficiently convinced now? Okay great.

And Rhys, by his own omission, allows them to “rule themselves” as a reward for not being foolish enough to challenge HIS authority.

But do they REALLY rule themselves?? Take a second and scroll back up to read the excerpt I already included where Keir calls Feyre a whore and Rhys absolutely wrecks him. Who does it seem like is really in charge here?

I’m sorry, I get viscerally angry over this. In the Court of Nightmares scene, Keir is written 100% completely and totally as Rhysand’s groveling little bitch. He is literally nothing compared to Rhys. Rhys is total power and domination. Seriously:

He led me the few steps onto the dais--to the throne. He sat, smiling faintly at his monstrous court. He owned every inch of the throne. These people. (page 409)

Before Rhys, Keir was nothing more than a sullen child. Yet I knew Mor’s father was older. Far older. The Steward clung to power, it seemed.

Rhys was power. (page 411)

This entire scene honestly disgusts me and is so stupid. Rhys swaggers in and the entire throne room drops to one knee in submission. It’s told over and over that he exudes raw power that no one there can even hope to compete with. We’re told he “owns” the people, that Keir is nothing more than a child compared to him. He snaps his fingers and orders Keir to bring Feyre wine and he does it! Mor calls Rhys “Your High Lord” when speaking to Keir. Keir “grovels” when Rhys suggests that the wine he brought them is poisoned. And then the ordeal where he starts shattering bones in his arm one at a time, forbidding him from seeking any healing on pain of death, eventually knocking him out.

SO IF THIS IS THE CASE. . .WHY. TOLERATE. KEIR. AT. ALL????????????????

If this is how easy it is to control this man, why on EARTH is he given one INCH of control in this place???? The whole scene loses its meaning entirely. . .why do they need to STEAL this orb from him?? In ACOWAR, why does Rhys need to BARGAIN with him about the use of his armies??? (at the expense of Mor’s feelings and security!!!!) Why are these people ALLOWED to treat females the way they treated Mor??!?

There are two answers here and both of them are shitty:

Option 1) SJM just wants to write scenes to fulfill her dark!Rhys fetish. She needs the Court of Nightmares for her Rhys aesthetic. That’s where the true reason for scenes like this begin and end. She wants to write scenes where we all marvel and swoon at Rhys’s “raw power”. We don’t need logic, it has no place here. We’re supposed to ignore everything else and just swoon over Rhys, as usual. We’re not really supposed to think too hard about Keir because he’s literally just a prop that is there for the purpose of having Rhys flex his power. It’s the epitome of wanting to have your cake and eat it too. She wants all aspects of what makes Rhys sexy and doesn’t care how she makes it happen. She wants the hot, powerful, wicked High Lord we got to see in ACOTAR, but she also wants the saint she made him out to be in the rest of the series. So we’re just supposed to ignore the fact that in making it plainly obvious that he is able to control these people means that he should be able to apply this to making innocent people’s lives better down there but isn’t.

Option 2) Rhys is deliberately allowing the wickedness and evil behavior to continue to put on a front for the rest of the world. He says that the Court of Nightmares is the version the outside world gets to see of the Night Court. It’s how Amarantha came to design her own court with it as an inspiration. It’s why everyone has such a negative view of the Night Court. Rhys is praised by the IC and pitied by much of the fandom for the “sacrifice” he makes in putting on this evil front and lets the world believe of him, in order to protect his “true” court--the Court of Dreams, the City of Starlight. I’m sorry, what sacrifice???? What is Rhys sacrificing of himself by doing this? He sits on his throne in total control and power while others grovel at his feet. I’m supposed to feel sorry for him that his reputation is being tarnished by the rest of the world seeing this while people like Mor are having nails driven into their bodies because they went against their family’s wishes regarding their virginity and marriage??? No, I’m sorry. The only people I feel sorry for are the people he is doing this on the backs of. Because the fact of the matter is: Rhys needs an evil court to put on this show for the rest of the world. And you can not have evil people without evil deeds. And you can not have evil deeds without victims. Evil people are evil because of their actions to other people.

