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gubsbuubs · 3 months

Text

Friendly Cupid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~ 5K

Warnings/Tags: Fluff, slow burn? smut, creampie.

Summary: Despite their closeness, Y/N and Spencer's relationship always stayed within the bounds of friendship. That's until a very fateful Valentine's Day, when a friend decided to play cupid.

A/N: Hi my loves! The "Friends to Lovers" trope won the poll, thanks to your votes. Any thoughts or suggestions for what's next? I hope you all enjoy it, and any and all comments are appreciated 🍒

My requests are open!

English is not my first language.

The team basked in a mix of exhaustion and accomplishment as we settled into our seats on the jet, heading back home after successfully closing another case. The subtle hum of the engines seemed to echo the collective satisfaction that enveloped us.

We had just finished a case where the unsub targeted individuals with a deep passion for books. Each victim was chosen based on their preference for a particular literary work. The killer orchestrated scenarios inspired by famous novels, challenging us to decipher the connections between the crime scenes and the literary references.

From my seat across from his, at the meeting table in the Nevada police department's, I observed Spencer in awe. His deep concentration, the way his fingers danced over the pages, and the thoughtful furrow of his brow—he looked so handsome, absorbed in the task of perusing a pile of books that would have taken me at least two years to read.

I cherished watching Spencer at work; his intellect, passion, and dedication were captivating. There was an undeniable admiration that had grown within me as we spent countless hours in shared pursuit of justice.

I vividly recall the first time our connection became something more. After a grueling case left him drained, slowly succumbing to fatigue, his head found refuge on my shoulder during the flight back. It was an unexpectedly intimate encounter—his tousled hair brushing against my neck and the faint scent of lemon shampoo lingering close to my nose. Though innocent, the closeness left an indelible mark, and often I think about the weight of his head resting against me.

Fast forward to another sweet moment; it was forever engraved in my mind when I first noticed that he cared for me. Spencer and I were staked out in a park that an unsub used to frequent in Boston. The autumn winds whispered through the colorful foliage, and the chilling breeze made my arms shiver. It was getting cold, and I scolded myself for not bringing my jacket. Spencer, ever observant, noticed how I hugged myself for warmth and asked, "Hey, are you cold?"

"What? No, it's just a bit chilly, but I can take it," I chuckled, my teeth almost clacking against each other as I shivered.

"I can clearly see you're cold, Y/N."

"Okay, fine. I may be a little bit cold; we left in a hurry, and I forgot my jacket," I admitted.

Without hesitation, he took off his FBI jacket and handed it to me. "No, Spencer, I can't accept this. If it's cold for me, it will be cold for you too," I protested.

"Compared to men, women have less muscle, which is a natural heat producer. They also have 6 to 11 percent more body fat than men, which keeps the inner organs toasty but blocks the flow of blood carrying heat to the skin and extremities." He started to ramble while holding the jacket in front of me.

So I gave up, not wanting to hear him talk about this for the rest of the night, and accepted his offer. As the jacket touched my body, I could still feel his warmth, and the scent of his perfume enveloped me. His tall stature made the jacket too big for me, and I struggled with the oversized jacket's zipper. Looking down as I tried to zip it, I felt his hand on mine. "Hey, come here! Let me help you." I looked up to meet his beautiful brown eyes as he held his gaze on mine. His gentle hands zipped up the jacket. "There you go; now you'll feel warm," he added with a sweet smile.

We had a connection—an undeniable force drawing us together. For example, with Spencer and I, the casual "sorry, Y/n, passing through" was never just a phrase; it accompanied the gentle press of his hand on my side.

When shared laughter ensued, it almost always led to a playful nudge against my shoulder, a light and affectionate gesture.

And there were times when Spencer would reach out with a reassuring touch on my arm during tense discussions or a challenging moment. His fingertips, feather-light yet grounding, conveyed a silent reassurance that we were in this together.

I’d like to think that our connection extended beyond the realm of solving cases and catching serial killers, finding roots in those quiet spaces between words, because unspoken sentiments resonated louder than any conversation we had.

These simple and innocent touches left me curious, especially considering Spencer's general aversion to physical contact, often sidestepping handshakes. Each touch, though understated, carried a significance that lingered, prompting me to ponder the depths of our friendship.

Yet, somehow, we were never more than friends. Perhaps because of the lingering fear of disrupting the delicate balance we had, I hesitated to act upon the emotions that quietly blossomed within.

So, Spencer and I stayed comfortably within the boundaries of friendship, keeping the unexplored depths of our connection confined to the realm of what-ifs and maybes.

Rather than risking it all, I chose the simplicity of silent observation and opted for the quiet intimacy of just watching him while he worked. There was an unspoken fascination with witnessing Spencer's mind at play.

The breakthrough came when Spencer uncovered a pattern in the victims' book preferences, his face lighting up at the realization. The Unsub, it seemed, orchestrated his killings based on the ominous narratives found within these chosen novels. Each victim unwittingly acquired a literary prelude to their tragic end as the killer turned the pages of their lives into a haunting script of their own demise.

With this knowledge, we were able to predict the next target and swoop in just in time to prevent another tragedy. The final confrontation took place in an abandoned library, where the unsub attempted to stage his twisted interpretation of a tragic love story. With swift and coordinated action, we thwarted his plans and brought justice to the victims.

So, with the unsub's twisted plans foiled, we found solace in the fact that we had saved the couple from his dark intentions.

Amidst the chatter on the jet, the mood shifted to a more relaxed and celebratory tone. The weight of the case had dissipated, replaced by a comforting conversation and shared laughter.

"Hey, Prentiss, any hot plans for Valentine's Day? Morgan teased, giving Emily a mischievous grin.

"Valentine's Day? Seriously, Morgan? After all the chaos of this week, I just want a quiet night with a good bottle of wine," Emily responded, leaning further into her seat.

"Valentine's Day is this weekend, and I completely forgot! Will and I will have to just stay at home," JJ confessed, sounding a bit bummed.

"Well, Beth and I will be taking Jack to the cinema to watch a movie. Would you like us to also take Henry so you and Will can have a date?" Hotch offered.

"Oh, Hotch, that’s very sweet. If you don't mind, yes! We would really appreciate it," JJ replied gratefully.

"What about you, pretty boy? Got any plans?" Morgan playfully mussed up Spencer's hair.

"Well… I…” He cleared his throat. "I, um… I actually do have a date," Spencer stammered, his face immediately turning a bright shade of red.

"A date, Reid? Come on, spill the details. What's her name?" Morgan proceeded to probe.

“It's a blind date, so I'd rather not jinx it by talking about it.” Spencer spoke with a faint smile.

As I learned about Spencer's date, I couldn't help but laugh to myself at the sheer coincidence—both of us had blind dates on Valentine's Day. What were the odds?

Then it hit me, and as much as I tried to dismiss it, there was a subtle pang of envy that Spencer also had a date. I understood the irony of feeling jealous while I was also going on a blind date this weekend.

Earlier that week, my friend from the previous division I worked in—International Affairs and Counterterrorism—set me up with a guy. According to him, this guy was perfect for me—smart, kind, and seemingly attuned to my taste. So, I've decided to give it a shot and go on this date. It was Valentine's Day after all. So yes, I was also going on a date, and I acknowledged how contradictory it sounded to feel envious of Spencer's date. Nevertheless, a twinge of jealousy lingered.

Yet, in the grand scheme, I genuinely wished for Spencer to have a fantastic time this weekend. After all, we were nothing more than friends, and his happiness was something I truly valued.

Morgan, with a playful glint in his eye, turned his attention to me and chimed, "Alright, Reid's stepping into the world of romance, so what's the deal, Y/N? Any Valentine's plans on your agenda?"

"No, I don't really have plans. It'll be a normal weekend for me." I spoke with a smile, gently sidestepping Morgan's inquiry. I preferred to keep certain aspects of my life private, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

Saturday night came around pretty quickly.

I chose a simple red dress and black stilettos for the occasion—it was Valentine's Day, after all, and opportunities for dates were not a frequent occurrence for me. Since joining the FBI, I haven't had many opportunities to look like this. Typically reserved for pantsuits and white shirts, it was refreshing to see myself look so put-together.

What awaited me on this evening could be a mistake or, just maybe, the start of something unexpectedly wonderful. Despite the flutter of reservations in my stomach, I resolved to push through the uncertainty.

Before stepping inside, I paused at the entrance, reminding myself to take a deep breath; it was just a date after all—no need to be nervous. The restaurant, my absolute favorite, bore the name "Bella Luna," renowned for its delectable pastas. It had become my go-to spot for a delightful meal, offering a perfect blend of cozy ambiance and culinary excellence.

My friend, the mastermind behind this blind date, had given the gentleman a specific directive: reserve the table with a view of the river—my favorite spot in the house. This strategic move not only catered to my preferences but also had the practical benefit of simplifying the identification of my date.

