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shalotttower · 4 months

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The Unknown Variable

Title: The Unknown Variable Fandom: Death Note Summary: Special was never your brand. Now the weight of it is simply too heavy. Word count: 2600+ Characters: L Lawliet x Reader (female) Notes: yandere L, kidnapping, L and Reader were together in Wammy's House, Reader is tricky: there's some sort of imposter syndrome, but it's not too pronounced, L is a little bit of a dick, explicit language, triggering words.

You came to Wammy's House the same year as him.

In your simple dress, with scratched shoes and hair cut short by your previous caretakers, no one paid you much attention. Just another orphan for Watari's collection, just another face to pass through the halls, that's what you were. Densely packed with brightness - bright children with bright futures - you got lost among their splendor very quickly. Intelligences and minds were relative, and it didn't take long to understand that there existed more than one tier in the hierarchy of extraordinary.

You weren't exceptional.

You weren't dim.

Not slow, not dense, merely the kind of gifted that fit into Wammy's definition of "gifted" without exceeding it. The kind that was too smart to go to a public school, but unable to stand out in this environment.

It was fine. You didn't come there to be special.

You came because you had nowhere else to go and Wammy's House gave you a bed, a roof over your head, food on the table. It was as close to a home that you'd ever get and certainly better than your time in foster care. You could ask for toys, books, whatever caught your fancy, and count on it to be provided without much question.

What you couldn't ask for was affection. Not from Watari nor his staff nor the other children, and you think...you think all of you shared that same affliction to a various extent - a kind of general numbness, a disconnect between where a heart was beating and a brain was processing.

In this, you suppose, L fit right in, while failing miserably at everything else.

You found him odd, with his hunched back and wide eyes and messy hair. He wasn't rude or cruel but seemed to lack the basic social graces and had this air of superiority around himself, like he knew he was smarter, quicker and stronger than everyone else and didn't bother to pretend otherwise.

He played alone and hoarded toys that he liked. He answered questions before they were fully asked. You watched L solve puzzles in minutes when it took older children at least fifteen, twenty, sometimes thirty. Maths, sciences, linguistics, history, law - he seemed to sample them all, eventually moving onto the next. Slept irregular hours, and the blue glow of his computer screen was an ever present feature every time you got up at night to use the restroom and passed by his room.

L was brilliant and strange, and looked down on you since the very first moment.

You didn't like him much.

You watched him grow into his gangly limbs, become more lanky and hunch a few inches more, a quick-draw intellect with a tendency to chew at his thumbnail whenever he concentrated, stare too much and pick people apart as easily as he solved problems.

He got under your skin more than once, and seemed to have a vendetta of sorts or at least you thought so, with the way he liked to study your words or personality. He never outright called you stupid, but you once found him flipping through your journal and when you confronted him about it-

"You write simple."

"What?"

L turned another page, then tapped his nail against the margin. "Simple," he repeated, looking at you. "Short sentences, simple punctuation. Not bad necessarily..." He closed the journal with a soft thump. "But simplistic. You should-"

"I'm not vying for the Booker Prize," you said and took your journal back, he didn't resist. "It's just a diary, meant for me and me only. It doesn't need to be complicated, and you had no right to stick your nose in."

You were never meant to be special, but what you undeniably had was the lack of restraint in expressing your exact opinions.

"You left it on your desk," L said, unfazed. "You shouldn't leave personal belongings lying around if you don't want others to touch them. And the cipher key isn't difficult to figure out."

"It's still not an invitation," you told him, pointedly hiding the notebook behind your back.

It was the last time you spoke with L before leaving Wammy's House and entering adulthood; and you hardly considered it a great loss. You learned to make better ciphers and keep your things close without letting them out of sight, along with how to buy groceries, open a bank account, cook your own meals, do your own laundry and many other mundane skills which an orphanage resident had no real reason to practice.

A chance or probability of ever running into him again could be easily calculated as zero. Special was never your brand, no genius lurked beneath the surface, no brilliance that could solve mysteries in less than twenty four hours. You were observant, definitely, and had your own strengths, but on the scale of extraordinary you'd rank yourself somewhere in the middle, a notch above average and below exceptional.

That's why waking up years later in an unfamiliar bedroom, surrounded by deceptively familiar walls, furniture and bookshelves, with absolutely no memory of how you got there, made no sense.

In fact, it should have ended with boarding a plane, you were heading home after a lengthy business trip. That's what you clearly remembered - getting into the car that had arrived to pick you up from the hotel. Fastening the seat belt, and then nothing. The timeline smudged into one single faded splotch.

You reached for your phone only to find it missing. Bag, wallet, documents - everything was gone.

That...that didn't look good.

You carefully scanned the room. It held an uncanny resemblance to your own, with the same layout and furniture. Same closet, same bed. A twin to the quilt thrown over you. No windows. Your suitcase lay in the corner, and provided no insight as to how and why you'd been brought here. Everything was a replica, an almost-perfect duplicate, but somehow not.

It smelled wrong. Pleasant yet not the way it should; cleaner, less dusty, and warmer.

You mind went through the loops of what it could be: ransom (why? you had a humble income and no significant family), organ harvesting (too nice of a bedroom for such purposes), trafficking (again: too nice, no traffickers were known to transport people into neat and homey places), a bizarre accident (hardly, the door and the rest of the interior pointed towards careful planning).

Nothing seemed plausible, and that was the most unsettling part, the obscure, unknown variable which didn't let you make a prediction. The room...someone tailored it to you, your interests, that much you could say with 100% certainty.

But who and why - that remained a question.

The door opened.

"You," the word hung, suspended.

"You're awake." His posture hasn't changed, if anything it was worse than you remembered, hunched shoulders and slouching spine, hands buried deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans. Still slender but not as gangly anymore, he entered the room and closed the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"

The dark circles under his eyes were bigger and even more pronounced, like diluted ink spilled on a napkin.

You didn't answer.

"What am I doing here?" you asked instead and pushed yourself upright. The blanket fell from your lap, pooling down on the floor.

L's expression was familiar, one he used to wear whenever he was thinking. He rubbed his lower lip but otherwise chose to stay silent.

"Well? Are you going to explain or keep standing there?" You crossed your arms and glared at him, hiding the trembling of your fingers. You both did this sometimes back at Wammy's House, tried to over-stare each other in a contest, stubborn to a fault and unwilling to yield first. It always surprized you that he indulged in something so childish and silly.

Of all people you expected to see him least; the last conversation between you happened over six years ago.

L won the game again and you looked away.

"A series of events occurred, and I felt it to be beneficial for your well-being that you stay here," he replied after a moment, choosing each word like it was an item on a menu and not an explanation of your abduction. "You will find everything provided and within reach," L looked around the room, lingering on the bookshelves and desk. "If you prove cooperative."

You felt you eyebrows slowly rising to your hairline. "Excuse me?"

"Cooperative. The faster-"

"I'm not deaf."

His mouth twitched, like he disapproved of your manners - you ignored it. Took a deep breath and rubbed your temples, counted to ten, then exhaled through your nose.

"I'm leaving. Where's my phone?"

He didn't attempt to stop you, not when you slipped into your shoes, not when you headed for the door, not when your fingertips reached for the handle. It turned just fine, and for a second you were almost convinced that he decided to prank you (a very weird and fucked up prank, you had to admit).

What was on the other side looked like a regular apartment with an open floorplan, spacious and absolutely ordinary, except for the blackout curtains covering the windows, and the main door - thick, metal, - more suited for a vault, rather than a house. The locks appeared equally sophisticated. You swallowed, and a voice that always told you when something was not quite right, came out full force.

"Where's my phone," you repeated, voice quiet and dull, more of a statement than a question.

L remained silent, with that same blank stare which you used to despise as a child and a slight curve of his mouth. You know the answer, it said, now ask the right questions.

It was quiet, except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of an AC unit.

A faint noise to your left caught your attention, the hairs on the back of your neck rose. In the middle of the carefully decorated living room, between a couch and a coffee table, you covered your mouth.

There were more wrinkles around Watari's eyes than you remembered and he looked older, hair gone to silver. Dressed in a black suit and a simple apron, it was him without any doubt or confusion. A chopping board and several ingredients covered the marble counter in a clear pattern of a soon to be cooked meal, carrots and mushrooms, bell peppers, fresh parsley. Celery. A single potato.

A needle with a plastic cap near the fruit bowl.

'I'm leaving.'

The words died on your tongue.

"No," you heard L's voice reach you from the layers of white noise which buzzed inside your head, "you're not. And I would prefer to not use force to persuade you."

There was a strange sort of finality in his tone, calm and absolute, and Watari, the man who raised all of you at Wammy's, the man who provided a roof, and books, and games, and never denied a request, simply nodded, then went on cutting carrots. As if this, as if your entire situation, was a mere triviality, not worth addressing.

Maybe it was a bad dream, you wondered. You fell asleep in the car and hallucinated an elaborate scenario, a noir plot plucked straight out of a movie.

It wasn't a movie.

They weren't joking.

In those few seconds while your mind processed everything in a scattered swirl of jumbled-up conclusions, you had a thought. A vase on your left looked sturdy enough. Two, three strides, grab it and swing - Watari was old. L was slim and thin.

"As you are now, I estimate 46% possibility of you injuring yourself and 8.3 % of you injuring me should you attempt to physically overpower me," L sounded close enough but you didn't turn around to check. "Along with 57% probability of Watari having to sedate you."

How did you go from nothing out of the ordinary to this, you often wondered later. In the apartment that looked normal, but was as far away from it as possible, with the orphanage prodigy whose brilliance used to frighten you back in your childhood, and the elderly man who used to serve tea and biscuits during breaks.

You looked down and found your fingers shaking. The odds were...against you.

"You're sick," you said finally. "Both of you." The irony of it was not lost, no. Of all people, someone to commit a crime of this audacity were the two individuals supposed to represent the pinnacle of legal justice.

Watari continued chopping vegetables. L made a step forward - you felt it more than saw - and it urged you to back away and out of his immediate reach, until you hit the wall. He studied your every move, steady, patient, not bothered by your accusation nor offended.

"No," you whispered and raised one trembling hand, as though it could offer you any kind of protection. Your throat felt too tight, like something was wrapped around it, pressing harder with each breath. "You fucking stay where you are."

L stopped moving.

"I can assure you," he said after a moment. "You're perfectly safe here. I have no intention of harming you, unless you prove unwilling to cooperate."

Your eyes darted towards Watari again. L's gaze followed.

"He won't hurt you either."

That didn't make you feel much better. Your phone was gone. Your documents - also missing. If you managed somehow to pass that door, you had no idea where you'd end up. It could be a regular apartment complex, or it could be the middle of nowhere. "Why am I here?" You asked again, but the question held different tone this time with the underlying implication.

L tucked his hands back inside his pockets. "I enjoy your company. My efficiency increases when I think about you and decreases by 17.3% when you're not in my vicinity."

Company. You blinked and rubbed your face, fingertips cold and clammy. "We talked four times when we were kids and none of those were pleasant experiences."

"Six," he corrected, "we talked six times, and our conversations, while short, were often...entertaining. Stimulating. You possess a particular way of thinking which I find intriguing. You're not intimidated by my intellect. You are not intimidated by many things."