So Option 2 is. . .Rhys is allowing people to be abused in the Court of Nightmares and not putting a stop to it because he needs an “Evil Court” smokescreen to protect his REAL court.

Again. . .do you see why I have such a hard time liking him???

Also, after ACOMAF the whole world knows about Velaris anyway. So there’s no need for a smokescreen evil court anymore. But has anything changed?? NOPE.

Not only that. . .but if this is the face he puts on for the people of the Hewn City, this is who most of the people there probably believe him to truly be. If another female, or anyone else really, is in a horrible situation like Mor’s, what would make them think that Rhys is someone they could approach or reach out to for help? They're probably terrified of him! The whole situation is just so fucked up and awful.

What’s also fucked up and awful is the fact that while all of this exists in both Illyria and the Hewn City, Rhys has a shelter/sanctuary in Velaris for abused women. Sorry, get your fake feminism out of here. You can’t stick that detail into the story and expect it to erase blatant abuse of women happening in two thirds of Rhysand’s court. . .under his watch!!!!! When he has the power to stop it!!!

I’ve heard many people try and make the claim that Rhys is written to be contradictory in this way to prove that he is a “morally gray character” and to that, I call total bullshit. For one, allowing the blatant abuse of women when you have the power to stop it isn’t “morally gray” , its borderline irredeemable. And two, I’ve said it before. . .listen to SJM talk about Rhys. Read the ACOTAR series. This woman is so far up his butthole, I’m wondering if he somehow offered her her own riverfront mansion. She honestly believes him to be God’s gift to humanity!!

So again, we’re back to my same age-old question: Is SJM a good writer or a bad writer?? I don’t really think it’s as simple as sticking one word on her writing to label it one way or the other. As I said, I’ve gotten immense enjoyment out of some of Sarah’s work and have been blown away by the places she takes her characters and stories. But in this case. . .it’s objectively awful. You’re giving me this character who you’re constantly telling me is good and righteous and incredible, beating me over the head with the level of worship he gets by the narrative, but then you’re making him do things that are like really blatantly terrible. And he faces NO accountability for it! Like???? You are the author??? You can control the things he does?? If you really believe that he’s that great, why don’t you just write him that way??? Why beat us over the head with how great he is, only to make him do awful things and then completely ignore them?? I’m telling you, it’s almost bizarre. . .like she’s seeing just how far she can go with what people will excuse. It's mind boggling!!

(Honestly what’s even more mind boggling is the sheer number of people who lap this up and accept it completely. For the life of me, I can not understand how people are so blind to this stuff!)

You can’t have it both ways, Sarah. You can’t tell us Rhys is the most powerful high lord ever born and expect me to believe that there’s nothing more he can do for Illyrian females and the “dreamers” of the Court of Nightmares. Especially when we’ve seen him demonstrate otherwise! Like I said earlier. . .if he’s not using his power for good, what is even the point of it??

So, to sum up: We are told over and over again how utterly powerful and incomparable Rhys is as well as what an honorable and giving High Lord he is. We see raw power displays from him where he swiftly and forcefully exerts brutal punishment on those who offend or go against him without so much as breaking a sweat. Despite this, he adopts a passive view on the Illyrians, banning wing clipping and the mistreatment of females but not doing anything to really enforce it, and continues to allow females in the Court of Nightmares to be abused and brutalized because he needs his evil Night Court aesthetic to protect the IC and Velaris.

My Ick Factor is OFF THE CHARTS.

And let me just end by saying….try and picture our Queen and Savior, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius allowing the mutilation and abuse of women in Terrasen because “change is slow to happen”….and she needed some armies. AELIN WOULD NEVER.

It is a dream of mine to see her humble Rhys.

So, yeah. . .Rhys is a terrible High Lord. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

Part 3 is probably my most highly anticipated rant---we’ll call it “Let’s Talk About Tamlin”. Coming soon!