As I stood by the entrance, lost in my thoughts, I almost jumped, caught by surprise, as someone bumped into me. "Hey, where were you goi..."

“Y/N! Hi!” His eyes were widening with surprise as he recognized me.

“Spencer! Hi! I didn't expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same thing. Didn’t you say you didn’t have plans?” He asked in an inquisitive tone.

"Yeah!" I laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I, uh, decided to give in to the Valentine's Day spirit, I suppose." Spencer chuckled softly, his warm demeanor putting me at ease.

"How are you anyway, feeling good about your blind date?" I inquired, genuinely curious about his well-being.

"To be honest," he admitted, "I'm actually kind of nervous."

"What? Why?"

He hesitated before sharing, "What if she doesn't like me?"

"Why wouldn't she like you?" The words left my mouth so fast, a testament to my incomprehension of how someone could not like the guy standing before me.

"Because I'm weird. I slouch; my hair's too long; my tie's perpetually crooked." His words were almost a whisper, revealing a vulnerability I hadn't seen before.

I smiled softly, reaching my hands to fix his crooked tie. "Here, your tie is now straight. And Spencer, you're not weird; you look really good tonight. I think you'll do very well."

He smiled softly, thanking me, and said, "Well, you do too! You look very beautiful tonight, Y/N.” My heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment. He blushed slightly before adding, “I should really get going. I don't want to be late for my date.”

“Go get him, tiger,” I encouraged with a smile as I stayed behind, watching him leave.

Fuck, he looked so good; his dark blue suit fit him in all the right places. Though not a radical departure from his usual attire, the effort put into his appearance fueled my jealousy. The realization that he was heading on a date with someone else lingered in my thoughts, intensifying the sting.

To make matters worse, we´re at the same restaurant, and I would have to endure the evening watching him, attempting to engage in my own date while inwardly yearning for his company.

The challenge would be to keep my eyes from straying towards him, wishing the girl by his side was me.

Shaking my head to dispel thoughts of Spencer, I took a deep breath before entering the restaurant. I traversed the restaurant, consciously keeping my head down until I arrived at the table with the view of the river, and it was only then that I allowed myself to look around.

To my surprise, when I looked at the table, I found Spencer sitting there.

Confusion clouded my mind as I stood there, staring at Spencer, seated at the table, facing away from me. Disbelief hung in the air like a heavy fog. This had to be a misunderstanding; it couldn't be Spencer. My friend John specifically directed the blind date; he arranged for me to sit at this table, but Spencer was here.

The possibilities raced through my mind like a whirlwind of uncertainty. Did the receptionist make an error? Could there be another table with a view of the river where they seated my actual blind date? Could this guy look a lot like Spencer from behind? My thoughts spiraled into a maze of questions, each more perplexing than the last. I was caught in a web of doubt, trying to grasp the reality of the situation.

Could Spencer and John know each other? How would they even know each other? Although we all work at the FBI, they work in totally different divisions.

As I approached the table, just a few feet away, I confirmed my suspicion: it was him��Spencer. Even though he wasn't facing me, I recognized his curls, almost catching a whiff of his distinctive perfume. It was undeniably him. How did this happen?

My heels clacked on the ground, a sound that drew Spencer's attention. His gaze shifted, expecting another woman, preparing for a polite greeting. "Hi, nice to meet y…” His words now caught in his throat.

As I pulled the chair and sat down in front of him, he halted his movements, confusion etched on his face. It seemed like he was ready to stand up, perhaps shake hands, and greet another person. But as he realized it was me, his expression transformed into one of utter bewilderment.

"Y/N, what is going on?" Spencer asked, his face a mix of confusion and concern as he settled back into his chair.

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table. "How do you know John Watters, Jonathan Watters?" I questioned, peering at him with an intense gaze.

"What? What do you mean, Y/N?" Spencer replied, clearly confused by the sudden turn of events.

"Spencer, how do you know John?" I repeated, my eyes locked onto his, seeking an explanation for the unexpected twist in our supposed blind date.

"John Watters and I play chess in the park. We met a couple of months ago, and now we play together regularly," Spencer explained, his confusion still evident in his expression. “Y/N, what is going on?” he added, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Spencer…” I began, a faint smile creeping onto my face as it reddened, my hands immediately meeting my face. It dawned on me; John had set us both up, and it seemed he might not have known Spencer and I already knew each other.

I could see the wheels turning in his head, his eyes widening. He seemed to have a eureka moment. "Do you know him?" he asked, his tone still a little unsure. I only nodded, my faint smile hidden behind my fingers, covering how embarrassed I was.

Then Spencer fired questions left and right. "What? How do you know John?” He set you up with me. Like… did you know? You wanted to have a date with me and asked him to do it? I mean, I have talked…." He was blushing like crazy, so I decided to interrupt.

"No, No... I mean, yes, but..." I stumbled on my words as I tried to answer. "I do know John, yes, but I didn't know he set us up... But yes, I wouldn't... I wouldn’t mind a date with you." The last part slipped my tongue way too quickly, the confession escaping my lips.

"Are you serious? A date with me?" He sounded excited but mostly surprised.

"I mean, we're already here, so we might as well do it. He clearly thought we were a good pair," I offered, keeping my head down. My face felt hot, and I was smiling like a stupid little kid.

“I can't believe this; I can't believe this is happening. You don't know how long I've been trying to gather the courage to ask you out, and now this is happening." His head fell back as he inhaled deeply. “Is this real? Can you pinch me, Y/N? You look so pretty, so beautiful. I can't believe this is actually happening. I must be dreaming." His excitement was palpable, and his gaze was fixed on me with a mix of joy and disbelief.

“You're definitely awake; this is real!” I reached out my hand to him and held his hand. “See, this is real—a very strange coincidence, but undeniably real.”

The evening unfolded gracefully. Spencer took my recommendation, and we ordered the Carbonara, complemented by a shared bottle of Cabernet. I couldn't help but savor the moments when our laughter harmonized, creating a melody of shared joy. A subtle warmth spread across our faces, not just from the ambiance but also from the wine. Our laughter became a touch more carefree, perhaps a little tipsy, adding an extra layer of delight to the evening. The restaurant seemed to fade into the background as we continued to enjoy each other’s company.

As the plates were cleared away and the restaurant emptied out, Spencer's gaze remained locked on mine. We sat in silence for a little bit as a warm feeling settled, enjoying the lingering aura of the evening. Spencer smiled softly, leaning closer to me and taking my hands in his. "Let me walk you home," he suggests. "It's a beautiful night, and I'd love to spend more time with you."

As we stepped out into the crisp night air, the city lights played on the surface of the river, casting a gentle glow on our path. Spencer and I began to stroll along the riverbank towards my apartment. The soft murmur of the water provided a soothing background to our conversation, and amidst our banter, our attention was drawn to an old lady with a basket of roses.

"Hello there," the old lady said, greeting Spencer with a twinkle in her eye. "Would you like to buy a rose for your beautiful girlfriend?"

"Oh, but I'm not his girlf..." Before I could clarify, Spencer, wearing a confident smile, chimed in, "Yet..." He told the sweet lady "So yes, I would love to buy her a rose." He turned to me with a playful glint in his eyes.

The old lady chuckled warmly. "Here you go, young man, a rose for your not-yet-girlfriend. May your love bloom as beautifully as this rose," she said, handing the vibrant flower to Spencer.

I thanked him as he handed me the rose, appreciating the beautiful gesture. We then continued our walk, the soft glow of the city lights guiding our way.

"So, a rose for the 'not-yet-girlfriend'," I teased, a playful smile on my lips.

"Well," he began, "I thought a rose might be a good start, but who's to say what the future holds?"

"Fair enough," I replied, a teasing glint in my eye. "A rose is a good start but what's your plan for the rest of our 'not-yet' journey?"

"Well, I've had a lot of time to think about this," he began, a sly grin playing on his lips. "I won't disappoint you, that's for sure."

I felt a subtle warmth spread—a mixture of curiosity and excitement. "Is that so?" I replied with a playful glint in my eye. "I guess I'll have to wait and see what surprises you have in store.”

As we continued our walk to my apartment and reached my doorstep, the night seemed to invite us to linger a little longer.

"I had a lot of fun, Y/N. I regretted every moment we weren't doing this sooner," Spencer confessed.

"I loved this night too, Spencer," I began, a genuine warmth in my voice. "This is not how I imagined my night ending at all; I definitely never expected you to be my blind date."

"I just can't believe this happened. Who would have thought you would go on a date with me?" His soft hand reached for mine; his touch was warm and inviting.

"Well, Jonathan apparently did," I laughed, the surreal nature of the evening sinking in.

"Of course, he thinks I want to date you. I talk about you all the time..." Spencer shyly admitted, his gaze avoiding mine.