"I don't want to talk with you," you said flatly. "You kidnapped me. I want my documents, I want my phone, I want to get the fuck out of this-" you inhaled slowly and focused, felt your heartbeat steadying just enough to not run across the room, yelling and screaming bloody murder, "whatever this is."

"Well, I do."

Despite the fact that you've just woke up, you felt tired. Arguing with him as a child was like running against a brick wall. Talking to him as an adult proved similar - exhausting and fruitless, nothing you said ever made the smallest dent in whatever notions L had in his head, not back then and definitely not now.

A laugh bubbled in your throat, and it probably seemed more hysterical than intended. You pushed away from the wall. "You need professional help, and I need to sleep. Don't," you pointed a finger in his direction when he twitched forward. "Don't come near me."

You headed for what was supposed to be your bedroom, or rather a cell - matters of perspective. The absurdity of the situation didn't lessen when the door closed behind, but at least huddled up in a ball beneath the quilt, with the muffled sounds from the outside you could rest your head and think clearly again.

Tomorrow you will assess everything from the new angle and then...

Then everything will be fine.

Everything will be normal.

Okay.

#death note #l lawliet #yandere l lawliet #yandere #yandere l lawliet x reader #yandere l x reader #shalott fanfiction

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ddarker-dreams · 11 months

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Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Companion piece to Idée Fixe.

(A journal entry that will never see the light of day, for it is meant to rot in darkness. Even the amoral owner is bound to agree with this).

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, Chrollo is creepy hooooly shit (he needs a hobby), and religious imagery. Word count: 1k.

I have become hopelessly smitten with a woman who is, for lack of a better word, strange.

She tells me she’s “probably agnostic, because that word sounds cooler than atheist”, while often exemplifying the religious doctrine she grew up in. She condemns herself for qualities she’d pardon in others. She’ll get excited over the most mundane things, such as pigeons, or when her rewards add up enough to get her favorite drink for free. I’m allowed to steal a certain amount before she stares at me, not quite comfortable enough to express her dissatisfaction verbally, yet undoubtedly pondering the perfect string of words to avoid offending me.

The extent of her consideration for others is perplexing. There is no advantage to be gained by placating strangers, though her insistence on the matter would almost convince you otherwise. She never says “you’re welcome”, it’s always “of course”, as if the act of going so far out of her way is expected of her. If not that phrase, she’ll say “it’s no problem”, on the off chance the individual may think they burdened her.

She’s strange, yes, but we’re alike in many ways, so I wonder what that’d make me.

I’ve taken on innumerable roles throughout the years. I know how to judge the weight of my every word. My motivation for doing so is self-serving in nature. People, to me, are locks that require the right combination to crack. From what I can tell, she’s come to realize this too. Instead of pursuing this advantage, she shies away from it. Originally, I thought it was nothing more than people-pleasing, but it goes beyond that. She loves humanity, the same humanity I deem worthless. It’d be easier for me to understand if there was an ulterior motive. Alas, that'd be doing her a major injustice.

My initial intrigue in her was nothing more than a passing fancy. I had time to pass, and she just happened to be in the vicinity, reading a book I’m partial to. I thought I’d give her a few minutes of my time and then be on my way. Presently, however, If I believed in fate, I’d go so far as to say our paths were destined to cross. She is every part of myself that has died a slow death. Optimism, empathy, passion… they mix together to form the essence of her being.

I didn’t intend to give her so much of my time. She became indispensable to me before I realized what was happening. In retrospect, perhaps I knew deep down that this was the type of person I’d been looking for. Someone I’d struggle between wanting to ruin or preserve. I erred toward the former at first. If I didn’t wake her from her naïve reverie, another would inevitably come down the line and do it themselves. The mere concept was unforgivable.

As time passed, it became clear she wasn’t living in a dreamlike state, but was perfectly aware of her surroundings and the people who inhabit them. This left me at an impasse. How do you destroy someone who has already annihilated and rebuilt themselves? There are ways, yes, yet no longer did the idea appeal to me. I wanted something new from her, though the specifics alluded me. What I did know, however, was that this strange woman would touch many lives for the better.

This was a constant torment. I’d have to go about my business, knowing full well she’s making others smile, laugh, and otherwise brightening their day elsewhere. My chest would become impossibly tight whenever I fixated on this. She holds qualities people are inevitably drawn to. She is radiance incarnate, so easy to adore. A light like that is visible far and wide.

When I pressed back against her dearly held beliefs, instead of fading, she burned ever brighter.

I know she feels it too — this invisible rope that binds us. She’ll happily talk to me for hours, even when I forgo superficial charm and express slivers of my depravity. She sees it, acknowledges it, and seeks me out all the same. I find myself talking more than I meant to when she’s around. She challenges me, interestingly enough. Her arguments often have holes and aren’t by any means polished, but she cuts to the heart of things.

She is my personal torment. I want every inch of her for myself. Her unique mind, heart, soul… would it be enough? Could I stop there? Or would I keep going, taking more and more, until we were essentially one flesh?

It’s by her recommendation I’m writing any of this down. She said “I am in desperate need of intensive therapy” and sent some links to her recommendations. I’m inclined to give in to her requests since she asks for so little, but that might be the one I have to refuse. I cannot recall the last time I met someone this amusing, if ever. The inner workings of her pretty little head are a mystery I long to unravel.

Displeased as I am to admit it, a day will pass when she no longer looks at me the way she does now. My true identity can’t go unknown forever, the revelation is inevitable. Still, I won’t let her go. My grip will only grow tighter. If her ire is my penance for possessing her entirely, then I’ll accept the sentence and chip away at it over time. Emotions are transient. With the right encouragement, I can guide her back to my arms, even if she considers the embrace a scourge.

When we first met, she said something that has taken permanent residence in my mind.

“So long as I can say I helped one person, that’s good enough for me.”

This was always bound to be my benediction and her condemnation.

From that moment onward, her life was mine to do with as I please. There are many far more worthy of her than I, which is why I’ll never give them the chance. I’ll deprive the world of her vibrancy. It could become engulfed in eternal darkness, and still, I’d happily refuse to give her back. Let them lament, weep, and gnash their teeth.

In my youth, I set out to be the greatest villain. Never have I been more willing to carry out the actions befitting such a lofty title.

This is the curse of a wicked man’s love, [First] [Last]. Revisit your religion and pray fervently. For only a god could save you from the future I’ve planned for us.

#yes he probably wrote this with an ink and quill by an oil lamp #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #my stuff

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youandtom2 · 10 months

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Request if you want it: Tom is playing at a golf event and reader is a journalist there. She absolutely can't stand him, because she finds out he is quite arrogant and full of himself. They go after each other throughout the whole day with sarcastic remarks. But somehow (you can fill in the details) Tom seduces her by the end and he gets her on her knees and he totally dominates her, making her choke and gag. And he embarrasses her by making her feel his muscles and beg to suck him off and he boasts about how easily he got her in the palm of his hand. :P

(14/07/22) brain go brrrrrrrrrrr THIS REQUEST!!!!

a/n (28/06/23): This was a request that was sent in and one that I had started last year that I really wanted to finish. Apologies to the anon who sent this in and waited for it whoops. This was supposed to be short but I clearly don't fucking know what short means so here's like 7k or something???

Anyway here's 'A Word for the Youth Diary?' Shitty title I know but I literally can't think of anything else.

MASTERLIST

"The weather is absolutely gorgeous here at St. Andrews' Castle Course, celebrating the first 'Pro Amateur' charity competition where a host of celebrities, socialites or anyone with a keen passion for golf can compete. A number of spectators have gathered around the course, eager to soak up the buzzing atmosphere, the scenic landscape and the presence of Hollywood stars, all in the views of the warm Scottish sun. Now that's something I never expected to say!"

The red light of your recorder dims as you press pause on your commentary. You made the switch to recorder a few years back when journalism became too close to drowning in a number of scribbled, illegible notes written far too quickly. Now it is a simple case of pressing record and pressing pause.

Of course, wherever there is a flock of celebrities congregating in the one area for the week, there will always be flock of paparazzi and journalists close by, each with the same agenda. It usually feels like mission impossible to get a word in with a celebrity or document anything of note or interest when there's a wall of other journalists blocking your way, but today those things won't be a problem. Because you’re not going after who may probably be the most coveted celebrity here. Tom Holland.

You don't quite don't know where it stemmed from; your strong dislike towards Tom Holland. In all honesty, your hatred towards him is very self-inflicted, but there's something about his ego that paints him in a very arrogant light. He knows he's hot shit with the press, he knows everyone fancies the man, he knows that his many talents has sky-rocketed him up the societal ladder and onto the throne of the rich and wealthy. What makes him double as frustrating than he is arrogant is that he hasn't done anything wrong. He's Hollywood's golden boy; ever the humble, handsome, kind, charity-giving actor that has claimed the hearts of many across the world. It's what makes your hatred towards him completely unjustified, so while no one shares the same view as you, there is some things you can do to quietly preach your opinions.

"First to arrive at the course is the notable Tom Holland, waving to the crowd with a smile, loving the attention as ever. Although I'm not sure that his mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire will receive the same compliments!"

The smirk on your lips lasts for the majority of the day as you talk incessantly into your recorder. Your goal isn't necessarily to shit on Tom, only when the opportunity presents itself of course, like when he swung the golf club at an awkward angle, sending the ball straight over the forest and into the sand bunker.

"Oooh, what a poor shot from Tom Holland. He'll be disappointed with that one. Perhaps leaning towards the 'amateur' side of the competition in comparison to some other competitors. Tom Holland yet again teaching us a valuable lesson in life; just because you're a pro at one thing doesn't mean you're a pro at everything else."

The crowd politely applauded and off he went with his caddie. While others followed, you choose to stay rooted while you wait for Mark Wahlberg to walk up to the tee. He's who you've been waiting for all afternoon. Getting a word in with him would set you up for the highlight of your career.

"Mark! Over here! Mr. Wahlberg! A word for the Youth Diary? Mr. Wahlberg!"

As it seems, Mark calmly maneuvers way past the wall of journalists, paying them, and you, no mind and strolls over to the starting point. Damn. You have to get a word with him somehow.

"Mark Wahlberg takes a mighty swing and thrashes the golf ball high into the air, and the crowd watches in astonishment as it sails its way over towards the green, a hair's breadth away from perfection as it rolls upon the hill. A round of applause circles around Mark as he proudly walks on with the confidence of a man who's set on winning this competition."

As the hours tick by, you find yourself without any luck. Those first few minutes of the competition were stuck in a loop, constantly experiencing deja vu of having to witness Tom Holland's unlucky shot followed by being ignored by Mark Wahlberg. You haven't had one decent interaction with anyone yet. Things are getting a little desperate.

You even begin to understand why the majority of journalists are following Tom Holland like a lost flock of sheep; he's very chatty. He stops at every turn to give his narration on his own playing, offers a brief insight to the projects he is currently working on, and if he likes you, even spill some of the secrets of his private life. It's a journalist's dream, one that you haven't even had the taste of yet since Mark Wahlberg is as accessible as the vaults of the Bank of England. Anyone with common sense would advise you to follow the crowd and ignore your bias towards him and just interview Tom Holland if it means you have something worth printing.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. He gets enough attention as it is.