#acotar critical #acomaf critical #sjm critical #anti rhysand #illyrians #court of nightmares #morrigan

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drangercore · 2 years

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Love and Other Historical Accidents by @pacific-rimbaud

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy never intended to blow up their life's work, but that's rather what they've gone and done. Now they're trapped 200 years in the past, with a broken Time Turner, a missing snuff box, a handful of overly-eligible daughters, and a House-elf in a cable knit cardigan. It will require the combined power of their keen intellects to get them home, if they'd stop arguing long enough to use them. As it turns out, history is just one damned accident after another.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Relationship: Hermione Granger x Draco Malfoy

Art by @gingerhuneybee, @jjuuppiter, @jaxxartbox, & yours truly

My first fanbind!

L&OHA is an impeccable story and is so very dear to me. This was the fic that made me go “I want that on my shelf!”, so here we are.

keep reading for more binding info and to see my gushing on the fic.

QUICK SPECS

153,854 words | 571 pages | 5″ x 8.5″

Binding Method: 3 Piece In Boards Bradel Body Font: Adobe Caslon Pro Decorative Font: IM Fell English

I am very proud of this book, having accomplished many firsts with it. My first book that I rounded and backed, sewed double-core endbands on, painted the edges, and used toner reactive foil and HTV on!

ON THE STORY

Sighs. What more can I say? It’s simply brilliant. A unique multifaceted story with incredible dynamics, clever foreshadowing, great character studies of Draco and Hermione, and such beloved original characters. It’s comedic and refreshing but it also takes on grief and goodbyes, and heartbreak. It’s fucking romantic and also So nuanced. I dislike stories that spoon-feed every little thing about the character, so the parlor tricks on this one? Ate every crumb of it. It was filled with implications and was misleading in the best sense. You’ve got to be an astute reader to catch some things the first round (which I definitely wasn’t).

While it doesn’t entirely shy away from typical lovey-dovies, the regard for mundanity and the inconsequential, I just find more inherently romantic. The exploration on time travel and the vivid prose further underscores the depth of PR’s talent. She captures so eloquently, the mind of an extremely logical person in a very illogical experience. I saw myself in Hermione so many times. The story demands to be read again and revels upon doing so. Pacific Rimbaud is such an incredible writer *sobs* all her works are simply a masterpiece.

That said, this beautiful story deserves to be turned into a physical book.

DESIGN PLAN (or lack thereof)

This is my first fanfic project and my third book overall which I must say was quite a leap considering my very little binding experience. I think the demon small niggling part at the back of my head got the best of me and positively thought she could make a relatively fastidious book despite the lack of skill. BUT nothing can stop me when I am overly enthusiastic about something, thus began my 2 month research, soaking up every gobbet of binding info in reach. As far as my book binding journey goes, gathering supplies was the hardest part lol. Bookbinding is not a common hobby in the Philippines so it was tedious to to look for materials and/or to settle on alternatives.

I credit 70% of the 4 month stretch of this project to my indecision. The novelty and sheer excitement with a new hobby, I think, divested me to properly conceptualize heh. I redid my typeset 1 billion times because I kept switching softwares: Word→ Pages→ InDesign. I probably have 8 versions of the typeset that will never see the light of day. Anyway, I did finally get the stuff done. Here’s my little design dump:

Nothing symbolic about the design really. I just worked around elements I thought were appropriate with the regency era and time traveling aspect: vines/ flowers and the time turner. I tried to reflect PR’s elegant writing in the book so hopefully I did it some justice. I added my fave works for this fic too and even drew fanart myself, here are some of them:

BINDING

I watched DAS bookbinding religiously during my research phase and I knew then that I wanted to someday follow his in-boards 3-piece bradel tutorial, but it wasn’t supposed to be so early on in my binding journey. One look at this book however threw me off course. It was incredibly ambitious of me, so I guess I deserved all the stress I endured in the process. I was supposed to trim the edges in between glueing the spine and rounding/backing, but I only had my poorly sharpened Php145 wood chisel to finish the task. That and nursing the finger my chisel wounded took enough time for the glue to dry, so I was fiddling with a stiff textblock the entire time after. I learnt along the way that a blow dryer and bone folder will be your best friends (and plenty of patience). I’d also like to apologize to my neighbors if you heard any hammering at 1am 😳

The covers were... finicky. For some reason, midway, I decided to make either covers differently, and all to the good because the one made following DAS’ tutorial ended up slightly warping. DAS’ was with two 1.25mm boards glued together, while my experimental one was with a single 2.5mm board of which I peeled layers off of to reduce its thickness in half as needed. (see pictures below for reference)

A lot of how the book looks like now is either born out of impulse or a desperate remedy. The book in turn is very gold. Chapter headers were impulsively foiled with gold laser reactive foil (so much for illustrating the headers only to cover them up haha *eye twitches*).