"Wait! You talk about me?" My voice lifted with happiness.

"Well, I just tell him about my day... and how I love being by your side. You're so understanding, always listening to me. Your attentive gaze makes my heart skip a beat, and your eyes, Y/N, they sparkle so beautifully. And your smile—oh, it's the prettiest I've ever seen." His words were tender, and his brown eyes never left mine. "Jonathan never told me he knew you; I guess he sensed I was too scared to act upon my feelings and took matters in to his own hands." He chuckled. "And now you're here, and we went on this date—a wonderful date, may I add—and you look absolutely stunning."

As Spencer's words lingered in the quiet night, I felt a soft warmth enveloping us and an unspoken connection deepening.

"I would really to kiss you." He whisperd. His gaze held a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, mirroring the sentiments that resonated within me.

"You know what, Spence?" I began, a gentle smile playing on my lips. "I'd really like that too."

His eyes brightened with joy, and as if a shared understanding passed between us, he leaned in slowly. His hands cradled my face, creating an intimate connection as he closed the remaining space between us. The world around us faded into a soft blur as our lips finally met.

The kiss was tender, his lips warm and inviting, and the sensation sent a pleasant shiver down my spine.

As we pulled away, a shared smile painted across our faces, our foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet closeness.

"Wow," Spencer whispered.

"Wow indeed," I replied, my heart echoing the sentiment.

"I've been waiting so long to do this," he said, kissing me again, this time with more force and desire.

The kiss deepened, his lips pressing against mine with a newfound intensity, fueled by the longing we had both harbored for so long. It was a fusion of heat and tenderness, with each movement deliberate and purposeful.

His hands, which had cradled my face so gently before, now moved with a purpose, exploring the contours of my back and waist. The taste of him was intoxicating—a blend of warmth and desire that left me breathless.

"Spencer," I began, feeling our breaths mingle. "Would you like to come in?

Spencer's eyes darkened in response, his nod signaling his agreement.

As the door shut behind us, I carefully placed the rose he gave me on a small side table by the entrance, wanting to preserve the sweet gesture. Spencer, without saying a word, pulled me against him again.

I guided us through the familiar space of my home with an urgency that spoke of unspoken desires. As we reached the bedroom, our bodies entwined again.

I laid back on the bed, letting my body sink into the softness of the mattress. Spencer's body was right above mine, and our lips met in a hot, messy kiss. It was like everything else melted away, and all that was left was us in this moment. I could feel the heat of his body on top of mine, and the rush of intimacy was palpable. I wanted this moment to last forever, clinging tight to his every touch.

Spencer's hands glided along the curves of my body, caressing me with an intimacy that left me wanting more. His lips left mine to roam lower, descending slowly towards my breasts. A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine, and my breath caught in my chest.

Spencer's voice broke through the intensity. "Are you sure?"

A smile played on my lips as I whispered, "Yes, please Spence."

The sudden touch of his finger on my skin sent a shiver down my spine as his hand slowly drifted down my shoulder and pulled the strap of my dress down. As my nipple became exposed, he kissed it gently, sending a wave of arousal through my body.

He looked so pretty like this; his smooth hand cradled my breast as his lips left soft kisses. His slow hums of satisfaction were accompanied by the thrusts of his hips against my clothed core.

Sensing the escalating desire between us, Spencer then took the initiative, smoothly pulling my dress off. I felt exposed as his hands traveled down my body, lowering himself and planting soft kisses on my stomach.

"You look so beautiful and you smell so good." His whispers of admiration filled the air. "I bet you taste even better." He placed a soft kiss where I wanted him the most. I moaned at his words, not expecting them.

He then proceeded to slide my panties to the side, slowly licking a long stripe. The warmth of his tongue against my skin sent shivers through my body, and the anticipation built with every teasing touch.

“Fuck, it's even better than I imagined." His words were muffled as he spoke from between my legs, looking into my eyes. My moans filled the room, joined by the sound of his mouth devouring my wetness. My hands met his hair as I pulled him closer by his curls.

"Spencer..." My voice caught in my throat.

"What, baby?" The enduring name leaving his lips made my heart flutter.

"I need you," I pleaded.

"Need me to what, baby?" His middle finger breached my entrance. "Use your words," he said, caressing my opening. The sensation of his finger chills of pleasure down my spine. The anticipation was almost too much to bear, and I could feel a rush of arousal building inside me. "I need you inside, please," I begged, moving my body against his.

Sensing my urge, he stood, undressing me and then himself. "Since you asked so nicely," he lined up and slowly sank in, his head resting on my shoulder, and his soft moan muffled on my neck.

Our kisses were slow and passionate, our lips brushing against each other with every movement of our bodies. His hands caressed my body, sending a wave of pleasure through me that only increased with every thrust.

Each rhythmic movement brought us closer to the edge, the intensity growing with each caress and whispered word. "You feel so good, Y/N; it’s like you were made for me." Spencer's voice was laden with desire as I moaned into his lips.

The intensity grew with each passionate thrust, and we were both lost in a world of pleasure. Our bodies were tightly intertwined, pressed up against each other as we let our emotions take over. Our moans filled the room, and our breathing became shallow and fast. We both wanted this moment to last forever, clinging to each other with all the strength we could muster.

"Spencer, I can't,” I cried out.

"Can you hold it for me, just a little, pretty girl?" he said, looking into my eyes. My eyes fluttered, closing at the words.

"No, no, no, keep your eyes on me," he said. "Yes, just like that." He kept thrusting with force, and I couldn't take it anymore. “I want to see your pretty face as you cum, baby.”

"Spence... please inside." I begged him, and that was all it took. I didn't have to wait any longer. The tension in the room reached its peak, and I could feel him release, his climax echoing mine.

Our bodies trembled together in the aftermath, the shared intensity of the moment lingering in the air. The room was filled with the sounds of our rapid breaths and the soft rustle of sheets as we came down from the euphoric high.

As we lay there, a playful smile crossed Spencer's lips. "So, about that 'not-yet-girlfriend' situation..." he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I chuckled, tracing circles on his chest. "Well, it looks like we just fast-tracked that process."

Spencer grinned. "Guess we skipped a few steps."

I gave him a playful look. "Steps? Who needs steps when you have Jonathan playing cupid?”.

Spencer gave a playful shrug. "Well, I'll be sure to thank the man.”

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cathkaesque · 1 year

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When it comes to understanding migration, this needs to be taken into account: if you are in a rural area in the global south, like Honduras, you have basically no access to social services, medicine, and education. In fact, the funding for those services is actually being cut, as the social security funds have been looted by corrupt politicans appointed by a military coup. Then you have to factor in that you likely have no access to the land, and no access to credit to buy seeds, and have to sell yourself for basically pennies to an agroindustrial giant. The peasants feed the local people; the agroindustries feed the Americans. In Guatamala, there is a neo-corporate fuedalism where you are allowed a patch of land if you are willing to work, unpaid, for coffee plantations which sell their produce to the German company Ritz. If you attempt to settle unoccupied land, a local businessman will claim it is his without any proof, and the police will take his side because the Agrarian Reform Institute, which issues land titles, is controlled by coupists whose main concern is squeezing as much wealth out of the country as possible. Thugs will murder a man and his wife in broad daylight, and the judge will respond by evicting you and your family from the land.

There is nowhere else for you to go but Tegucigalpa, where you can work trying to wash car windows or selling snacks to passing cars for a handful of lempira a day. Or perhaps you could work for a few dollars a day in one of the maquila factories making textiles for the American and European market, which are set up in special economic zones called Charter Cities where the constitution and labour laws do not apply, which can close down and spirit away whenever they like to another country when they are more willing to sell their people for even less. And then you have to factor in the hurricanes that sweep through the country, destroying everything, that the rains no longer come when they used to but when they do they come in flooding torrents. Much of the north of Honduras is currently underwater; most of the banana and coffee plantations have been destroyed.

And then you factor in when you tried to change this via electing a better government in 2006, he was overthrown in 2009; when you tried to get organised and resist the coup, your friends, your loved ones, your trade union leaders and peasant resisters all turned up mysteriously dead while the military and police worked with drug gangs disguised as agribusiness like the Dinant coproration to burn down villages that opposed them. For trying to change things in the way that you were supposed to, through non violently protesting, organising, and voting for something better, you were subjected to a decade of counterrevolutionary terror and violence that the “international community” not only ignored but gave its active approval to. All of the factors listed above have not only been ongoing for the last 10 years, they’ve been intensified, hothoused by the global counterrevolutionary terror that was the response to the 2011 wave of post-financial crisis uprisings and revolutions and accelerating climate apocalypse.