"Mr Wahlberg! A word on your new film? Could you tell us about Uncharted! Mark! Over here!"

Not even a glance is spared your way in yet another attempt to get his attention. From your left, a voice emerges. A fellow reporter sidles himself next to you, away from the crowd that follows Tom Holland. You spot the Sky Sports label wrapped around his microphone.

"He doesn't like to speak much to the press. Thinks that he'll say something and they'll twist his words," he sympathies. It's genuine, obvious that he too has been caught up in the same frustration you've been facing all afternoon. At least he has a little more insight as to why you haven't gotten a word from Mark.

"Yeah, I figured. It wouldn't hurt just to say hello and have a small chat. What could the press twist about that? If anything, I think he's damaging his reputation by not saying anything. It's rude, y'know?"

He nods his head in agreement, but the sigh he blows doesn't seem to match. "You have to let it go though. They're not obliged to tell us anything. This is just a day out for them, they're not getting paid so why should they have to say anything about their work? It's just our luck whether they choose to talk to us."

"Ugh, I guess you're right, but I still need something for my article."

"Sky Sports has had lots from Tom. Why don't you try your luck with him? He seems to be a lot chattier than Mark. I don't know much about film journalism, only sports, so I don't know what it is you're looking for. But if you ask him anything, I'm sure he's willing to provide."

You look to him with contempt in your eyes, your lack of smile instantly shuts down his suggestion.

"I appreciate the suggestion but no. He's too easy. Think of how many journalists are here desperate to get a word in about sports, golf, acting, celebrity personal lives, all that show biz. If everyone shared the one source, audiences wouldn't bother reading them all because they all be the same, boring stuff. Think about it. If you, and 30 other journalists had the chance to interview Ronaldo, you would all take it because after all its Ronaldo. The only downside would be that you would then have 30 articles all saying the same thing and audience getting bored after reading 1. Now think about having the chance to interview Messi. It would be hard but total payout if you got it. Plus, you would stand out from the rest and that's what would gain audiences' attention."

Once again, the reporter sighs. "Look, kid. I've been in this job for 20 years and I've learned that sometimes you just have to cut your losses. If your objective is to get something to write about for your article, then you should do it however and whatever way you can, doesn't matter who the source is. If your objective is to get something from Mark Wahlberg specifically? Then you should scrap the whole article and try again. Something is better than nothing."

"I refuse to take anything from Tom Holland."

"Suit yourself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I think you're still recording. Wouldn't want you to get your chance with Mark only to realise you have no storage left on your recorder."

You mumble a weak thanks and remember to press the pause button on your recorder. The reporter saunters away back towards the crowd, your only indication of knowing where Tom Holland is. You consider it for a second, but determination drives you away, following Mark to the next hole.

~~~~

It's all to play for in the final hole with only two possible candidates capable of winning the trophy. Currently sitting in the lead is the elusive, mysterious Mark Wahlberg, strolling casually along to the final hole with his team behind him. Ah, and of course, next in line is Tom Holland soaking up the attention as he strings along behind Mark Wahlberg like an apprentice would their mentor. It's not clear whether the confidence he walks with is a poorly executed imitation of his acting mentor ahead of him, or whether it is a man deluded with besting him. All will be revealed within the hour.

It's well into the evening of the Pro Amateur competition and the luck that reporter wished you earlier has yet to find you. With the final hole well underway, you're starting to think that it never will. So far, you've gotten a few short, curt answers from other celebrities here but nothing near the sustenance your article needs. If only Mark could stop being so stubborn.

"One at a time please guys, one at a time." Tom's smug, arrogant tone of voice emerges from behind you and not too soon after, tens of other voices asking him questions. As he makes his way nearer, so do the swarm of people and in an attempt to get out of the way, you're stampeded by the press. Bumped, shoved and pushed, you struggle to find your balance and fall precariously on your knees with your equipment tumbling from your bag. In all honesty it didn't hurt, but what an inconvenience picking up all your bits and bobs. Ugh it's all his fault.

Before you do anything irrational and say something you shouldn't, you pack up your stuff and walk away.

The competition concludes with a twist that no one was expecting. With a gust of wind getting the better of Mark Wahlberg, it earned him a double bogey and cost him the trophy, annoyingly snatched up by Tom who achieved victory with a birdie. You seethe at the sight of Tom holding up the golden trophy, soaking up the champagne that his teammates spray all over him and hearing the applause from everyone, even you as a slow, lethargic clap rings from your hands. All to just to keep up the pretence of 'liking him' of course. Ugh, why did he have to win?

After a day of being the lone ranger in a journalists mission, you concede to following the crowd into the conference room where many like you await behind a wall of microphones and a valley of cables to hear from today's competitors. And Mark Wahlberg is one of them. This might be your chance to get a question in. Quick! Where's your recorder?

Fuck. It's not in your bag. Where is it? You rummage through your bag again and it's definitely not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where could it be? Did you lose it when you fell over? Has it been stolen? Fuck, you really need that!

You have no other option but to record from your phone and in your quiet, subdued panic, you try your best to catch anything he has to say. The quality isn't great and it's picking up outside noise to the point that articulation has no place on your recording. Sweating at the loss of some expensive equipment and valuable content, your phone drops and the clatter of it paints a mountain on its waveform, rendering the recording useless. Fuck, if you hadn't lost your recorder.

People start to look at you in your fluster and your legs starts bobbing erratically. The attention is too much and it's exactly why you prefer to stay behind the microphone and not in front of it. You have to leave. At the next possible opportunity, you end your recording and begin to make your way through the aisle, apologising profusely to the other journalists who wait for Tom Holland to make an appearance.

You just about make the double doors of the conference room when you hear Tom's voice welcoming the room.

"Before I start, I wanted to check to see if this was anyone's recorder..."

Everything about you stops dead in its tracks; your feet, your heart, your breathing, your entire existence. Nervously, you spin around to spot Tom Holland holding your recorder in his hands, fingers fluttering around its buttons. How the hell did he get his thieving hands on it?!

A pit opens up in your stomach at the dreaded thought of having to announce yourself in front of everyone to claim it. But damn, you really need your recorder back.

Braving the nightmare, your hand raises half-heartedly into the air. "Uh...it's mine. Sorry, I must've dropped it."

Tom's deep brown eyes lock onto yours from the stage and he throws, what you think, a sickly smile before he offers up the most ridiculous idea. "I can set to record if you want. I can sit it riiiiight here." He sits it directly in front of him and sends you a sly wink. It's a spot any journalist would dream of having their microphone; right under their nose on the off-chance that anything muttered under their breaths or whispered discreetly would be picked up. Journalists are a sucker for secrets. Quite frankly, you don't care for his secrets, you don't care for his thoughts on today's events, and you really don't care for what he has to say at all.

But the only reason why you end up saying yes is because you care more about what people would think of you if you gave up an opportunity like that.

"Sure. Thanks."

You proceed to endure 15 minutes of Tom glorifying himself in front of the press. God, it's embarrassing. You could plainly hear the snide tone underneath the guise of 'self-evaluation'. Everyone seems to soak it up like a sponge, praising him for his insightful words and self awareness, writing nothing but positive words about the actor. Whatever. You wish you could drown him out but your paranoia is rooted to your recorder at his table, thinking the worst outcome as his fingers toying with its external case. What if he doesn't know how to work it and accidentally erases all you had from today? One slip up and it's gone. Your eyes constantly flicker from your recorder to him and no matter who he's speaking to or where he's looking, he always manages to catch your gaze.

Already outside your comfort zone, you audibly whimper when you see him lightly tap the little trash button at the end of the recorder, miles away from the stop, pause and play buttons that you would regularly use. You would only ever press that button with intention, it’s pretty to hard to press it accidentally. Even without knowing how to work the recorder, it doesn't take an idiot to know what that means, so watching Tom play with it tells you that he is whole-heartedly toying with you, enjoying the view of you panicking from his throne of sadism.

It's like he can sense your hatred towards him.

~~~~

"Thank you, thank you! Until next year!" Tom smiles as he walks off stage, your recorder in his clutch. The further he walks away, the faster you bob and weave through the crowd, feeling like you're fighting against the tide as it sweeps you out. Then, just as the room empties you reach the entrance to the backstage area in a relief, only to hit a brick wall that stands in your way between you and your highly coveted recorder.

"No press allowed backstage." A security guard towers over you.

"Tom Holland has my recorder. I'd like to get it back." You have no time for polite small chat, your request grumbling with agitation.

"Still can't allow you back--"

"You can let her through, Jim. It's alright." A young boy’s voice echoes from behind the wall.

The guard hesitantly lets you through, keeping you under his iron gaze while you slip through the narrow space he gives you. You are led out into a hallway with plaques decorating the hall, awards from winners of tournaments the venue has previously hosted, the newest addition being Tom's 'Pro-Amateur' plaque much to your distaste.

The boy you recognise as Tom's caddie leads you down this hallway, he hasn't said so much as a word to you as he confidently walks ahead. Now he's getting his assistant to fetch you? God, the arrogance!

"He's in here."

"Thanks," you quietly mutter. The door closes behind you, locking both you and the actor into the room. When you started the day bright and early this morning, you didn't think this was where you were going to end up. You couldn't have put money on it.

Although, you have to admit: despite putting your heart and soul into avoiding Tom Holland the entire day, this could be an exclusive for your article. Nobody else has had this opportunity, so why not take advantage of it?

Tom smiles as he greets you, carelessly tossing your recorder from hand to hand. You swallow nervously. "You are...?"

You respond with your name, who you report for, and make it abundantly clear that you would like to take back your recorder in one piece.

He approaches with a small, boyish chuckle like you just told a joke. "Sorry, I was just thinking," he casually says, "about how you once said you refuse to take anything from me."

What? Where did he hear...? Fuck. He listened to it. And that entire conversation you had with the Sky Sports reporter...

Your mouth drops. As does the anchor in your stomach.

"What was it you said again...?"

"You listened to it." He ignores you.

"Oh yeah, that my 'mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire wouldn't receive the same compliments'."

"You...listened to it all?" you reiterate once again. Your voice rings with all the inflections of a question, but you already know the answer. Unfortunately.

Tom's brows furrow inward.

"Honestly, I can overlook the fact you insulted my outfit, it doesn't bother me that much." There's a 'but' in his sentence. You're just waiting for it. You inwardly panic, trying to remember what else you said that would warrant that dreaded 'but'. Your shield of writer's anonymity has fallen; it's what protects you if you are to ever post negatively about a celebrity, but now that he knows your name and your face, you're left exposed.

"But..." There it is. And in a disbelief, he bites, "I'm too easy? Really?"

There's two ways you could go about this. Stand your ground and defend yourself, or dig yourself a grave and apologise.

Ha. Yeah right.

"I don't really think it was your place to listen to my recordings."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. Should've minded your business if you knew what was good for you."

"You--" He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, almost to contain himself and tries again. "You," he points accusingly, "are very...very lucky that you look as attractive as your voice sounds."