I accidentally stained the edges while smoothing with black sandpaper so I covered the mess with an admix of Sakura acrylic paint in black and Liquitex acrylic ink in iridescent gold (Paint order: 1 layer gold- 2 thin layers black- 3 layers gold).

I am very proud of my sewn endbands as this was my very first attempt at doing a double-core. I used DMC cotton threads in cream (712) and gold (E3821). Below is a close-up because why not. (as you can see, I had some flaking on the paint, luckily this was on the bottom edge so I fixed the issue on the more visible sides.)

I don’t like the bookcloth selection where I’m from (if there’s anything at all) so I made my own with pastel blue eco-ramie cloth, flour paste, and 80gsm paper. I ordered my fabric online and the shade was too icing-like. It looked tacky so I bleached to lighten. The white cloth also came from the same fabric which I bleached till it paled to white.

Titling was one of my biggest worries because majority of binders I saw were using a cricut to cut HTV. I almost entertained the idea of cutting it manually or even painting or embroidery, but to my luck, I found a local shop that offers vinyl ! cutting !! service !!! I sent them my design and they cut and weeded the vinyl for me. I chose white for the title and metallic gold for the vine detail. I messed up applying the word “historical” though, but let’s pretend i did it on purpose for the vintage feel.

Four months of faffing later, I have this story in corporeal form! Overall, I’m overjoyed with the outcome and I’d like to thank PR for the opportunity to have such a wonderful story on my shelf (and free to be read by anyone!)

If you made it this far, thanks for reading!

#love and other historical accidents #laoha #l&oha #pacificrimbaud #dhr #dhr fanfiction #fanbinding #bookbinding #dramione #my books #dramione fanart #fanfiction #fanfictionbookbinding #fanficbookbinding #fanficbinding #bookbinder #harry potter fanfiction #sting and snout bindery #buzzing books

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mamayan · 5 months

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This is just some brain thought I had after reading your latest delicious creation of the baby trapping yan. But why aren’t there more stories or at least short hc lists of what life is like post preg with a yan? I wanna know what the child/s think of their family dynamic of yan and spouse. Does the child/s end up normal? Do they end up platonic yan for non yan parent? Is child/s relationship with yan good? Is it bad? I just feel like it’s such an untapped market for stories and ideas. Cause life still goes on even after the HEA…and having a child/s with yan changes so much of behavioral, situational, etc. of the story compared to pre prego that all the ifs ands buts put so much more on stake. Sorry for tangent. Just needed to get my thoughts out

You got a point Nonnie~

cw: Yandere Themes • Child Care

After Thoughts

“Mama!” Giggles and laughter always fill the space left behind.

Your cheeks hurt from laughter, the sun slowly setting as you curl up with a thin book, hugging the small soft toddler still trying to wiggle out of your arms for another round of chase.

“Papa! Chase! Chase!” Only relenting their struggle as your voice begins the slow fairy tale they know so well.

“Once upon a time there was a princess…” you chuckle at the inside joke, eyes twinkling at they catch his, the satisfaction and pride in his gaze addicting. “She was lonely and lost, until…” you drawl out, finally grasping the small child’s full attention.

“The Prince came! I know mama!” Their happy cheer only encouraging you as you continue the story.

“She was so lonely without the Prince, but she didn’t know her Prince was really her Prince, so she put him through a series of tests.” You turn the page, the warm room filling with the sound of paper moving. “The Prince had to know every detail of the Princess, if he didn’t, how could he be her Prince? So he learned everything. What her favorite food was, favorite color, and even the things she didn’t like.”

“Like brussel sprouts?” Their little nose bunches up, showing their clear dislike for the leafy green.

“Mhm, even that,” you nod, kissing their soft cheek as a weight draped over your shoulders, dragging you both into a solid embrace.