And at the same time, all of this is being done so more of the country can be turned into a massive cash cow for the benefit of foreign corporations and domestic oligarchs. The wealth of your country is siphoned off and flows around the American and European financial system, benefiting them and building a consumer disneyland that looks like paradise compared to your situation. That could, even if you are worked for nothing, give you a few dollars to send home that could build your abuela in the countryside a nice home for her to live out her days. What other option is left for you and your family other than joining the exodus of people heading north, to the countries where the wealth and profits and rewards of your homeland’s suffering are being kept. And after you cross mountains and rivers which freeze you to death and sweep you away, you are faced with a massive border wall of ahte and soldiers on horses which hit you with sticks. You are faced with an immigration detention centre that will chain you to your bed while you give birth and separate you from your baby who will be given away for adoption to a white couple. When you make a charge against the border fence in Melilla, fed up with being kept in shacks with nothing while the Northerners debate what to do about the problem people their greed has forced to move, the Moroccan police will beat 35 of you to death.

And then when you get there to that golden paradise, you end up doing work not dissimilar to the work you were doing back home, working for pennies (though pennies that are valuable enough back home to buy the family that remain the tiniest slice of comfort) for an agroindustrial giant that supplies supermarkets with cheap produce picked by cheaper people. While you work in the fields, a crop duster plane will spray you with paraquat; when support organisations try to raise this with OSHA they will ask for the plane’s number, and when this can’t be provided they will say nothing can be done. In fact, inspectors are ordered to stay away from the plantations on the Texas border. A member of the Border Agricultural Workers Project says she hasn’t seen a normal child born on the border in 20 years, such is the effect of agrichemicals. If you fuck up in the slightest, have any interaction with the state, you will be deported and sent back to square one. There are a 14 million migrants in the US in the same precarious state, effectively without any way of enforcing their rights. My aunt is a Mexican migrant in California. Her son was deported because he got a speeding ticket. It was 15 years before she saw him again, other than through the bars of the border fence, when she finally got her green card.

The situation in Honduras can be repeated for almost any other country. Syria, Venezuela, Iraq, South Sudan, Libya, all the headline countries are countries that have been subjected to a severe counterrevolutionary terror. The processes of dispossession and destruction of peasant economies and communities (primitive accumulation to use the Marxist jargon) have been hothoused over the last decade by war and violence. I just wish that relatively comfortable people in the imperialist countries realised that the “migrant crisis” is the result of policies that their governments forced on others. Violence that their elites made their fortunes off. What a monstrous, barbarous way of life we have.

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hedgehog-moss · 1 year

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On the eve of planned nationwide demonstrations, I want to offer an overview of the ways the protests in France are being handled by the government so far (and if what you’ve heard is that this is over a 2 year increase in retirement age, please do take a minute to read this post to get a better idea of the context)

1. In Paris on March 21, a CRS (cop) threw a tear gas grenade in the air towards protesters (they’re supposed to throw them near the ground); the grenade landed and exploded on a protester’s head. (x)

2. Massive use of tear gas at every protest, on this vid from March 17 you can see the Place de la Concorde (largest public square in Paris) drowned in tear gas. (x)

3. In Paris on March 20, video of a CRS with a baton hitting protesters who are cowering against a wall (x)

4. CRS grabbing demonstrators in (illegal) chokeholds and dragging them by the neck (x)

5. In Strasbourg on March 21, police trapped about a hundred protesters in a narrow alleyway and tear gassed them from both ends of the alley so they couldn’t escape; an asthmatic person lost consciousness; people who lived there opened their doors and let the protesters enter their houses to get to safety. (x)

6. In Paris on March 20, a CRS shot a protester with an LBD riot gun (rubber bullets) and shouted at him “Pick up your balls now, fucker” (x) (an allusion to the several instances in recent years of protesters having testicle injuries from LBD guns - and non-protesters too, in 2015 a Muslim teenage boy lost a testicle after being shot by a cop with rubber bullets when he was shooting firecrackers in a park on July 14th / Bastille day). A few seconds later in the video another CRS tells the one who said that “careful there’s a camera”

7. In Paris on March 21, a group of 4 or 5 CRS who were dispersing demonstrators, threw a homeless man to the ground who had been shouting at them (hard to hear what he said, the first sentence is “How can you do this job?”), kicking him in the head while he was down and mocking him when he couldn’t get up, calling him a ‘fatso’ and ‘sack of shit’ (the woman you can hear at the end of the video is yelling at the CRS to help the guy get up and telling them “do you lack humanity to this point?”) (x)

8. That same day Macron gave a speech on TV in which he said “the crowd [= the protesters] has no legitimacy against the people, who express themselves through their elected representatives” even though he passed his reform without a vote from the elected representatives—and considering polls show the vast majority (>70%) of the country is against the reform, the “people” and the “crowd” are one and the same. Today (March 22) he gave another TV speech in which he compared what’s happening in France right now to the January 6 US capitol attack.

9. During today’s speech Macron also said “minimum-wage workers have never seen such an increase in purchasing power” which is a mad thing to say in the middle of a cost of living crisis, and he used the term ‘smicard’ in this sentence— the minimum wage in France is called the SMIC and smicard is a derogatory word for minimum-wage workers. He decried the “extreme, unregulated violence” of protesters but had nothing to say about the unregulated violence of his police forces, and instead stoked the fire with contemptuous language that angers people the day before a planned mass protest.

10. Hundreds of protesters (and even people who weren’t protesting but just nearby) have been arrested and taken into custody in “preventative arrests”; the vast majority were then released due to “absence of an offence.” Here’s a thread by a woman who was arrested in Paris along with 11 other women (one was a 17 year-old girl) for taking part in a peaceful protest. They spent 20 hours all in one cell, were only allowed to go to the toilet if they left the door open, were frisked and had their fingerprints and DNA samples taken. Also, in Nantes on March 14, four young women age 18-20 reported having been sexually assaulted by police during body searches while participating in a student protest.

And a thread by a 19-year-old Black student who spent 48 hours in custody last week along with 4 other people who were arrested in Paris as they were walking down the street. Lots of racist shit in this thread. He had already spent 14 hours in custody after a protest a couple of days before, and ended up being charged for refusing to have his DNA samples taken.

This article in Le Monde from yesterday (it’s in French and unfortunately paywalled) talks about people who took part in last week’s protests having been handcuffed and searched in their underwear then released free of charges the next day; a lawyer comments how this is clearly meant to discourage people from demonstrating. The article also mentions two 15 year old Austrian boys who were on a class trip to Paris and were rounded up with a group of demonstrators, so the Austrian embassy had to intervene. (Journalist mentions sarcastically “We don’t know if these high schoolers’ DNA samples were taken.”)

11. There are videos from various protests of journalists wearing the press armband being threatened, hit, or shoved to the ground by police. In Montpellier yesterday, a journalist took this photo as a CRS was pointing his rubber bullet gun at his head and another was running at him with his baton telling him “I don’t give a fuck about your press card” —the photographer managed to run away. (x)

This is all from the past ten days (and mostly from the past two days) and far from an exhaustive list, there's so much outrageous stuff happening (like the Minister of the Interior lying and saying participating in an undeclared demonstration is illegal, when it’s not) but it gives a good idea of what French democracy looks like under Macron. The above photo says it all really. And thank you to all the people who continue taking part in the protests and strikes.

#frpol #police violence #not sure what to tag this as #i know it's very far from the usual theme of this blog but people should know what a shitshow this country is rn #all the photos are from the tweets that i've linked

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s6ngbird · 2 months

Text

gag reflex — felix catton ᯓ★

⊹₊⋆ warnings — nsfw, pretty much no plot, oral (f. & m. receiving), lmk if i missed anything

⊹₊⋆ pairing — felix catton x fem!reader

⊹₊⋆ a/n — sorry for the disappearance! schools been kicking my ass lately but im working on some coryo stuff rn

masterlist | bc: @cafekitsune

you had wandered around for a while, looking for felix at his halloween party, intoxicated and stumbling around

you couldn't really differentiate the many people since everyone was dressed up in their own costumes, including yourself

most of the time if you ever lost felix in a crowd, you would just look up and see his head since he was so fucking tall

but your eyes felt heavy and you couldn't really look up, the feeling of all those sleepless nights of studying finally catching up to you at the worst time possible

you stumbled up the stairs to felix's room, getting lost a few times before finding his room and face planting on his bed, ready to let sleep overtake you

until you hear a tsk tsk sound and look over to see felix coming in the room, adored in a police jacket along with a police hat

“what are you doing here?” you ask, confused that he wasn't downstairs and being the life of the party

“what am i doing here?” he laughed, shaking his head, “bunny this is my room remember? or are you too drunk to even remember my name?”

you groan as he collapses on top of your body, attacking your neck with kisses, the liquor still present in his breath