Your cheeks flush angrily. Safe to say, you're not used to anyone calling you attractive let alone Tom Holland, so in your fluster you have no idea how to respond. You don't know how to tame the flutter in your heart nor the fire in your stomach. Instead, you ignore it all and revert back to your original goal.

"Can I have my recorder back? Please?"

"In a minute." He swats his hand away from yours. High above your reach, you stand helpless as you watch his thumb crash land onto the record button, resuming from where it last left off. "I think that what you have about me in your article is a little bit too harsh. Why don't we start putting some positivity back in. I think you have it in you to pay me just one compliment. I did win the competition after all, I think it's deserved."

You laugh hysterically. The nerve of this guy! So conceited. "You don't deserve anything from me."

"C'mon. Just one. It's not that hard. I promise I'll give you your recorder back straight after."

Succumbing to his torment, your eyes roll over his features, his hair, his outfit and his body, trying to identify possible compliments that would meet his demands but yet wouldn't inflate his ego too much. What you don't anticipate is you're spoiled for choice.

Defeated, you sigh. "You...smell nice."

"Aw, c'mon. I said you were attractive and all you could think of was that I smell nice? Try a little harder."

"Hey, you said the deal was that I give you one compliment then I get my recorder back. Cough up, Holland."

A smug grin pulls at his lips. "I'm not satisfied. And I will give it back when I am satisfied."

Given that your hatred towards Tom Holland is now at least justified and not just self-inflicted, it means that it's twice as hard to sacrifice it all and compliment him like he so desperately wants you to, a complete betrayal to your own beliefs. But you NEED your recorder.

"You look strong."

"Elaborate."

"You clearly work out."

"What in particular?"

"Your arms."

"How can you tell?" He's really pushing the mark, overstepping it by miles with the dirty smirk he has on his face because he knows he is. You audibly grumble at the sight. Losing patience...

"They just looked particularly...muscular when you were swinging the golf club."

"Why don't you give them a feel and you can tell your readers how strong they really are in detail? I know you want to."

Is it bad of you to admit that you do want to feel them? Absolutely. Are you going to announce that to him? Absolutely not.

You don't move for a couple of seconds, your own conscience making so much noise inside your head that you can't make a coherent thought. A spark of adrenaline twitches at your hands, enough to catch Tom's eyes but it's not enough to swing it into force.

Quietly, slowly, he reaches for your hand and envelopes his fingers around yours, manipulating them to wrap around his upper arm. He makes sure to mold your fingerprints into his skin while he tenses, just to feel the sheer density of his muscles. His skin is warm, soft to touch but yet firm to grasp. While you become instantly fascinated, his glistening smile brightens in the corner of your eye. It's so quiet in the room that Tom hears the softest stutter of breaths and he feels like a winner all over again.

"Well?" He nods towards the recorder, its red button flashing. For the readers...

"Definitely..." you clear your throat. Why has your mouth gone dry all of a sudden? You retract your hand. "Definitely toned. Sculpted."

"If that's what you like then I should show you this..."

He takes your hand once again, its warmth holding you captive, and drags it all the way down to his torso. You can't pull your eyes away from how he sensually slips your hand underneath the hem of his shirt and weaves your fingers between the valley of his abs. Your fingertips skate over every sculpted ab of his, feeling the way they almost shiver at your cold touch.

Your fingertips aren't enough. Tom takes a step closer and your whole palm presses against him, almost too intimately for strangers.

Tom's head quirks to the side to get a better view of you. "Thoughts?" he asks, even though he can read them so clearly on your face. You're becoming entranced.

"...Holy shit," you whisper. "Um, yeah. Strong."

"For a woman who had a lot to say about me, you're certainly lost for words now."

As the heat rises and things escalate, neither of you diffuse the tension and the string of long, uninterrupted silence continues. Every minute that passes by is a precarious step over crossing boundaries and breaking every rule you have in your moral bible.

It forces you to suck in a nervous breath and hold it for a few seconds while you deliberate what the end goal is. Of course, it was to leave with your recorder but given your current position and your change of opinions, you're not so sure anymore. To be clear, your change of opinion isn't necessarily about Tom; you still think he's conceited, arrogant and incredibly vain, but it is what you do with that opinion that has changed. Before, you avoided him, stopped yourself becoming another little lost sheep and following him at every opportunity. Now? You're giving him every drop of attention you have to give.

Tom watches you intently while he silently introduces himself to your shyer nature, definitely not the same person that walked in here in a fit of rage and demanding for their recorder. The minute he meets that side of you, he knows exactly what to do next.

He drops his head as he drops his voice into his lower register, your hand feeling all the rumblings from his chest. "Want to be completely speechless?"

Fuck it. Sure you do. "Mm-hm."

"Good girl."

You aren't actually sure what he's planning to do so you look for intention in his eyes, but you see nothing but darkened caverns and devilish features. In fact, it's because you're looking into his eyes that you don't realise that he's grown hard underneath his straight grey trousers. Like before, he guides your hand fluidly underneath the waistband where the button pops out easily, and navigates you under the elastic band where he desperately shapes your fingers around him. He pulses underneath you, shaking with relief that he has you exactly where he wants you.

You dare not pull your eyes away from his, even as they droop in his pleasure. More so now that you admit how seductive they look. You try to mirror that same seduction with a small smile, moving your hand up and down his shaft independently.

Fuck, the more you move your hand, the more you think it's never going to end. Bluntly put, he's huge.

As a journalist, you should be eloquent with your words, careful in your choice of vocabulary, definitive with your metaphors, but all those years of reading and writing falters the second the sheer size of him stuns you. It slightly pains you to be so tasteless but nevertheless, you don't think there's any other way to put it.

So caught up in the heat of it, your common sense finally comes to once again acknowledge your recorder in his hand. You forgot he had been recording this entire conversation...

He brings it closer to his lips, seductively whispering directly into it. "Just like that..." He keeps going. "Doing such a good job - fuck - don't stop."

Encouraged, and progressively feeling turned on, you tighten your hand around his cock and move faster.

"How do I feel, sweetheart?" The microphone tilts towards you. Detail. Although at this point, you don't think it's for your readers as much as it is for you and Tom.

"So big. I almost can't fit my hand around you."

He very nearly buckled. That voice of yours is like a siren to him. Little do you know that when he found your recorder and listened to all of your little angry ramblings about him, it had sparked up a fiery, unavoidable desire inside him. It was hell having to listen to your voice talk shit about him, he just couldn't stand it. He needed to hear you compliment him, worship him, adore him, and he spent every spare minute of his day replaying your recorder, instilling your voice to memory until he could manipulate your words, imagining what they would say about him.

But now that he actually gets to hear you feed into his desire is twice the satisfaction than he initially thought.

As quick as lightning hits, an idea occurs to him and it completely devastates his entire system; if hearing you compliment him turns him on, how would having you beg for him make him feel? The idea becomes such an unstoppable craving he already knows his imagination won't be able to satiate it this time. He needs it for real and right now.

"You wanna taste?"

Doe-like eyes stare up at him - oh, you are so capable of begging him - and your movements come to a halt...all except your thumb sweeping over his tip. You didn't actually think this was going to go any further than a hand job.

"You want me to?"

Oh no, no, no. This isn't about Tom begging. "Because I know you want to. I can see how desperately you want to tell everyone how I allowed you to come backstage, meet me, get on your knees for me, how I allowed you to suck me off and how I allowed you to taste me." His hand slithers up your jawline and brings you close, leaving nothing but a hair's breadth to separate you. As you anticipate the feeling of his lips, you have but his breath fanning over yours and the anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach to feed from. "You just need to beg for it, sweetheart."

Beg. It was hard enough to lose one battle and compliment him, but to lose an even bigger one and beg? You would be absolutely humiliated.

Would be meaning if it was under any other circumstance, if you weren't so spellbound and seduced by him. But that simply isn't the case.

Not uttering another word, you slowly drop to your knees keeping Tom with the wicked grin within your sights. The zipper of his trousers comes undone and you pull him free, watching as his cock stands tall and bobs heavily with weight. Instinctively, your tongue rushes to wet your lips.

"Beg." Tom demands again. The recorder soon comes back into your view and your jaw clicks with frustration. He's capturing every single word much to his demented, power-hungry mind.

You chew through your irritation and instead tune into the feeling that's bubbling in and around your stomach, the one that's being powered by him. "Please," you breathe. "Please, Tom, I wanna suck you off so badly, I promise I'll be good."

"And do you promise to never write a bad word about me ever again?"

Oh, this fucker.

"I prom-"

"Say it like you mean it."

How you so wish you could lie through your teeth, but you know for a fact that from now on, any bad word you write about Tom Holland will forever be tied with this day. You'll think twice about writing badly because being on your knees for him will get in the way. You'll struggle to find the words to knock him because the compliments you paid him will stain your lips. You'll hesitate to criticise him because you'll remember how you verbalised about his good looks.

"I promise. Just--just let me taste you." It's sad how desperate you sound. "Please?"

He doesn't respond. There's one last warning to give.

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart pounds. Despite being adamant in your dislike for Tom, you do somehow get the feeling that the threat that rings through his tone is not one to be taken lightly. It buzzes a little too seriously for you to brush over it. So you answer accordingly.

"Okay, I promise."

The threat dissipates and he looks at you approvingly, his empty hand dropping to cup your cheek. You aren't so unaware of the twitch of his cock in your hand. "I just want to make it clear and put on the record that out of the two of us..." Tom angles you closer, "it's you that's the easy one. Too easy. So easy that you're already on your knees and begging me."

How you would slap that grin clean from his face. The scowl on yours warns him of it, but he simply laughs, mocking you.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Admit it." His boyish chuckle continues to ring in the air and its contagious effect pulls at your lips despite trying to hide it. He sees clearly that it pains you to admit it, so as a small motivator, he crouches to your level, his hand still cradling your cheek. In quieter words, though still delivered through a smirk, he murmurs..."Be a good girl for me, yeah?" His lips melting onto yours stops you from getting the chance to reply. The surprise of it fogs up your brain, submitted into a dream-like state as he gently molds his lips onto yours. It's short and leaves you wanting more.

With a flutter of lashes, you nod. "Atta girl."

He stands up taller once again and you take that as your cue to fulfill your promise. Your lips wrap around him and your tongue darts to sweep over his tip. His groans can be heard above you and no doubt heard by the recorder, crescendoing the second your head starts bobbing. Your hand covers what your mouth can't reach, doing as much as you can to make him feel good. It seems to work; his hips begin thrusting. Slowly, at first, to swing into rhythm but the more you swallow him the less control he has of his own movements, and soon, with your hair wrapped tightly around his fist, he's rutting erratically, drinking in the sounds of your moans of pleasure and pain.

"Fuck, you're so good at that."

"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

"Taking me so well. Good girl."

"Just like that, shit."

"Look how easy you are, fuck. So willing, aren't you? You wanted a word for your precious Youth Diary? Here it is; you are so easy it's pitiful. Fuck--"

Tom's animalistic nature completely dominates to the point where your tears and gags are silently begging to slow down. Every part of you is screaming out: your throat is bruising, your lips are tearing, your eyes are streaming, your knees are cramping, but holy fuck hearing him talk about you like that fuels the fire inside you.