His eyes look cool and calculating at times, confusion occasionally catching you off guard as he directs that icy stare your way, freezing your blood in your veins.

“B-but that’s not all! The Prince loved the Princess so much, he built her a beautiful castle!” You feel the heavy pressure on your shoulders lessen, his arm wrapping more protectively than possessively around you.

Your heart is slow to settle even as you continue the story, until he interrupts.

“The Princess didn’t like the castle right away, even though it had everything she liked.” His deep timbre right next to your ear as you swallow thickly and hug the child tighter, their wide innocent stare clueless and naive.

“Why Papa?”

“Because she didn’t know any better. Sometimes when we don’t know any better, we get scared and make mistakes. That’s okay though, the Prince was very patient, and made sure the Princess understood how dangerous it was outside the castle.”

You stiffen minutely as he traces a small strand of hair off your ear, your eyes vacant as they stare at the corner of the book.

“And they lived happily ever after?” Your toddler asks in such a soft tone, it’s hardly audible.

“Yes” he breathes, teeth carefully pressing into your neck for a quick open mouthed kiss.

“They lived happily ever after in the beautiful castle, having an adorable little baby as proof of their love.” His grin is sharp, canines pronounced as your child chirps with joy and claps in excitement.

You smile, wobbly and weak, as a hand wraps around your neck and forces your head up and back.

His eyes just barely open, a dark amusement in their depths at the glittering tears hanging on your lash line.

Dividers by the lovely @benkeibear

#tw: yandere #Yan answers #tw: child care #yandere #yancore #after story for a yandere #male yandere #female darling

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purerae · 5 months

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— ROOM 42

CHAPTER TWO;; DETENTION

ROOM 42 MASTERLIST

SYPNOSIS ;; Y/N, surprisingly, in detention for missed homework, teams up with the school's delinquent to investigate a mysterious door. Unable too explore further, Y/N and her friends devise a plan to sneak into the classroom after school and explore the hidden space. Their curiosity leads to a sinister game of secrets and betrayal. As they and their friends go deeper, the consequences grow. How far will they go to hide their sins? How far will they go... for her? (click on master list for more details)

(keep reading for chapter two.)

AUTHORS POV Y/N hurriedly made her way to the front of the classroom, taking a seat and pretending as if she hadn't noticed Zion at all. Fidgeting with her backpack, she pulls out a book and a piece of gum, hoping to distract herself. As she scrolled through her playlists to listen to music, an uneasy feeling lingered amongst her. The poor girl prayed that the threatening delinquent wouldn't approach or look her way.

Several minutes drifted by, leaving Zion with a growing sense of boredom from vandalising the books. He had thoroughly ruined six of them, covering each one with ink; making them illegible with crumpled pages and scribbles covering the text. No one could read a word from any of the books even if they tried their hardest. Heaving out a big sigh, he looks around the classroom before deciding to turn his attention to the girl nearby. She seemed to be in the same year as him, though he didn't recognise her at all. The red eyed male sat on a seat to her right, she was too engrossed in her book and music to realise how close he was. It was some ‘stupid’ sci-fi book that was too nerdy for Zion to bother glimpsing at. He took advantage of her deep focus and used it as an opportunity to study her features. Her hair ,a shade of H/C that complemented well with her E/C eyes. Her eyes fluttered ever so slowly as she continued to flick her book to the next page. She had a bit of makeup on -- concealer to hide her blemishes with a bit of blush and bronzer infusing her cheeks. Her eyelashes were slightly longer due to the mascara she had put on in the morning. “Uhm, would you… like a piece of gum or something?” Y/N’s question interrupted Zion’s intense observation, catching him off guard. ‘What does he want from me..??’ the flustered girl thought, her impression of Zion was rapidly decreasing as every time he did anything around her, the situation got weirder and weirder. “Huh?!” He looks up to her face and notices her confused eyes bore into his narrowed ones. Startled by her direct address, Zion jumps slightly as he moves back, shaking his head while crossing his arm. Attempting to feign casualness, he quickly grabbed his phone from his pocket and pretended to scroll through it. Y/N flinches at his yelp as she attempts to converse with the male despite him ‘busily’ scrolling through his phone. “I said, do you need anything?” Y/N muttered, avoiding eye contact with the male. “You have been staring at my face for a while..” She finished, becoming slightly insecure thinking that there was a stain on her face or clothes. "I wasn't staring, I literally looked at you for a split second," Zion retorted with a scoff, trying to save his image, though the girl's observant nature had caught him off guard. Of course, Y/N didn't believe that for a second, but irritated by his attitude, she didn't say anything in retaliation but just nodded and went back to reading her book.