“oh my fucking god you weigh a shit ton!” you yell, trying to push him off but your attempts were useless as he continued to linger on your back, leaving marks and bruises that you were going to have to cover up tomorrow

he eventually goes limp, or so you think, but then he slides down your back, getting on his knees and yanks your panties down

you gasp, trying to move away from him in panic but he pulls you right down, flipping you over and silencing your protests with a messy kiss full of teeth and tongue

he moves down, licking a stripe up your pussy, eliciting a loud moan from you as you grasp onto his hair

he takes that as the green light, not caring about how loud you are now as he devours your cunt, your juices wetting his whole chin as you moan and grip his hair, it's amazing how you haven't pulled it out yet

his tongue fucks into you, his nose brushing your clit everytime his tongue goes in fully, adding an extra pressure to bring you over the edge faster

“you close love?” felix asked, his words creating vibrations that echoed in your pussy and that was it for you, you were pushed over the edge, moaning out his name loudly as he licked up all of your cum, praising you for being such a good girl for him

you breathed heavily , catching your breath after that orgasm, and then looked down, spotting the huge bulge in felix's pants

“can i take care of that…?” you ask him, looking up with big eyes in hopes that he'll be more likely to say yes

“go ahead doll” he says, swapping positions with you so that you were now on the ground on your knees and he was on the bed, his legs caging you in between them

he pulled off his pants and boxers, realizing his painfully hard cock leaking precum

you stared it in amazement until felix tapped your cheek, a reminder that you were not on your knees to stare at his cock

“c'mon doll, suck my dick or i can always just shove it down your throat, which one sounds better hm?” he asks, playing with your hair as he waits for your answer

you're snapped back into reality at his words as you hesitantly start to take his cock in your mouth, licking and sucking it

you had only gave him a blowjob once and you had no idea what your were doing the whole time, so felix took control that time but you wanted to show him that you could figure it out on your own this time

his cock hits the back of your throat and you gag, forgetting about that pesky gag reflex of yours as you pulled off of him, gasping for breath

“let me just take the lead love” felix coos, wiping away your tears from the lack of oxygen

you shake your head but he shushes you, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail and shoving his cock down your throat, making you gag again as you try to gasp for air

your attempts remain fruitless as he continues to slam his cock down your throat with no remorse, disregarding your tears that have fallen down onto your legs now

he groans loudly, praising you for taking him in your mouth so well, hissing once or twice because you've accidentally put your teeth on his cock

“‘m so close, you gonna be my good doll and take all of it?” felix asks, opening his eyes and looking down at you

you're almost in a daze but he yanks on your ponytail, bringing you back to reality as your frantically nod, not even sure why you're nodding

he groans, reaching his climax and spilling his cum down your throat as you gag not only from his cock but from the amount of cum you're being forced to swallow

once felix is sure that you've swallowed all of it, he removes his cock from your mouth, pulling on a pair of boxers and dressing you in a shirt he has laying around in his dorm and pulling you up on the bed next to you

“i wasn't too harsh, right?” he asks, pulling you in his arms and kissing your neck

you shake your head and he sighs in relief, stroking your thigh with one hand as the other holds you close

he smiles into your hair, and you slowly feel the effects of your activities overtake you until you open your eyes because felix is now muttering things into your hair. they're incoherent but this sentence is loud and clear, as if he wants you to hear,

“now all we need to do is get rid of that pesky gag reflex of yours”

#jacob elordi #jacob elordi fic #jacob elordi x reader #jacob elordi smut #felix catton #felix catton x reader #felix catton x you #felix catton x fem! reader #saltburn fanfiction #felix catton fanfic #saltburn smut #saltburn imagine #felix catton imagine #felix catton smut #jacob elordi fanfic

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suzukiblu · 7 months

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what do you have for Clark kent?

Clark is the last son of Krypton.

Clark is the last of Krypton.

At least, that's what he thought thirty seconds ago.

"Uh," the kid standing in the middle of the broken-up Metropolis street in front of him says awkwardly, a gloved hand half-covering the bright and bold and undeniable emblem on his chest. There's a lot of surrounding property damage, a lot of staring civilians hovering on the sidewalk, and some very upset police officers cuffing up some very unconscious metahuman gang members. Clark can't even begin to bring himself to care about any of it. "Hey . . . ?"

"Hello," Diana says, raising a curious eyebrow at both the kid and the ridiculous mess that's somehow been made of the street. From the look of it maybe one of those gang members had some kind of tectonic-based abilities or something similar, but Clark continues not to care. "It seems we've encountered an admirer of yours, Kal."

"You're wearing that crest without permission," Bruce says flatly, looking less amused than Clark has seen him since the last time someone died on the League's watch.

Clark, meanwhile, can't say anything at all.

"Hey, Superman gave me permission, okay?!" the kid protests, bristling defensively. Clutching the emblem . . . protectively. Like he's afraid to have it taken away. "Just not, uh . . . this one."

"This one." Bruce frowns. The kid flattens his hand against his chest and just . . . shrugs, looking away. Clark can't look away from him at all. He looks like . . . he looks . . .

"Yeah," the kid says, gesturing a little directionlessly with his free hand. "I'm kinda not, like . . . local? There was like this whole thing, like with Hypertime and–it's complicated, okay? Just, like, it's an alternate reality issue. I'm sort of, uh . . . lost. Or–stranded, more like. I guess more like . . . stranded."

The kid swallows. Drops his hand away from the emblem and folds his arms over it instead.

Keeps standing there, looking like . . .

"Are you, now," Bruce says neutrally, and he's definitely going somewhere with that, but–

"You're Kryptonian," Clark blurts, because he can't hold the words back a moment longer. Diana and Bruce both go very still beside him. The kid just looks surprised.

"Uh, not really?" he says. "I mean, okay, sort of. I'm a binary clone of . . . you know, like a hybrid? Um, they based me off, well . . . our Superman. And then, like, stitched me up with human DNA to hold me together 'cuz the Kryptonian genome is a freaking nightmare and they couldn't really figure it out all that well, so otherwise I would've degraded and–uh. Sorry."

Clark feels something he doesn't think he's ever felt in his life, looking at this kid. Feels like he's been dragging himself through the uncanny valley and finally seen the other side of the thing; like he's finally crossed through the fog and darkness and come out into the clear light of day and seen what people are actually supposed to look like. Everything about him is just . . . right. The pitch of his voice, the slope of his shoulders, the way the sunlight reflects off his skin, the pattern of spokes in his irises, the color of his eyes, the weight of him in the world . . .

Clark wants to snatch this kid up and wrap him in his cape and never let anything else touch him. Never let him be hurt or upset or–or alone. Never. Not for anything.

He feels the way he's heard people describe feeling when they first met . . . when they first . . .

He feels the way he's heard people describe feeling when they first met their child. A sense of awe and wonder and . . . and . . .

He feels like he felt the first time he left the atmosphere and saw all of Earth all at once. Everything on it, everyone on it. The whole thing all together, all the same. Perfect.

Complete.

He's never loved anything this immediately, Clark realizes distantly. Not even that first full glimpse of Earth.

He can't imagine how he ever, ever could have.

"What's your name?" he asks, unable to shake the intensity of emotion held painfully tight in his chest. Not even wanting to shake it.

The kid looks–worried, almost. Puts his hands behind his back. Clark can see the full image of the El crest emblazoned in pride of place across his chest for the first time, and it makes him feel weak.

"Superboy," the kid says. "Um . . . Kon-El."

Clark's heart could burst, hearing that.

Or break.

"Kon-El," he echoes, forcing himself not to step in closer; not to crowd the kid. "I had a . . . on Krypton, before it was destroyed, there was . . ."

"A cousin. From the, uh, second house of El," the kid–Kon-El–agrees, shifting just barely anxiously. "My Superman said I . . . reminded him of him, like from what he saw in the recordings and all? So, uh . . ."

"I named you after him?" Clark asks wonderingly. He would've given the kid a human name over a Kryptonian one, himself, but then again, a public street in an alternate dimension isn't really the place for him to be introducing himself as "Jon Kent" or anything similar. Kon nods stiffly, drawing himself up a bit.

"Yeah," he says. "He said, uh–um. He said Kon-El was strong-willed. And . . . uh . . ."

He trails off, looking nervous, and then visibly steels himself and looks defensive again instead.

"He said I was family," he says, squaring his shoulders and lifting his jaw, like he's actually expecting someone to argue with him or something. "So he gave me that name."

Clark doesn't know who the hell made this kid so much as hesitate over saying that to any version of him that isn't an active supervillain, but he thinks he'd like to throw them into the Phantom Zone for a century or two. Just . . . that's all.

Or maybe three.