His thighs twitch underneath your hands and you think he might just cum down your throat. The red-hot grip he has of your roots is your only warning before that happens.

Warmth fills your mouth and you're quick to swallow it down before you choke, like it’s instinct. He holds you hostage with his cock deep in your mouth, using you to string out the orgasm for as long as he can. Minutes later, you open your eyes to see Tom hunching over, still very much catching up to you in regaining his composure. His white fist grips the recorder while the other remains tangled through your locks, keeping you in place to prevent you teasing him any further.

When all seems settled, Tom lifts your chin once more - dabbing off the little drop you seem to have missed - and catches your gaze from behind the tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You already know what he's going to ask of you and when he perches the recorder in front of you, he shoots you a wink.

"Detail." He simply says.

"Hmm, you taste so good, Tom. Best I've ever had. I could taste you all day."

At that moment, something snaps in Tom. The smirk drops and his jaw tenses. It's small, minute changes, but it dramatically changes the atmosphere in the room. You just don't know whether it's for better or for worse.

You find your answer when Tom's muscular arms promptly tuck themselves under your arms with vigour, yanking you up onto your feet. The clatter of your recorder steals your attention as Tom carelessly throws it onto a coffee table to his right; after all, he needs his hands to be free if he is planning on returning the favour. You should be complaining about his lack of regard for your equipment and how he could've broken it, but the red flashing light still shows sign of life, so you decide to overlook it for now. Besides, Tom doesn't give you long before he whips your head back to claim your lips, hungrily moaning into them as he forces his body weight against yours and slams you flat against the wall. The collision whips all of the air out of your lungs but it isn't what causes the gasp to jump from your throat. Tom's lips find your neck, suckling onto the supple skin with intentions to bruise, all to distract you from his hand slipping under your skirt. With ease, he palms your cunt, offering just enough of a tease to have you burning for more.

"I need to hear you say my name again with that voice of yours." Ah, so that's what triggered him.

"Tom," you mewl, almost purring.

"As sexy as that sounds, I think it will sound even better when you’re cumming for me."

Oh fuck.

It's frightening how quickly Tom is able to weaken you with just the deft touch of his fingers to your clit and punishing kisses to your neck. You try your best to soak it in and remain somewhat stable to remember every moment of it, but goddammit you can't keep yourself together. So much so that despite Tom claiming to adore the sound of your voice, for the sake of dignity, he keeps his hand clamped hard against your mouth. Neither of you want curious ears to overhear the scandal coming from within.

Never did you think that Tom's all-round talents included making a girl cum so easily. It's kind of frustrating.

His fingers circle around your clit, dragging and pulling every nerve he can find and it winds you up perfectly. Legs shaking, breath faltering, you suspect you have mere seconds before he takes your orgasm.

Your whines and moans buzz from behind Tom's hand, muffled and diffused. Eventually he lets go, and replaces his hand with his lips, once again thrashing against yours.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Fuck, I--"

"Say my name. Beg me to let you cum."

"Tom, please, I want to cum. Please let me cum."

Two fingers slot themselves into you, his palm taking over pleasing your clit and you have to stop yourself from buckling. It is the last sign Tom needs to know that you're on the precipice of shattering. With a devilish twinkle to his eye and a crooked smile, he sinks closer to you, his lips narrowly brushing against the shell of your ear and whispers the word. "Cum."

In a similar fashion to Tom what seems like hours ago, you come undone. Your hands grip onto his shoulders for stability as he refuses to stop abusing your cunt. His fingers dig deeper, his hand moves faster, and the tight curl of his knuckle breaking you sends you spiralling.

The gut-twisting tension soon turns to tranquil bliss as he slows his movements, finally catching a breath to revel in the post-orgasm haze with a twitch or two catching you out.

For as egotistical as you believed Tom to be, with the grounding kisses he litters over your cheek, neck, lips, he completely negates that belief. He utterly dominated you, yet affection fuels his movements; something you don't expect a vain person to have. Maybe he isn't all you made him out to be...

Calmly, you both collect yourselves until you're presentable, standing apart within the room as if what just happened never happened. The heat of the room is all that's left to suggest otherwise.

Tom doesn't stop you from reaching for your recorder, the plastic rectangular object feeling like home in your hand. You firmly press the stop button, letting the audio file save before you address Tom again.

"Thanks for...y'know, keeping it safe. I genuinely don't know what I would've done if I lost it."

Tom smiles kindly. "It's no problem."

"Oh, and congratulations."

He nods humbly. "Thank you. I didn't actually think I was going to win it, but I guess luck was on my side." Huh. He's not bragging...

Settling your recorder into your bag, you begin to make your way out of the room. You hadn't realised how late it had gotten and how hungry you had became until your stomach grumbled loudly. As you take your cue to leave, Tom leads you out with a gentle hand to the small of your back and chills arise. Shit. Don't start liking him now...

Tom clears his throat before you completely disappear. "Will I be seeing you lurking about any other events this year?"

Something about his question makes you smile. "Maybe. I've got a few film premieres that I will be attending."

"Good. Well, if any of them include me, I'll make sure to review your work again." How his wink makes you weak.