However, Zion’s irritation grew with the presence of this unknown girl, an uncommon feeling for him considering his general dislike for most people at school. But he wanted to know the reason why her presence pissed him off this much. He couldn't shake the feeling that he must know her from somewhere to contain such intense dislikement. After another minute of agonising silence and the girl who flicked another page whilst music leaked out of her earphones. His very little patience broke. “Oi, have I seen you anywhere?” The red haired male blurted out loudly, disrupting the quiet atmosphere Y/N wished to have.

Y/N sighed inwardly, wishing this detention would just end already. Oh, how she wished she could’ve just handed in her assignments to avoid being even in the same room as Zion Fellows. She knew that her friend Eliza despised Zion and had an annoying habit of ratting him out on everything he did. Skipping a lesson? Reported. Talking back to a teacher? Reported. Smoking at the back of the school? Reported. Eliza was the reason why Zion always ended up in detention. Though Y/N would never admit this to the girl's face, she really hated Eliza's slight saviour complex where she acted like a mini teacher with everyone and everything, but especially targeting Zion. She hated when Eliza did this but what can she do? It's not her life anyways. The best thing that Y/N could do was attempting to avoid the head delinquent at all costs just in case he tries to pay Eliza back and target one of her friends… but circumstances led her to this room -- with him. All alone. She had to think of a fast excuse in order for Zion to leave her alone. “No! We haven't seen each other anywhere at all… who even are you?” Y/N spoke quickly but winced, regretting her wording. ‘How is he going to believe that, he's the Zion fellows, the student who basically runs the school!.”

Zion immediately knew this was a lie. He was quite in fact the most infamous person in school. The only people who may not know him would be the students who enrolled into the school later on. But even then, he would make sure they remember his name. The girl sitting obviously was not new, as the logo on her skirt was worn out, and she wasn't even wearing the school uniform properly. The red-haired male made sure everyone was intimidated by him. How would she not know who he was? He raises an eyebrow as he turns his chair to directly face hers, sitting backwards from the seat. “Alright, then what's your name?” he grunted. “...Tracy” He let out a short laugh. “No it isn’t.” “Yes it is?” Y/N rolled her eyes, how would he know what her name is and isn't. This guy was quickly starting to get on his nerves. Now she's beginning to realise why Eliza dislikes him so much. A moment of silence passes by as Zion continues to inspect her face with a scrunched up expression before his eyes widen. He gasps as he realises that he recognises her from the time Eliza and him were arguing in the lunch hall, and she was sitting at the girls table. He dramatically gets up from his seat as he points a finger at her. She freezes at his movements as she slowly turns towards him. “Wait I know you, You’re that bitches friend!” Zion shouted, his voice bouncing around the whole class room. Y/N curses to herself as she quickly shifts against her seat, trying to think of what to say so this wouldn't be her last day on earth. “There are literally so many annoying people in this school, who are you talking about?” She said with panic laced in her voice.

A/N ;; Last time I updated this story was in July LOL purerae<3

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zuko-always-lies · 7 months

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My Brief thoughts on the Azula in the Spirit Temple comic

It's very short and essentially a character piece with no plot. I didn't like it; it felt like it missed a lot of opportunities (spoilers below):

So I just read it today. It's pretty short, and definitely the most sympathetic presentation Azula since the show. Of course, that's a very low bar to clear. I can also praise the fact that it did not depict Azula as "crazy" or "a nutso," which another low bar this franchise has repeatedly failed to clear.

That being said, it's mostly weird and uninteresting. Despite the comic acknowledging Azula's weird Smoke and Shadow plot to make Zuko a better Firelord and stating that her current actions are part of that, it depicts Azula as entirely obsessed with becoming Firelord and has her declare that she's the rightful Firelord essentially every page. This contradiction isn't dealt with, and of course in the show Azula did not obsess over the position of Firelord.