#clark kent #kon el #superman #superboy #superfamily #plotbunny-bundle #rinfic #long post #wip: the last son of krypton meets hypertime kon

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teatoptony · 7 months

Text

The Whole Being Soulmates Thing

summary; in this world, soulmates exist. he has one. it’s just that he already found someone, and your marks don’t match at all.

or, in which a stupidly stubborn punk in stupidly in love with someone who’s not his stupid ‘real’ soulmate.

pairing; hobie brown x reader, spider-punk x reader (soulmate!au)

warning(s); mentions of police brutality, not-too-detailed descriptions of injuries. r is non-gendered, no mention of r’s race. not proofread & written in the wee hours.

i am not black, i don’t have wicks. i did some research on how to properly care for them and wrote tiny parts in here with the info i had, but it may not be totally accurate. if something is wring, let me know. same for the lcp.

also hobie might sound a bit ooc but it’s a quiet fic and we don’t rly see him ‘quiet’ so eat my ahh(/j)

inspired by this post by @corrodedcoffeen ! not exactly 100% accurate but yea

He lived in a world full of soulmates and soulmarks.

Everyone who had a soulmate had a soulmark, like a little tattoo; whether it be on their arm, leg, back, even on their face. Sometimes, a person would have multiple soulmarks. In other cases, they wouldn’t have any at all. Some people were born with their marks, some appeared later down the line.

In most cases, people would do anything to find their soulmate. To be with them. To unite with their missing half.

Hobie Brown was among those who’d been born with a soulmate. Four little streaks that wrapped halfway around his left arm, like a scar from an animal that had halfheartedly tried to claw the whole thing off at birth.

Hobie loved his soulmark.

Not because he’d met his soulmate. Nor was it because the idea of a predestined partner made him giddy. No, it was because he felt a sense of pride whenever he looked at it. Pride that he’d beaten the system when he got you.

His thoughts wander as he sits on your your and his shared bed, a towel flat under his bum to prevent any grime that may be on his suit from rubbing off on the sheets. His vest and T-shirt had been haphazardly folded and placed on the bathroom sink, desperately needing a thorough cleaning after a particularly hard day, which left his torso bare for you to assess and repair the damage he’d been dealt once you peeled off the top half of his suit.

“Bit eager, yeah?” He’d joked as you hastily helped him out of his clothes, that cheeky smirk still shining through on his tear-streaked face. You’d answered with an exasperated laugh.

He had come home at two in the morning, stumbling through the window with a hand over the right side of his mask. When he’d ripped it off, tossing it on a random bit of the floor somewhere, you were met with red eyes, wet cheeks, a runny nose and a blood-crusted lip. Apparently, he’d been at the frontlines of a protest when one of the tear gas shells hit him right in the face, cracking his right eye lense and leaving him vulnerable to the gas’s full effect. You didn’t need to be told what happened to know what came next. After all, it was always the same routine with the pigs - gas the crowd and beat any individuals that strayed from the mass.

Now, as Hobie’s fingers tap a little rhythm on the mattress, your hands glide a washcloth long his skin, being careful to minimize pressure on his bruises. Which, granted, is hard when they cover most of his back and ribcage, but you made it work somehow. Tear gas residue sticks to anything it can, and although his body was mostly had been mostly covered, it gave the both of you peace of mind to clean anything off just in case. He thanks you by softly gripping your other hand, his fingers lacing together with yours.

“Need more milk?” You ask, going to put the cloth down and grab the already half-empty sprayer on the ground next to the bed, having already been used in the bathroom just minutes prior and put there just in case. He shakes his head, the hand that’s not on yours gently grabbing your wrist and guiding it back to his chest.

As you continue, he thinks back to the first time he’d held your hand like that.

It was when the two of you were barely teenagers, when he didn’t fully understand how the whole ‘soulmates’ thing even worked, or how messed up it really was. The only thing he really knew was that people were supposed to stay together forever if their marks matched, even if that wasn’t always the case.

Having known each other since you were just kids, he remembers wishing so badly that your soulmark matched his. He had wished that little planet on your ankle could be washed away, a temporary tattoo or doodle instead of an actual mark. He remembers drawing little black holes at the corners of his school worksheets, hoping that one of them would eventually swallow your mark whole and replace it with four lines identical to his.

Back then, he had wished his ugly little bands would somehow arrange themselves into a square. At least then he could insist that his mark was a planet. A weird square one, yeah, but a planet just like yours.

But as you looked at him with that warm glow in your eyes, he swore you were the best thing that had ever happened to him, soulmate or not.

If only that kid could see him now - here, with you.

He suppresses a smile that threatens to slip onto his face, as moving his lips makes the cut sting.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” you mutter, wiping at the last bit of his torso. Hobie lets out a low sigh.

“‘M sorry love,” he says back, giving your hand a little squeeze. He really does mean it. He hates seeing the worry and sadness in your eyes every time he came back to you after one of these days. Fuck knows how he’d cope with it if you came home like this just every now and again, let alone what seemed like every other day recently. “I do try to be careful.”

You hum in response, getting up from your spot and holding out your hand for him to do the same. He does so with little to no hesitation, only waiting a moment to brace himself for the soreness that would follow. You lead him to the bathroom.

“Everything off,” you say, then immediately follow it up with, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say nothin’!” Hobie protests, feigning offense. As if that glint in his eye didn’t give it away.

“You need to get cleaned off properly.” You stress the lest word, letting go of his hand so that he can strip. “You can’t just go to bed after a quick wipe-down tonight. You need a shower.”

“But it’s gonna be cold.” Hobie groans. Tear gas wasn’t anything new, he’d had to clean the residue off of himself more times than he could count. That didn’t mean he was a fan of the cold showers that did most of the actual cleaning. Despite his complaints, he hastily steps out of his remaining articles of clothing as you start the water.

His muscles tense as he steps into the shower, pulling him out of his somewhat drowsy state. He quickly scrubs every part of his body, wanting to get out as fast as possible.

He washes his hair out last, taking care to not mess them up no matter how much he hates the temperature of the water. He’d made the mistake of trying to shampoo the whole of his head in one go just once before, and he’d be damned if he had to go running to the auntie down the street again to fix any tangles neither you nor him could sort out.

In his defense, he’d almost bled out just a couple hours beforehand that day. Having your first (superhero-related) near-death experience tends to shake you up a little.

“You’re such a man-baby,” you’d teased him as Hobie gripped your hand for dear life, the woman you’d guaranteed could get that nightmare of a knot out sorting through his hair with an arsenal of olive oil and a wide toothed comb.

“Oh piss off—” his reply was cut short as she detangled a particularly nasty bit of the problem, unfortunately having to tug exceptionally hard at his head. “Ow!”

The woman - Aunt Margaret, as you’d introduced her - tsked at him to sit still, poking at the tangle with the handle of her comb to see if it would give way now. Luckily, most of it did. She muttered something along the lines of ‘young people nowadays’, but in a sort of gruffly affectionate sort of way. From what you’d told him, Aunt Margaret was sort of the neighborhood mom, always helping people who needed it no matter how much she gave them grief for it.

The three of you made small talk over tea after his hair was nice and hairball-free, albeit a little slippery. Turned out, Aunt Margaret had plenty of stories of her own to share. Hobie had been delighted to hear about everything that had happened when she was a part of the League of Colored Peoples, almost ready to practically beg the woman to adopt him.

Two weeks later, when he decided to drop by again, the topic of soulmates came up. Aunt Margaret asked if he’d found his soulmate yet, to which he replied he didn’t believe in the soulmate system. She nodded in agreement.

“Just as well,” she had said, a frown making its way onto her face. “I’ve seen too many good people get their hearts broken because of that bloody mark.” She eyed his upper arm, exposed in the sleeveless top he’d worn at the time. “I got mine covered ages ago.”

“Did you meet your soulmate before that?”

Aunt Margaret shook her head. “That’s a story for another time, Bartholomew.”

He still makes time for tea with her every week or so.

The second he steps out of the shower, he’s greeted with a huge, warm towel fresh from the dryer. He wraps it around himself as you usher him back to the bedroom where you’d laid out some comfy clothes for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the clothes he’d discarded on the bathroom floor is long gone, along with his vest and tee that were sitting on the sink.

“I put the studs out on the veranda to air out,” you say, noticing him glance at the empty sink. “They’ll need washing, though. My eyes got all weird when I looked at the vest too close, and your belt’s not much different. The rest of everything’s in the machine.”

Pulling on his bottoms, Hobie silently nods at your words before pulling the tank top you’d dug out for him over his head. He then walks over to place a kiss on your head. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to leech off your warmth. He lets out a little noise of contentment when he feels you hug him back.

Wordlessly, he walks the two of you to your the shared vanity, plopping himself down on the seat. You grab the hairdryer off the table, checking to make sure it’s okay for you to help before switching it on to dry his wicks. Hobie closes his eyes as you make your way through each piece, eventually stopping once there’s no more water to be purged. Your fingers sorting through his hair so carefully is calming - almost therapeutic, and it takes all his willpower to keep himself sitting straight up for you.

After that, he clumsily grabs you and throws you over his shoulder, ignoring how you yelp in surprise and unplugging the dryer. He then proceeds to carry you around your place, flicking off all the lights before getting back to the bedroom and (softly) throwing you on the mattress.