"Hmm, we'll see, Tom Holland."

~~~~~

It takes you over a week after the golfing event to eventually find the courage to finish writing your article. Most of it is written from what you remember thinking throughout the day, but your work leaves much to be desired. All that's missing from the article can be found on your recorder that you have deliberately been ignoring knowing what filth it contains.

It takes a couple of glasses of wine on a Saturday night to find the bravery to listen to it once again. It all goes smoothly at first, words flow from your mind to your fingertips and your article slowly builds as your past self feeds you your own commentary from that day. You were going to stick with your original idea, deciding to keep in all your criticisms about Tom Holland because who's going to stop you?

But your valour is short lived. Because you've reach the end. When you think you have the finished product, a masterpiece of literacy for your readers to enjoy and you have nothing else to write. Just when you think you're about to press 'publish' that you reach that part of your recording that you just can't bring yourself to turn off.

Shit, it turns you on so much to hear Tom's voice once again demand that you promise to never write another criticism again and the way you caved so easily in your lust-induced state. Even listening to it makes you resonate with it all over again, resurrecting the same excitement and anxiety to stir in your stomach. It's a reminder that persuades you that you don't necessarily agree with what you write about Tom. It makes you reconsider all that you've just written, your finger hovering over the backspace button prepared to fix the promise you're about to break.

Fuck. It's such a good story. Probably one of the best articles you've written. Alas, with the disagreement going on in your head, you can't find it in yourself to commit to it. There's also the problem that if you are to post it, the privilege of writers' anonymity will no longer be in your possession. Tom does, after all, know your name and your face, and you are damn sure he will take the time to find it and read it. What unnerves you is that you have no idea what actions he might take. How could you forget that warning?

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

So there you sit with your empty glass of wine, chewing nervously on your nails while your eyes dry at the light of the screen you've been deliberating over for the last three hours. The question still remains.

What do you do?

#ngl the ending was a little rushed #cos this was way longer than i wanted it to be #oh well #enjoy!#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fic #smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #golfer!tom holland #peter parker #tom holland fanfic #tom holland x y/n #anon asks

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elusivecagedmockingbird · 5 months

Text

Lights Out, Words Gone

[yoongi x reader] [1.4k+ friends to lovers, light angst]

A/N: So, there was an attempt, by me. Heh. I'm just really trying to get back into creative writing. I used to enjoy writing, but no one told me that turning that into a career and years of writing newsletters and articles for corporate dulls the mind and at this point, even journaling feels like a chore. But if you found this fic and somewhat enjoyed it, I'm grateful.

It's ridiculous, you think to yourself. How can someone be easily disarmed by a smile?

One minute, you're furiously driving at 2 a.m. to fetch Yoongi from a dive bar—miles and hours from where you live so you're well within reason to cuss him out; the next, you're giggling next to him after he told you the lamest joke you've ever heard.

"Y/N, what did the full glass of water say to the empty glass of water?"

In no mood for his shenanigans, you slide the bottle of water you bought during the drive over, closer to him. Unperturbed, he continues with a grin, "You look drunk."

You let out an annoyed sigh. The joke doesn't even make sense, and yet, because it's Yoongi's gummy smile and his contagious giggles that echo across the empty chairs and fills the bar, your mood shifts.

Suddenly, you snort a laugh. Hearing your amusement, his giggles turn into hearty laughs, and you follow.

Yoongi catches his breath after a minute and fluffs his hair. Suddenly, he looks so soft and cuddly. You feel your breath winded.

Feeling compelled to break the silence, you tease, "Did you steal that joke from Jin?" You don't wait for an answer. You usher Yoongi out of the corner of the bar he hid himself in and he lets you push him out as he weakly argues, "Did not. I thought of it myself. I can make funny jokes too, you know." You hum in response, amused by the pout forming on his face.

Yoongi trudges straight to his bedroom as soon as you arrive in his place. You follow, wanting to at least make sure he's tucked in with a bucket on his side of the bed—a precaution, lest he hurls his guts in bed, which rarely happens. But better to be safe than sorry.

You eye Yoongi as he grabs a shirt from his drawer and take that as your cue to leave.

"Stay the night," his voice gravelly. You stop mid-journey out the door.

What.

"Uh, Yoongi—"

"It's too late to drive," he crosses the room and pulls your hand to take his shirt. "And if you think I'm letting you take the couch, I'm offended. Sleep here."

A beat passes. "It's not like we haven't shared a bed before," he winks.

Right. As if you'd forget. You remember all too well how Yoongi gets needy and cheesy when drunk—which is why you hesitate. You need to distance yourself before your feeling overwhelms you and make you do something you would regret.

"Remember hell weeks shared in Jin's fancy dorm room? You snored like a fucking berserk honking truck," he chuckles, probably remembering those younger versions of you whose only problems were exams and thesis defense.

The nostalgia hits you, and you quip, "Ya! I remember Jungkook and I pulling an all-nighter for all those times. It was actually you who loudly snored."

Yoongi erupts in soft gummy giggles as you playfully give him the stink eye.

Laying stiff beside him, you almost succeed in willing your mind to slip into dreamland when you hear comforters shuffling until you feel him closer to you.

"You awake?" he faces you. "I am now," you huff. You open your eyes to adjust to the dim room, the only light source coming from the street lamp post outside his bedroom window and the tiny static light of your charging phone on the bedside table.

"I just…" he starts, "I wanted to thank you for picking me up. The guys were either out of town or probably too deep in their sleep to hear their phones ring."

"Yes, well… I was on the other side of the town and deep in sleep when you called." You weren't sure what your point was. Probably wanted him to know that you know he definitely did not call anyone else but you tonight.

But of course, he knows that you know. He knows he can't bullshit you. Not when you used to spend every waking moment since you met in college, which was almost 24/7, since you barely slept then. Years of friendship synced you together—getting used to one's idiosyncrasies, being able to read each other across the room, and sharing the same opinion on all things you deemed important.

"And yet you still came. I'm surprised you actually picked up after weeks of radio silence."

Yoongi starts to pick at his nails, his anxiety peaking. Atuned to even his habits, your hands reach to envelop his and you rest your cheeks atop.

"I actually thought it was one of my booty calls," you joke. He doesn't laugh or react, so you turn serious, "I'm your friend, of course, I'll come get you."

Always.

You smile at him, "It actually wasn't a bother. Get some rest, Yoongi." Thinking you ended the conversation, he suddenly confronts you, "You say that but you suddenly cut me off. Why?"

Ah.

Now, you consider if he orchestrated the whole thing. Trying to corner you so he could finally confront you. It wouldn't be out of his character.

You unclasp your hands.

"I didn't cut you off," you lamely defend yourself and hope he lets it go.

Again, this is Yoongi who's calling you out. You can't evade him just like he can't bullshit you. So he holds out.

"Right. So you suddenly dodging my calls and missing weekly hangouts when I'm available to join, is what? Coincidence?" His voice remains calm, but you would miss how it sounds heavier if you hadn't known him for years. Each word is weighed down with pent-up emotion, and now those fueled words hit you like bricks.

"I've gotten busy. Everyone did after graduation." A half lie, half truth.

He shifts a bit closer to you. "You know, even in the dark, I can tell when you're lying, right? I may not see how your eyes get shifty, but your voice has that lilt at the end when you speak. Almost as if you're also trying to make yourself believe in your lie."

You can already feel the onset of a headache from your lack of sleep, but what's more pressing is how your heart dreads being this close to him again, even more so now that you're being called out and you have no excuse. At least nothing good enough to pass Yoongi.

As the minute passes, the silence thickens, and you feel yourself growing even more tired. It could be from the drive, lack of sleep, or that you just fucking had the most mentally-draining shift just hours before that you finally resigned with honesty. Besides, now that you take a glance at his curled-up form beside you, you admit that he, at least, deserves to know why you distanced yourself.

Yoongi has been your best friend for years—the one who made sure to look into your eyes as he encouraged you to take the extra classes because if you thought it would help you secure the job of your dreams, then he believed it would pay off in the end, and you needed to believe that, too.

Yoongi, who held your hand when you went through mental and emotional hurdles. You honestly believe you wouldn't be here now, living and breathing, had it not been for him.

If only the way you looked at him stayed the same, and how his hands felt in yours remained unnoticed, like those days when he held you as you hurled your guts at bar restrooms after chugging down cheap vodka and beers.

If only your affection towards Yoongi didn't root themselves in what you thought was your uninhabitable heart and grow its tendrils over the years of laughing, crying, and sharing even the most mundane moments with him.

And so you will be honest, but you don't know where to start other than offering an apology.

"I'm sorry, Yoongi. I fucked up," tears brim your eyes but you look at him. You let your repressed emotions out and they're coming out all at once that you're overwhelmed. But you need him to know

Yoongi doesn't respond but motions for you to continue. It's his turn to take your cold hand in his and warms it between his. And it is during this delicate moment that you let it out, "I seem to have fallen in love with you."

How cliche, you rebuke yourself.

You hear him let out a sigh. Out of relief or disappointment, you're unsure.

You shift your eyes to the window behind him and get a glimpse of the rising sun. The aura of the rising sun breaking the dark blue night sky.

You don't know how many seconds, minutes passed. Yoongi remains silent.

Oh god. Surely this can't be a good thing.

You should leave now. You pry your hands away, but before you could even leave the bed, Yoongi finally breaks his silence,

"Then I fucked up, too."

>> Read Lights Out, Words Spill

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #bts #bts drabble #bts angst #missing yoongi hours #bangtan fic #bts suga #bts imagines #min yoongi #min yoongi fic #yoongi angst #suga angst #suga fluff #yoongi x you #yoongi x oc #yoongi #suga

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nanawritesit · 1 year

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Irene Girlfriend Headcanons!

She prefers that you call her “Joohyun” rather than Irene. She wants to feel like you know the real her instead of her stage presence.

Speaking of which, she often slips into her Daegu dialect around you

You were never intimidated by her like everyone else was, you were warm and loving regardless of how “scary” she seemed

It took her a while to open up to you about her inner thoughts and feelings. She’s so used to bottling it all up in order to be a good leader that she doesn’t stop to think when she might need help

But you help her with that, constantly reassuring every single one of her insecurities. Even when she doesn’t ask, you’ll always be the first one to tell her she’s done well!

She cooks you seaweed soup every year for your birthday just like she does for the members 💚

Ordering her tea for her whenever you’re at a coffee shop because she’s too afraid of being judged by the barista for not liking coffee

Eating her vegetables for her (if you like them ofc)

Finally convincing her to stop dying her hair and stick with her natural black color because it’s her favorite and it suits her best

It took her a long time to accept it, but Joohyun is a lover of the simple things in life. You guys don’t need any extravagant outings or fancy gifts to be happy! Things like reading together, watching the sunset, taking walks, listening to music, cooking her favorite tteokbokki… those are what draw you together.

Holding her while she cries watching “The Notebook”

You started keeping perfumes in your car and carrying essential oils with you everywhere since she’s so sensitive to smells

You also help bring her back down to Earth when she starts spacing out, waving a hand in front of her face and never making a huge fuss over it. You just remind her what she was talking about and continue on with your conversation

Joohyun is also a lover of solitude. However you’re the only one she makes an exception for. She loves taking you to Ttukseom Island or the Folk Museum in Bukcheon. They’re her happy places and she wants to share them with you!

Because of her, you started keeping a journal. The two of you have nights where you just sit in silence and write together 🥰

She won’t hesitate to correct you on your spelling and grammar, even over text 😑

You feel like you learn something new about her every day. She’s always so reserved, and her mind runs at a mile a minute, so every once in a while she’ll just drop this huge piece of Joohyun lore that takes you by surprise

Always giving her your fortune cookies and lottery tickets because she just has so much good luck

If you play video games or do puzzles, and you just can’t get pass a certain stage, she’ll just walk over and figure it out for you in seconds, and it leaves you baffled every time

Making her show you how the heck she can draw a perfect circle (you still can’t understand after a thousand times)

She has a tendency to “mother” you. (Doing your laundry, making you go to bed early, telling you take your vitamins and drink water…) You’ll have to explain to her that while you appreciate her trying to help, she doesn’t need to worry about you so much!

She’s still going to do your laundry though. She just loves doing it too much not to.

I hope you don’t mind having a high heat bill, because Joohyun cannot handle the cold! (If not, you’ll have to loan her several of your hoodies and blankets!)

Comforting her whenever she encounters heights, water, or loud noises

Her manager tried to tell her to avoid PDA with you to protect her image and avoid a scandal, but she just can’t stop herself from holding your hand or clinging to your arm!

Once word gets out that the two of you are dating, she really has no problem telling the fans that while she hopes they can be supportive, she’s going to be with you whether they like it or not.

She would give up everything if it meant she could stay with you, and you would do the same for her in a heartbeat 💜

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takearisk-xo · 9 months

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written for #SeveralSunlitDaylights & @corneliaavenue-ao3 day 3: speak now