A lot of emphasis is placed on Azula's relationship with Mai and Ty Lee in this comic, but, given that they almost exclusively appear as "spirits" here, little is said aside than Azula knows she treated them badly but struggles to admit it. There's really nothing about what her past relationship with them meant to her or about how these relationships developed her time, no imagination what their interactions outside the battlefield might have been like or their relationships as little kids. No flashbacks to their time in school together, only standard lines about manipulation and fear. The comic can't be bothered to imagine what various relationships might mean or have meant to Azula. And it's like it's incapable of depicting or imagining any event not already depicted in the show.

Much the same way, the comic has nothing to say on the meaning of Azula's relationship to her brother to her. Iroh is also a nonfactor.

Azula's loyalty to her father is left mostly unexplored, as are Azula's motivations in general. Imperialism was a massive part of Azula's life, but, as always in the comics, it's ignored.

Hicks apparently felt it necessary to canonize or at least reaffirm the fanon idea that Azula was really into burning turtleducks. The idea that Ursa could have just always disliked Azula never occurred to her, apparently.

If the story is pushing an idea, it's mainly that Azula was responsible for almost every problem she had with her relationships with others, aside from with Ozai. She needs to beg for forgiveness. The issues she has with other people are generally depicted as unreasonable on her end.

And of course the comic goes nowhere. It has an open ending that will put zero constraints on future writers; no clear step toward redemption is made. The only thing accomplished is to depict Azula a little more sympathetically for people who paid little attention to her in the show. I suppose, given the general composition of the ATLA fandom, that's something, and of course we have to acknowledge how short 80 pages is to tell a story.

But the reality of the situation is that it took 15 years for this comic to come out, only for it to advance her character not at all and to say nothing that wasn't evident from the show itself. Maybe in another 15 years we'll get something actually interesting about her, if we're still alive.

As for making Azula more sympathetic, hundreds of fanfics have already done a better job than this comic manages.

#Azula #azula in the spirit temple

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layla-carstairs · 2 years

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I hate reading the eah fandom wiki tbh. some takes/interprets on there are awful & something blatantly untrue like 😭 anyway I was looking at raven's main page & came across this little gem

"the only one" what??? I love Raven but since when was she the only one undertaking actions that directly oppose her destiny.

Hunter is vegetarian & spent his entire summer before legacy year sabotaging his dad's traps (and is, you know, dating Ashlynn). Darling is... well, Darling and is breaking every damsel in distress rule in the book. There's Ashlynn, who doesn't really care for her happily ever after and is dating Hunter against her destiny. And those are people who are conscious of the fact they're going against destiny, and are choosing to be themselves anyway. On the other hand, you have someone like Faybelle who loves cheerhexing, something that doesn't exactly scream Dark Fairy but she still actively wants her destiny.

What makes Raven different isn't that she does things that contradict her destiny but that she doubts the system itself. For someone like Hunter or Darling, fully abandoning their destiny isn't really an viable option since it doesn't occur to them Grimm isn't telling the truth. For Raven, is does.

She's in a unique position where she's one of the very few to know the Evil Queen isn't dead, which is what Grimm says happened to the general public, but rather trapped in the mirror prison. She knows Grimm has lied and isn't always truthful, the possibility that he's done so more than once isn't impossible. This doubt (and general dislike of her destiny) leads her to something more powerful; hope. Raven is again one of the few people who know about Bella Sister's unsigned page. Even though Grimm does everything in his power to squash her hope, it survives in a gnat, an inconsistency and what Giles tells her (through translated riddlish)

She's operating on more information that her classmates are and because of that is aware of that other possibility. She doesn't have any real proof or certainty about what will happen, but it's enough for her. She's willing to take that leap of faith, for that chance to be herself without compromise. That's why she doesn't sign.