“Was that really necessary?” You groan as he throws the sheets over the both of you. Hobie then proceeds to drag himself half on top of you, using you as a full body pillow.

“Definitely.” He replies, his voice a bit muffled against your pajamas.

You laugh. “Sure.”

He tilts his head up to give you a goodnight kiss, murmuring ‘dream ‘bout me’ next to your ear to which you respond by playfully pushing him away.

“Rude,” He mutters, smiling into your clothes as he huffs in indignation. Your laugh echoes through your body, a sound more beautiful than any music he had or would ever hear.

He doesn’t fall asleep too easily that night. Rogue thoughts on soulmates and fate flinging about his skull. For some reason, they’d all picked tonight to bug him to pieces.

Unknowingly, his grip around you tightens, feeling your weight in his arms. It grounds him as all the doubts try to throw him off, to destabilize something perfectly happy.

What if they find their soulmate? Then they’ll decide if they want me or them. (Me.)

What if I find my soulmate? What, like I’d break their heart for a stranger? Yeah. Fat chance.

He swatted those questions away like pesky little mosquitoes until he eventually fell asleep, choosing to focus instead on your heartbeat ringing in his ears.

So what if you two weren’t soulmates? He loves you, you love him. That’s all that matters.

The universe can suck an egg.

—

The next morning, Hobie woke up at 11, as usual. You woke up right after him as he stirred, like you always did. The two of you lounged in the comfort of your the sheets for a while before you had to eventually get up for breakfast.

Hobie was trailing behind you on your walk to the kitchen when something catches his eye.

His reflection in the vanity mirror.

Something’s… off.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“Y/n?” He calls, looking down at his upper arm just to make sure the mirror isn’t playing tricks on him. Sure enough, there it is.

You turned around at his voice, eyebrows furrowed in a confused way. “Hm?”

“Look.”

He watches as your confusion morphed into surprise and then back to confusion again. Then you auickly check your ankle, confusion turning into realization.

“We match.”

Your soulmarks had somehow changed overnight, turning into small, stylized sun symbols that stand out more than either of your marks before ever did, clear as day.

It’s a few moments of stunned silence before laughter breaks out between the two of you.

“You know what we have to do now,” you manage, an arm around the front of your midsection and the other hand on your face.

“I think I do.” Hobie says, practically wheezing

By the end of the day, the two of you have covered up your new soulmarks with mismatching tattoos.

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commajade · 1 year

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the seoul queer culture festival/seoul pride has been growing exponentially in size over the last two decades (from ~50 people in 2000 to ~135,000 in 2019) and the conservative pushback from christian groups and police have been increasing as well. every year church groups host massive protests and rallies with homophobic slogans and chanting on their sound systems right next to the pride parade, i've seen them. this year, the government outright denied the lgbt organizers a parade permit and gave that spot to a christian organization instead. the sqcf's organizers are accepting help via paypal, please support them if you can!

here's an article from the korea herald:

#korean lgbt

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upon-a-starry-night · 9 days

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Number Neighbors Pt.30

Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Natasha Masterlist Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: When you catch sight of the newest trend going around you know you’re all but bound to at least try it, it was harmless anyway. What could possibly stem from something so little?

----

The plane ride home gives you plenty of time to think. You use up half of the time trying to come up with what you’ll say to Nat if you ever see her again. So far all you’ve come up with is-

‘ Hey! guess what? I figured out it was you I was talking to the whole time- oh and also I’m in love with you!’ and you’re pretty sure that’s a bit too much to throw at her all at once.

So you use the other half of the time to sign the hundreds of petitions that people from all over the world have created to fight against your government's stupid decision. It’s a rare moment where people are coming together to agree on one unanimous decision and it’s kind of beautiful.

There’s been people protesting outside of courthouses and social media’s blowing up with reasons why the Avengers should be dropped of all their charges.

When your mom dropped you off at the airport you promised her you would tell her everything that’s been going on once you finished your business and she gave you a stern look that said ‘you better’ before ushering you to your gate.

After a lot of contemplation, you decided you would drop off your bags at your apartment and then head to the police station to file a report about your stalking. It had been peaceful being in your hometown but now that you were back home you didn’t want to spend every day living in fear of the people following you.

After that, you would head to Avengers Tower. You didn’t know if they’d believe you even with all the proof you’ve gathered but it was worth a shot. At worst, they’d kick you out. At best, they’d let you in to wait for Nat or send her some sort of coded message to tell her you were waiting for her.

You’re not sure if she’d come back just for that reason but if she at least knew you were waiting for her maybe the guilt would urge her to come back and at the very least, apologize in person.

You’re a little disoriented from the jet lag when you touch down, nearly falling asleep in the Taxi to your apartment when you jolt awake at the sound of people yelling and cars honking. Out the window, there’s a large crowd of people with signs heading in one direction and you’re thankful you’re not in it.

Your cab driver apologizes for the traffic delay, telling you that apparently there was some kind of big meeting going on at the courthouse and everyone was making a big fuss about it. You figure the news about the meeting must have dropped while you were on the plane and make a mental note to check for updates once you set your bags down.

Despite it still being around noon, exhaustion weighs heavy on your bones from the chaos of the last few days and you’re more than ready for a nap as you make your way to your apartment door. It’s only when you’re a few inches away that you stop in your tracks. The sound of voices coming from inside your apartment.

Your whole body lights up with fear as you try to make out their conversation. From what you can tell it’s two male voices and you can’t help but assume it’s the people who’ve been stalking you this past month. Their conversation is muffled but you can just make out a few of the words being said-

“Come on —---- Are you really going to —---------- at her own apartment?” Voice number 1 sounds a little exasperated and you hope you can use that to your advantage if they try to attack.

“I just want to talk to her —---” The second voice is deeper and sends a chill down your spine. What were you doing? You should be running away.

You attempt to make a silent getaway just as your next-door neighbor arrives and you plead to the gods she doesn’t acknowledge you but she’s always been more talkative than you’d sometimes like.

“Oh hey Y/n! Back from your trip?” She smiles at you as she unlocks her door and the voices inside your apartment still. Shit. Think fast, Y/n.

“Yeah but uh- I… think I forgot a bag in the taxi, would you mind watching this one for me real quick?” You all but shove your luggage at her and barely acknowledge her startled ‘Oh sure!’ before you’re booking it back out of the building.

Your heart is pounding and you’re not sure what to do about two grown men in your apartment but you know they heard you talk and you have to get away from them as soon as possible.

Your body’s on autopilot and before you know it you’re practically speed walking in the direction of the police station. At least now you could report them for breaking and entering and stalking. Maybe the police will take you more seriously then.

Halfway to the police station, you have the displeasure of noticing one of the Suv's from before is tailing you again. You don’t know if it’s the men from your apartment or someone else but your anxiety spikes when they speed up and you quickly turn down a random alley as they get closer.

Much to your surprise and relief, they drive past you like you aren’t even there and it leaves you wondering if maybe you really were being paranoid.

Still shaken up about the men who broke in, you decide it’s best if you still hurry to the police station so they have time to dust for fingerprints and maybe move you into witness protection. (you know that’s only an FBI thing but it makes you feel better to think about it).

Despite the threat of the SUV being gone, you’re still checking over your shoulder every few minutes to make sure no one is following you. It’s for that reason that you don’t even notice it when you bump into a large crowd of people.

You’re immediately uncomfortable, your PTSD with crowds snapping into effect and making you go rigid with anxiety. You can’t move your body as people shout and shove you in every direction. You must have accidentally stumbled into the crowd of protesters at the courthouse.

For a brief moment you think ‘at least it’ll be harder to track me in here’ but then someone steps on your foot and you flinch back, accidentally bumping into someone else who shoves you off of them in agitation. You turn to apologize but they’re already gone so you decide to try and focus on getting out.

You duck and weave through bodies but the occasional shoulder check has you feeling like you’re still stuck in the middle of the madness.

Finally, you think you’ve found the exit as you push through the sea of people and you lurch towards open air only to be grabbed back by a man in a black suit and sunglasses.

His grip is tight and you cry out in pain at the feeling when a voice yells at him above the rest of the crowd.

“Let her go!” The voice is commanding and whoever it is must be important because the mafia/agent-looking guy immediately lets you go. You rub your tender arm and wonder if it’s going to bruise when you notice the rowdy crowd has gone suspiciously quiet.

You wonder if they’re all just as intimidated by the voice as the guy in the suit was when you look up and make eye contact with your savior.

A pair of strikingly familiar green eyes stare back at you with surprise.