'But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead…'

******

It was a new sensation, this urge, and Harry didn’t particularly enjoy it. In fact, he found it quite debilitating at times. For weeks he’d daydreamed away his first period, missing crucial Herbology notes he had to copy from Hermione later. He’d started taking an inordinate amount of bludgers at quidditch practice. So much so that McGonagall had kept him after class once to ask if he was feeling alright. Not to mention, he seemed to have lost any and all authority over certain...extremities.

It was mortifying.

But today was by far his worst bout of brain fog. He’d walked right past the Great Hall at lunch, Ron having to call after him when he was halfway up the marble staircase. Harry had doubled back, his face heating with embarrassment, but Ron seemed to buy whatever excuse Harry had stuttered out.

She’s Ron’s sister.

He chanted the mantra inside his head for what felt like the thousandth time. The problem was, it didn’t seem to stick. An empty space of time, or a lull in the conversation and Harry’s train of thought veered right back to shining copper hair and secret passageways; his hands on her waist and his lips on hers.

Every. Single. Time.

Harry tossed a handful of chips onto his plate and hoped someone at the Gryffindor table had something mildly interesting to talk about, but he was out of luck it seemed. After a few minutes of chatting shit, his mind started to wander.

They were in a hidden alcove behind the tapestry of Grimma Mog on the fourth floor. The stone wall was cool against his back and Ginny’s body was warm where she pressed into him. Harry could feel the slight flare of her hips beneath his palms, could feel the hitch of her breath as he swiped her bottom lip with his tongue–

Ron’s sister! He shouted inside his own head, pulling his own traitorous thoughts to a halt.

Focusing on Hermione across the way, he tried to digest whatever she was talking to Neville about. Something to do with toadstools.

“This new experiment suggests medicinal properties…”

“Really?” Hermione peeked over to read the academic journal Neville had open on the table. “Raw? Or brewed?”

Ginny pressed into him harder, her fist tugging at his hair. In retaliation, Harry slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her jumper and felt smooth skin at the small of her back–

“I'm bloody starving,” the real life Ginny groaned from behind his right shoulder and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

She plopped into the empty seat next to him, sending a shoot of electricity up his arm as her elbow bumped his. Harry tossed her a grin that he hoped looked normal, but was probably completely deranged, only to see Dean falling onto the bench on her other side.

The reminder of her complete unattainability sucker punched the monster living inside his chest.

Not only was she Ron’s sister. She had a sodding boyfriend. He kept forgetting about that particular obstacle. Probably because his brain was too obsessed with kissing her.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

Ginny glanced at him sidelong and Harry averted his gaze, realizing too late he’d been staring. He spent the rest of lunch forcing himself to pay attention as Hermione and Neville's conversation shifted from toadstools to the merits of Moroccan Coriander over other varieties. Meanwhile, Ginny ate and laughed and flirted, and overall tortured Harry to the point of madness.

But his resolve held. He kept his fanciful scenarios in check for the rest of the day.

Which turned out to be completely futile, because while he was able to hold some semblance of control in his waking hours, this just spurred his imagination to run wild while he slept.

And like a fixation he couldn’t shake, over and over they were pressed up into the wall of the alcove, twisted together in a hushed encounter unbeknownst to the crowded corridor on the other side of the tapestry.

It made looking Ron in the eye all the more difficult, and in the mornings, Harry had never been more grateful for the curtains surrounding his four-poster bed.

#*insert skull emoji here*#hinny #severalsunlitdaylights #hinny fic #harry x ginny #harry/ginny #my fic #corneliaavenue

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vhstown · 5 months

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gwen stacy ★ general headcanons

content/warnings: mentions of underage drinking, implied & mentions of death

a/n: hey 😁 a levels beating my arse. thx 2 @qiupachups 4 helping w these 🫡 give it up for gwendy ‼️ (unedited)

Gwen is a collector — but not of collectibles. She has a secret empire of the most random things, and is thoroughly embarrassed when anyone finds it: tickets, pins, soda can tabs, cool-looking clothing tags, mismatched hair clips, paper clips, little things stolen from school, etc. Anything she things is remotely interesting has a place in a very specifically organised box under her bed, tucked away from the world and taken out occasionally to be adjusted or stared at. It's essentially the same as being a collector, right...?

She had a fashion hobby she grew out of, but it re-kindles when she has to design a suit for herself. Initially, it's made up of thermal sportswear but she comes up with actual designs at some point, modifying it overtime to include the hood and to integrate it with her ballet slippers.

When it comes to art, Gwen's style would be a lot like a fashion student's. I headcanon her to have aphantasia so her main strength is drawing clothing, and a lot of her drawings are based on herself as a reference (she can literally only draw herself well...) Rather than a sketchbook, she has a journal that's also full of photographs and writing as well as her drawings, and the occasional crumpled up drum score.

Has a knack for sewing and customises some of her clothes, though it's more personal touches and the occasional crop rather than completely overhauling a piece of clothing. Everyday items of hers have at least a little embroidery or design on them and she likes doing patterns on like bags and converse for her friends. Wants to make plushies and things but always manages to get distracted so there's a bunch of unfinished projects in her closet. (I would totally buy from her on Etsy though 😁)

Gwen did ballet as a kid and developed the enraging habit of cracking EVERY joint in her body. She's the mf that twists in the chair in front of you and stares deep into your soul while cracking her back. Cracks things you don't even know you could crack without shame my girl is a whole instrument 😭

Ballet is something her dad pushed her towards, alongside music (though he preferred she did something more traditional). Initially Gwen did feel out of place in her classes. A lot of the other children at her classes were already well-versed in it, and a lot of times she found she wanted to quit. Only after learning that her mom Helen did ballet did she willingly pick it up again at an older age, incorporating the technique into her fighting style.

Gwen used to play a few different instruments as a kid but none of them really stuck. For a while, she thought she hated music when she did piano and the recorder, but when she got her hands on a drumkit at her school and a couple lessons, she knew it was the one.

Her drumming is definitely more freestyle, and even though she's good she has a lot of problems with her high energy, spontaneous and emotive style. That means she breaks her drumsticks ALL the time. There's no way she's banging all that out on the drums without an unfortunate snap or two, so she always keeps another pair handy. She's broken her drumsticks so much that there's a collection of them torn up at the bottom of her bag (she never bothers to throw them out, and might've given herself a splinter reaching in to find something 💀)

Speaking of drumsticks, she has one lucky pair she uses for important performances, carrying them practically everywhere. They've essentially rotted in their fancy little fabric case since she'd gottem them, the custom "GWENDOLYN MAXINE STACY" imprinted on it having almost completely eroded away.

Though, she's only ever used them once; her dad had bought them for her for a school performance, which she had to bail last minute when her Spider-sense suddenly activated. Running off to fight a villain not a street away, Peter Parker follows her, and he realises just who Spider-Woman really is.

While she was planning to use them at her prom performance with her band... that never happened. After that, everything reminded her of that night, and her relationship with The Mary Janes dwindled until she quit altogether. The band only lasted a few months prior, and since they never got to perform at prom, Gwen found herself playing for no reason at all, other than to get rid of her pent-up energy and forget about the fact that she's basically a wanted criminal.

When she's living in Hobie's universe, she ends up breaking her "lucky" drumsticks and is, understandably, a little shattered by it, but Hobie gets her another pair, "GWENDY" written in mismatched letters on the side. That "G" was definitely a last-minute addition, though. He also teaches her how to stop breaking them so often. "Bit of advice — use the wrists, not just the arms."

Gwen's definitely not meant to drink, so whenever Hobie goes to the pub he makes sure not to, suggesting his friends don't get pissed out of their minds either (though she might steal a sip of something fruity now and again.)

Hobie takes her to gigs all the time, and sometimes she drums for his ones. The first time she does it, she's nervous of course, but her sound immediately gets the crowd going and it's the talk of the town for a week straight (and her drumsticks didn't break!)

There's no shortage of junk food, of course. Just like all the takeout she'd have back at home, Hobie would make sure to take her around all the local spots. Although it's not exactly the same, anything beats the plasticky cafeteria food in 2099. Stopping for a kebab or two in the middle of anomaly-hunting isn't really against the rules anyway.

Gwen is friendly with pretty much everyone in the Spider-society because everyone knows who "Gwen Stacy" is, but she never really wants to meet another version of herself (given how unsettling it is with context). Also very awkward around any MJs — or Peters. Peter B essentially being an older 65!Peter definitely freaks her out a little at first.

Misses Miles, obviously, and probably had something she wanted to make for him back in her universe that she could never retrieve. Maybe when she gets Hobie's watch she'll bring it along with her — would Miles like a knitted neckwarmer?

SO best friends with Margo. Her tech lets Gwen see into her universe sometimes (Miguel wouldn't let her 😞) and Margo is super keen on learning about her universe. They both hang out with Peni and it's a fun little girl trio (Peni totally takes them to her universe to see all the giant mechs 😁 "Girls night!" BOOM!)

Number 1 girlfail. She hasn't broken those new drumsticks yet! But drumming can wait — and all those projects at the back of her closet, and her unresolved dispute with MJ and the band, and her dad at home. Going from her small world to having an entire multiverse against her and her friends, Gwen's got one hell of a show to put on, right?

“I never found the right band to join, so I started my own, with a few old friends.”

“You want in?”

🩰🕸️💫

@phoenixinthefiles (it's cause of you im always writing hcs 😭😭😭 /pos)

hi bunklies 😁 ive been averaging like 4h of sleep cuz of skl but ill fix up soon trust... hope you are all doing okay ! ive never written anything for gwen before so i hope this is an okay start lol

atsv masterlist here! reblogs always appreciated :) see u around <3

#gwen stacy #gwen stacy headcanons #spider gwen #gwendolyn stacy #earth 65 #spider woman #spiderverse #atsv headcanons #atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman into the spiderverse #itsv #vhstown

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thatsexcpisces · 3 months

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Random things I associate with each rising sign 💌

Aries rising:

Confidence, sharp eyebrows, being outspoken, lots of tattoos, prominent forehead, going to the gym, frat parties, short temper, courage, impulsive decisions, taking control of a room, finishing in first place, blasting loud music, trusting yourself, traveling

Taurus rising:

Sophisticated taste in restaurants, natural beauty, good food lovers, jewelry, small but full lips, taking good care of plants, healthy hair, clear skin, comfy blankets, offering things to others, bakeries, peace, round faces, soft voices, singing, sleeping in all day

Gemini risings:

Working on a podcast, expressive eyes, funny facial expressions, talking a-mile-a-minute, being the most charming person in the room, thin yet long eyebrows, glasses, being able to talk to anyone, finding the positives in a negative situation, youthful appearance, gossip, Saturday brunch, fairies, pats on the back

Cancer risings:

Pastel-colored clothing, being the support system of the family, gentle hugs, sensitivity, big round faces, glossy eyes, calm voices, hot cocoa, bringing sweet energy to every gathering, empathy, loving animals, silver jewelry, mothers, bright smiles, spring, nice boobs, being kind to outcasts, the ocean, comfort

Leo risings

Self-love, theatre & acting, creativity, baby lions, siren eyes, good taste in fashion, vibrant personalities, gorgeous hair, taking you out for drinks, open to being with anyone, orange & white, cherry-flavored drinks, the beach, karaoke, fancy mirrors, feathered boas, sharp nails that are always done

Virgo risings:

Routines, to-do lists, cleaning the house every Sunday, massages, spa days, ‘clean’ makeup look, soft eyes, face masks, stomach problems, good cooking skills, maturity, color-coded clothes, sunset shades of orange, plants, lavender smells, fresh laundry, delicate jewelry, animal lovers, smooth hair

Libra risings:

Solving conflicts, flirting with everyone, the color pink, smelling good, tulips, easygoing characters, cinnamon rolls, flashy clothes, designer bags, hidden anger issues, carrying snacks everywhere, luscious hair, Regina George, chic flicks, angelic eyes, pearls, long legs, white cats

Scorpio risings:

Living a secret double life, intense stares, red-bottom heels, black eyeliner, purple flowers, heightened intuition, seeing messages in dreams, cigarettes after sex, long hugs, watching movies before going to sleep, headphones on all day, strong perfumes, powerful voices, Halloween, quick comebacks, dirty minded jokes, lace clothes

Sagittarius risings:

Being the funniest person in the room, bright smiles, loud laughs, liked by everyone, elephants, pop-out colors, wisdom, studying at night, traveling the world, defined teeth, strong bodies, dark sense of humor, stylish accessories, not caring what others think, bold lipstick, skiing, reading books to children

Capricorn risings:

Classy & elegant style, hardworking, black sweaters, the newest computer, coffee, nice teeth, tied hair, gold rings, playing golf, money in an envelope, marble tables, hard life, strict parents, gardening, setting rules in every environment, writing down goals, post-it notes, the color green and brown, beautiful houses, poodles

Aquarius risings:

Technology, good social skills, Star Wars, electric blue, individuality, protesting all day, new gadgets, defined jaws, being bored of everyone, writing a blog, music festivals, holographic-themed outfits, reading books, ranting about your favorite show, know-it-alls, hiding how you really feel, Twitter, healthy diets, car dates

Pisces risings:

Painting, sad yet sweet eyes, rewatching the same movie over and over again, sleeping for a long time, reading minds, trauma, taking a walk in the woods, doodling in your notebook, taboo topics, picnics, astral projection, baking on a rainy day, kissing your loved ones, skirts, pretty hair clips, piled up journals, wind, comfy living rooms