#ever after high #eah #raven queen #hunter huntsman #darling charming #ashlynn ella #why am I writing eah analysis when I should be sleeping?? that's a good question #I have so many thoughts this just kind of spilled out of me #there's more I could say about this #like raven's tendency to not speak her mind or agrue because it's easy and her general avoidance of confrontation or conflict #but this post is already longer than I meant for it to be #raven ily #you're just like me fr #early eah especially makes me insane tbh #later on they kind of lost sight of the plot but that's a whole different post lmao

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adore-laur · 7 months

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FAÇADE

— a lustful enemies to lovers au set in the 1880’s 📖

Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles.

He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp.

He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city.

He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes.

Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours.

At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect.

Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove.

Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination.

The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade.

See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze or a stage of sorts so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to.

Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy.

Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck.

Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere.

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry.

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same.

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?"

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior.

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more.

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?"

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty."

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you."

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught…” She leans forward to theatrically whisper, “The consumption disease."

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out."

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she could possibly do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library.

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word that was told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed.

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love.

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure.

His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself.

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky.

He is a complicated façade.

A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter.

Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind.

"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day."

Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside.

She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.

She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then, she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room, and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins.

Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of the blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress.

Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have being here?" she asks bitterly.

He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?"

She swallows down disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you."

He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have."

"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves."

A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth.

Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fill the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling.

"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause.

Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?"

"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?"

His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better."

"Is it poisoned?"

The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head."

She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?"

"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."

Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.

"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"

All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck.

"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly.

He twists his rings and bobs his head to a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter."

Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."

"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree."

"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war."

Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?"

"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course, I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her."

"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer.

"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper."

"Then follow me."

In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor.

Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"

Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use.

"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him."

Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one."

Clark Bennett is his name. A tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair how someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created.

So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises but is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say.

"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."

"You can call me Harry," he responds.

She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?"

He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?"

She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles."

"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you."

"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things."

"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?"

"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception."

He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.

"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags."

Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold!

Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter."

"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity."

"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?"

Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"

Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French."

"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know."

She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?"

"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion."

"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet."

Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you."

Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet.

She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?"

His sloped nose almost touches hers from close proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you may."

She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?"

He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé."

"What does that mean?"

"It means they are done in private, curious girl."

Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions."

He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time.

"Let us read, shall we?"

III

The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May.

Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out.

She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly more fond of nature's quiet atmosphere.

Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there.

Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs.

His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet?

"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat.

"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face.

"Yes, but why here? This is my spot."

"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am."

Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?"

He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?"

She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem.

After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front.

"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page.

Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James."

"I did not ask."

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun."

Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her own book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip.

"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock.

He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?"

She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you."

"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie."

Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt."

Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man — I know this very well — as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly.

"I do not have a wife nor children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head."

"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you."

"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly.

"You are an insufferable man, that is all."

"Menteuse."

Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are."

Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?"

She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him."

Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on."

"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin."

He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?"

She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!"

His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her.

Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless.

"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman."

His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow.

"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you."

She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies."

He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache."

Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me."

"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in."

Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering."

"You would like that, I reckon."

"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking.

He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me."

"I hate" — Blair points her finger at his chest — "you."

Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, eyes locked onto her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them."

"Stop it this instant."

He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these."

Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across.

"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste."

"I want you to shut your mouth."

His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?"

Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!"

"Quit looking at my lips, then."

"I am not! Quit analyzing me!"

"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?"

She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."

Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair."

Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact.

Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers.

"Lie down," he commands gruffly.

She obeys, the budding flowers surrounding her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass.

Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"

"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me."

He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore."

She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you."

"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling."

"Harry," she moans while arching her back.

His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit.

"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me."

He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied."

"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?"

"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm.

"Tell me all your secrets, flower."

"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely."

"Is that right?" he breathes out.

She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?"

"I suppose so."

He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body.

"I need— I have to release, Harry. It aches."

He hovers over her and rubs slow circles onto her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me."

Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on.

"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice.

"Maybe a bit less than yesterday."

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?"

"I dislike you." Another kiss, one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you."

One more long kiss, ending in several pecks until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)

Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?"

"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you."

"Pardon?"

"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you."

She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove."

Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?"

"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!"

He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote.

You have corrupted my imagination

and inflamed my blood.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles #enemies to lovers #historical romance #adore-laur #façade

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