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samueldays · 10 months

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in the spirit of xkcd's "did you know you can just buy labcoats?" , did you know you can just buy newspapers? some days it feels like any old shitposter can get a journalism job and spew high-velocity misinformation, like Aziah Siid at the Seattle Medium.

You're the ones doing the starving here, fuckwits.

Thanks to food deserts — or as some folks call it, “food apartheid”

Thanks to bad reporting - or as some folks call it, "Nazi-style propaganda"

that's halfway through the first sentence and Siid has very effectively set the tone for an article of race-baiting, blame-shifting, inflammatory, connotation-smuggling, condescendingly ignorant, hyperbolic, partisan hackery.

there are cities across the United States where Black families have to drive several miles to access fresh food at a supermarket.

link does not support claim, link is just tangentially related article using the word "food desert". link says this:

This gives me the impression that someone yelled "CITE SOURCES" at the journalist until the journalist did the malicious minimum of work to give the superficial appearance of a citation. The source "more than a quarter of a mile" does not support the article "drive several miles", and other problems.

Journalism delenda est.

That isn't even the topic yet, just a shitty lead-in. The topic:

But the lack of resources that disproportionately impacts Black communities isn’t limited to food or health care. Access to literature is also often limited in Black neighborhoods.

Interest in literature is also often limited in black neighborhoods. They have less desire for and less interest in books relative to whites.

Nearly half of American children live in a book desert — places that American Federation of Teachers President Randi Weingarten defines as “neighborhoods that lack public libraries and stores that sell books, or in homes where books are an unaffordable or unfamiliar luxury.”

The linked article is by Randi Weingarten, but does not define "book desert" that way, as it does not use the word "desert" anywhere at all. Superficial appearance of citation again, journalism delenda est.

I'd call for Aziah Siid to be "fired" but there is nothing to fire her from. You can just buy newspapers. You can just write shitposts and have them published with fancy headings.

So I'm left reiterating: journalists lie, journalists spread disinformation, newspapers are full of shit, the profession attracts liars and incentivizes lying partly because it's loudly claimed to be fact-checkers, journalists can get away with contradicting someone and calling it a "fact check". It happens up and down the scale across the industry, from relative rando Aziah Siid, to upscale Keith Olbermann who has multiple awards for excellent journalism and he won't stop lying after repeated corrections.

If students don’t have books at home or in their neighborhood, they rely on what’s available in schools — in the classroom and campus library. But good luck finding banned and challenged books like “The Gift of Ramadan” by Rabiah York Lumbard and Laura K. Horton and “Sulwe” by Lupita Nyong’o and Vashti Harrison if students live in a place impacted by censorship.

"impacted" is such a wonderful weasel word that encourages the reader to imagine something maximally inflammatory with minimal commitment on the part of the journalist. There is no rebuttal that can be made here without Siid dodging that that's not what she meant by "impacted" - so I retort instead that it's content-free incitement and demagoguery. Journalism delenda est.

Similarly with "banned and challenged", where all the weighty connotation is being carried by the "banned" part, but all the truth of the sentence resides in the "challenged" part. I tried to find the specifics of the matter and as best I can tell, in one of the three thousand counties in the United States, The Gift of Ramadan was challenged for school review by partisan hacks and then got stuck in bureaucratic limbo in a poorly designed review process to determine whether it should be in schools in that county. Somewhere has to be the most fuckup county of 3000, and Duval County was it that year.

From the viewpoint of people who thought their book should be read by every student as a default, this cherry-picked one-county school-holdup felt like a "ban" despite the fact that the book remained available in bookstores.

What extraordinary entitlement.

The epicenter of these efforts? Florida and the attempts led by Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis to eliminate the teaching of accurate U.S. history and kill off access to diverse books.

Stripped of the bombast: Florida rejected one specific Advanced Placement course on African American Studies. DeSantis claimed this was because the course was a bunch of thrown-together left-wing talking points including queer theory and climate action along with the black blackety blackness.

The College Board released an edited version of the course, and claimed this was nothing to do with Florida because they get feedback from lots of people.

That’s why as part of a larger effort to make books more accessible, and directly combat these anti-history book bans, the national nonprofit Little Free Library and creative marketing agency Venables Bell + Partners have teamed up on the Unbanned Book Club.

Again with the use of "ban" for not using government resources to promote. Journalism delenda est, wordcels delenda est. The books are not banned, as shown by the fact that this project is legal. The vast majority of books in the world are not in any school, let alone every school; curricula change regularly; to call it "banned" that a book was removed from a school is a sort of linguistic robbery that steals the substance of word and leaves us with a confusion of tongues as of Babel.

#all #journalism delenda est #rant #babel

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thebluestbluewords · 6 months

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mother knows best

They meet the heroes of their parent’s stories.

It’s not as bad as Evie has been anticipating.

Here’s the thing about being friends with the king: it provides a lot more than just friendship. Diplomatic immunity isn’t quite the word Evie would use to describe their new status, but there’s a sort of leeway that they get with adults now that Ben has shown that he’s willing to vouch for them, and none of the powerful, important, interesting families who need something from the young king would risk being too blatantly rude to his friends.

So. They meet the heroes from their parent’s stories, and it goes fine.

Evie smiles politely at Snow, who is technically her sister. In another world, they might have grown up together. Might have been friends, or at least acquaintances, trapped together in the same castles, avoiding the same woman together.

Or not.

��I read your latest piece in the historical fashion journal,” Evie says politely, over the dinner that has been arranged by her sister, so that they can meet one another in a common space with the least potential for problems to arise. It’s a nice restaurant, the sort that has tiny candles in fancy glass dishes on the table, and a separate menu just for wines. It’s nice enough that Evie is glad she wore her navy blue kitten heels, even though her feet are going to be aching where they’re tight on her heels later. “It was very well-written. I especially enjoyed the section on beadwork in the western kingdoms.”

Snow offers a faint smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Evie sits perfectly still. She’s been trained by her mother on how to be polite and unobtrusive during a formal dinner, and how to be sweet and desirable for a prince during a dinner date, but meeting her sister for their first real chance at getting to know each other isn’t quite either of those things, and she’s not sure how to proceed properly, aside from attempting more polite flattery and small talk.

It’s not polite to fidget with her utensils, no matter how much Evie would like something to do with her hands. Maybe she can sip her water, once it arrives. She’ll sip carefully, without messing up her lipstick.

“Your hair looks lovely,” Snow says, unexpectedly. “Blue suits you.”

Evie does not jump.

“Thank you,” she says instead, and keeps her hands out of her hair, which is indeed lovely. “It’s my natural color.”

Snow nods. “I remember. Grimhilde’s is the same way.”

Evie hasn’t seen her mother’s natural hair since she was a child. They’ve been careful to keep her pretty and perfect, just in case an unexpected chance with a royal family ever came up, even though she’s been doubly in exile for most of her teenage years. They put countless hours (approximately 20,344 hours, Evie’s brain supplies unhelpfully) into keeping her looking beautiful. More than that, if she counts the time spent brewing potions and sewing pretty dresses and educating herself in speech and literature and music and scheming, all so she could play the part of an Auradon Princess and eventually secure them a future off the isle they’d been cursed to live on.

So much time spent on Evie meant that there was less time left for Grimhilde, and instead of maintaining two heads of thick, wavy blue hair on a desolate island with limited hair products, her mother tied all of hers back under a thick, fashionable hood, and never let her daughter catch a glimpse of it aside from the very end of her braid when she pulled it out to trim.

Based on the glimpses, Evie would have sworn that her mother had darker hair than Evie herself does, closer to black than blue. It’s fascinating and nauseating all at the same time to think that maybe Evie looks like her, under the makeup and the spells and the enchantments designed to work without true magic, to keep her ageless and unwrinkled and beautiful despite the passage of time over the island.

Evie loves her mother.

Except for when she hates her, but that’s the nature of family, or so she’s been told.

She doesn’t—

It’s hard to know what family is supposed to be like when her only examples to follow are her mother, and the women in front of her.

“Thank you,” Evie says, and does not let her voice waver. “I’ve been told—well, I haven’t exactly been told that I look like her, but that’s because there’s not exactly a lot of people on the island who know what she used to look like.”

Snow White smiles, and her lips are as red as cherries, and her teeth are as white as snow, and her hair, when she brushes a loose strand back, is as dark and velvety as the night sky. “I don’t know either. She wasn’t very sentimental, I’m afraid. I spent most of my own childhood steering clear of her schemes to marry me off to the most advantageous bachelor. It didn’t leave me much time for staring at photographs of a stepmother that I begged my father not to marry. I assume you did much the same?”

Evie’s mother loves her.

“Not exactly.” Evie says, around lips that feel strange and numb. “She loved me.”

Evie’s mother loved her, and so she spent hours upon countless hours shaping her daughter into someone who could be loved in return. Someone who could be a mirror and reflect that love back on a man who could save them.

Evie also, critically, didn’t have anywhere to go outside of the castle that they shared. So there’s that. She couldn’t have steered clear, even if she’d wanted to.

“I’m surprised to hear that,” Snow says softly. “She was always such a strong personality. I didn’t think she’d be able to love a child the way she loved herself, but I suppose it’s different when it’s your own child.”

“I suppose so.” Evie agrees, because that’s one of the lessons her mother ingrained in her bones. Be polite, be proper, and don’t disagree with the adults, even if they’re wrong.

“Not that it’s your fault, of course. It’s not your fault that she loved you,” Snow says. It’s never Evie’s fault, because Evie is wicked and unlovable and only a villain like her mother could ever manage to care for her.

“It’s just, I’m surprised,” Evie’s stepsister continues. She’s watching Evie’s face and it’s too much, except for how there’s no other choice. There’s nothing to do but endure the endless beautiful stare of her stepsister’s shiny, beautiful eyes. “I didn’t think she was capable of love, not after what she did to me. I’m glad that she was able to care for you, after everything.”

Evie’s mouth is dry.

She’s been trained in speech since she was a child, the delusions of a mother convinced that her daughter would one day need to address a crowd of adoring subjects. She’s on the debate team now, and even when her arguments are weak, she can deliver them with such elegant phrasing that she sometimes wins anyway.

She has seen more blood than this woman in front of her will ever see, and she has survived her mother for sixteen years, and come out the other side alive.

She will not cower.

“Mother loved me.” Evie says, slowly. Slow and steady. Flawless Auradon diction, which she can emulate perfectly thanks to years of lessons under her mother’s less-than-gentle hand, instead of the muddier Isle accent that she hides. “I’m very sorry that she hurt you, but I am not her, and I’m not her to discuss her tonight. If she is all that you’re interested in talking about, it would be a better use of both of our time to attend dinner elsewhere. Separately.”

“Evie, no,” Snow begins, reaching out over the table. Her nails, Evie notices, are perfectly polished into natural almond shapes, and she’s wearing a slightly glossy peach polish. “No. I’m sorry. I want you to stay, really.”

Evie does not want to touch this woman’s hands.

“I should probably go home.” Evie demurs. “I have a lot of homework, and I really can’t afford to make a mistake on my next paper.”

“You could come home with me!” Snow offers, letting her hands sink back to the table. “I have a lovely library, and my husband, he’s a wonderful writer. He could help you with your assignment, and maybe somewhere more casual—“

Evie gives in to the urge to fix her hair, and brushes one of her trailing curls out of her face. “I don’t know what you want, but if it’s to hear about my mom, I can’t do that.”

“I want to meet you.” her stepsister lies. “The real you, not just the person you put on for the cameras. Please do stay. Come home with me.”

“I can’t,” Evie says, and it might be the most honest she’s been all night. “I really can’t.”

Snow White is lovely to a fault, and her dark eyes are shiny when she looks up at her stepsister. “You can.”

She can’t.

There’s too many memories that she’s not willing to touch here, in a nice restaurant with a sister she’s met one time. She’s got a paper to start working on when she gets home, and her schedule (written in blue ink on the first section of her daily planner, which is thick and smells only the faintest bit like mildew) only accounted for this dinner meeting taking two hours, and it’s at least thirty minutes back to Charmingdale, there and back again is more like an hour, and that’s if they spend no time eating, and while Evie could certainly afford to skip one meal, it’s not polite to say that in front of company who’s been so generous this far, and Snow didn’t just offer dinner, she offered help, which will only put her more behind schedule when she’ll have to redo the work later.

“I’m so sorry,” Evie says calmly, placing her hands back on her lap, away from her face and her hair and everything she’s inching to check. A princess doesn’t adjust her hair in polite company, and she might be a disgraced daughter of a queen-in-exile here in Auradon, but back home Evie was a princess, and she’s going to act as such. “I really do have a lot of homework tonight. It’s a very kind offer to bring me back to your castle, but if we’re not going to eat here I need to get back to school.”

#my fic #descendants #descendants fic #evie grimhilde

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