Pt.31

A/n: only a few more chapters left- how we feeling? ~ Starry

---Taglist--

@marvelwomen-simp @cd-4848 @wandanatlov3r @rebeltombraider @ctrlamira @fxckmiup @aliherreraaa @natsxwife @la-douler-ne-finite-jamais @romanoffsgal @moistblobfish @natashaswife4125 @elenimoris @how-to-disappearrr @screechcat @toouncreativeforausername @ordelixx @autorasexy @blacklightsposts @vmpnano @jono723 @sylencr @saraaahsstuff @autorasexy @gay4hotmilfs @tofu9162 @dyslexic-dreamer @graniairish @colettehope @kosmichs1 @nmhlver @natblidaclexa @skittlebum @dorabledewdroop @nothanksbye07 @mrsrushman @midastouch013 @thalia-is-not-ok @tessalah @annab3113 @officialnighttime @taliiiaasteria @bgwlsmahf25 @chibilauren @natashasgirlll @nmhlver @strange-night-owl @obsessedwjill @autorasexy

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blingblong55 · 8 months

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Did you care?- König

Part 1 is here

F!Reader, angst, no happy ending, cheating

"König!" you laugh, the waves of the warm summer ocean crashing against you. His family had invited you with them that summer, the first girl he ever brought home. He never told you that though. "Oh my Liebling." he laughs with you, taking you deeper into the ocean. It was then that he knew how strong love can be. Hours later, as you chased his little nieces and nephew along the shore, his family told him something he still remembers.

The accident, that is when you knew he still cared. At the age of 37, that is when he became a father to a woman he never loved. A car crash and stitches, that is what brought you to him. A father and a boyfriend, never to marry anyone else that isn't you, that is what made him a coward to his girlfriend's family. "R/N, König has gotten into a car accident." his mother called you around 2 am, her voice so tired and filled with fear. You dropped everything, including the late-night dinner you were having with your then-partner.

"Love, where are you going?" he questioned you. "A friend needs me, she...she broke up with her boyfriend and she needs me." The first of many lies you told to keep him safe. You didn't cheat but you lied to visit the guy you will always love. As you drove to the hospital, tears ran down your face. It was fear, regret and shame. "Hallo, ich muss einen Patienten finden-"

"R/N." his mother came rushing to you, tears on her face. You hugged her and walked with her to the waiting area. His father was there as well, you hugged him too and after minutes of breaks and cries, the story lay in your hands. The mother of his child ran away with his kid, he begged and cried for her to return. She lost their kid, got arrested and after a week of looking, he heard his child was found. One drunk driver, that is all it took to have you sit there, holding the hand of his forlorn mother. His child was under the custody of the police and he was in a grey room.

"You think you'll ever end up marrying me, R/N?" he looked over at you as you hung up decorations for Christmas. "I don't see myself ever marrying and there are times I fear of it. Just know this, I know I am meant for someone." He nods and keeps the ring in his pocket tucked away. "Yeah." was all he answered. You looked at him as he looked away at some decoration.

"For you, that is who I am meant for. I don't want a ring, a dress or a ceremony, I want this, this life you and I already have." you wished to say but those words never came out. Month after month you gave him clear clues that you wanted to be the one he lived with, old and grey.

You didn't even notice when his parents had gone to his room. You sat and stared at the white wall. The two years and a half that you spent trying to forget him all come crashing down. One phone call from his mother and you were there at his disposal. Many ask, what parts of life flash before someone as they near their possible death? For him it was you. The day at the beach, Christmas, the drunk karaoke, silly argument over movies. "Harry and Sally stayed together!" you protested. "Mein Liebling, Harry and Sally are two of the people I know will not make it to old age together. It was a kiss, maybe Sally left after that."

The one thing that he knew flashed before his eyes was the conversation at the beach years ago. Once you were let into his room, you sat by his bed. Parents out in the hallways, you held his hand. Fear was to die alone but this image was the current fear. Tears ran down your face, it didn't matter that he cheated years ago, that you two hadn't spoken since but what mattered was him now. You stoked his hair and kissed his forehead with trembling lips. Before, you couldn't stand him, but he was in this world alive and that brought you tranquillity. The thought of him no longer in it, that was the fear. Who cared if he moved on, he was alive, healthy and happy.

The muse to the blues you whistled, the kiss he gave you on the mysterious bruise, the cliche dance in the kitchen at midnight, and now you sit there, looking at his scarred face. You whispered for only him to hear, "That evening in December, when you were going to propose, I would've said yes, I was meant for someone, remember?" You stood up and walked out of the room. "R/N, will you stay?" His father asks. "I'm sorry, I have to meet someone early in the morning but keep me updated." You kissed his father's cheek and hugged his mother.

Meanwhile, König lay in that bed, eyes teary as he heard your confession. The ring he wanted to give you was on a chain that hung by his neck. Always to be by his heart. "Liebling." he whispers. "I want to marry you, over and over again." That is a promise two young lovers made.

"When we get old, you and I better retell the story of us," you say as you lay in the green grass. "And I will tell it to you every night," König spoke softly. "Every night," he holds your hand. "I will always tell you the story of how I met the greatest thing in my life." He smiles and sighs happily, "And I'll make you fall in love with me all over again." He meant every word, he wanted the spark of love between them to never die, for them to always be in love. "I'll always fall in love with you as if it was the first time, every single time." He cared, more than you'll ever know.

"You never let her go, my son." his mother sternly says. He sighs and looks over at you, his youngest niece hung by his arms, his nephew chasing you both. The giggles from the children and your laughter, yeah, he wants that life with you. "You think she'll want to?" he asks his parents. "If not today or in a year, I know she will." He looks at the ring and nods. "When I marry her, can you both please not give a long speech?" This caused his parents to laugh and nod a little.

Maybe the movies and all the news articles are right, in some universe, you and him are together. And in that universe, he has his three kids, a wife and the picket fence to his home. A home with you, two hearts that beat for the other. He cares.

Tags: @sunshiinegaz @liyanahelena

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amourane · 8 days

Text

fatal attraction

pairing: con artist!draco malfoy x police officer!reader

genre: smut

w/c: 2.5k

summary: draco malfoy was a cunning man and a wanted criminal but you couldn't deny the growing sexual tension between the two of you.

warnings: explicit sexual content, degradation, praise, fingering, unprotected sex

a/n: bringing back one of the old ones, new and improved <3

This was definitely not how you expected your first week as a police officer to go.

You found yourself face to face with a man who seemed to embody trouble itself, his shockingly bleached hair standing out against the backdrop of a dimly lit room. A smirk played on his lips, he idly twirled a mugshot board between his fingers, exuding an air of confidence that made your pulse quicken. His sleeves rolled up, revealing bulging muscles that seemed to ripple with every movement. When he glanced up, you quickly diverted your gaze, blood rushing to your cheeks.

It was obvious the criminal was handsome, with a symmetrical face and a perfectly chiselled jawline. Steely grey eyes that had a hint of amusement as though he was internally mocking those around him.

He was Draco Malfoy, a con artist wanted in numerous countries, and you had somehow managed to catch him. It wasn’t intended, you had just bumped into him and his hood had fallen off at the precise moment, giving you the perfect view of his face. A face you could never forget from all the wanted posters stuck to the walls near your tiny desk.

There was no protesting when you locked him in handcuffs, he didn’t fight when they dragged him away, nor did he complain as they treated him like a stray dog. He merely had the same cocky grin plastered on his face, one that didn’t calm your nerves.

“So.” He purred, eyes fixing on you and suddenly you felt like a small rabbit from his predatory gaze. “I haven’t seen you around before, love. I would’ve remembered such a pretty face.” His voice was as smooth as honey and you felt as if your body was on fire by the sweet words pouring out of his mouth.

“I’d advise you to shut up, Malfoy.” Your partner, Ron Weasley, growled as his eyes threw daggers at the criminal.

Draco smiled. “Or what, officer? You’re not allowed to harm me.”

He was right, officers weren’t allowed to display violent behaviour towards criminals, even if they were guilty of the most heinous crimes. He fixed his eye back onto you, his tongue peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip. You felt yourself grow hot under your uniform and you shuffled nervously.

The quick snaps flashed before your eyes and each time Ron had to tell Draco to place his board properly and not to pose like a model. There was nothing wrong with him doing what he was doing but the long, seductive gaze he shot at you didn’t make your heart stop fluttering.

And you knew, deep down, that this man was a criminal, someone who’s broken the law on multiple accounts. He had cheated, lied and manipulated his way to the top and yet you couldn’t help yourself to feel aroused whenever he looked in your direction.

As Ron dragged him away to his cell, brushing past you, he gave you a sly wink and it didn't soothe your beating heart. It was only when you got home that you realised he had slipped something in your pocket, a note in his beautiful cursive handwriting.

cell number 80, come by when you have time.

It was something so simple and yet it had tingles shooting up your spine.

That night your mind was plagued with the smirks of Draco Malfoy and the dirty things he would whisper in your ear, holding you close. His deep voice as it moaned your name repeatedly, praising you for what you were doing. You woke up in the middle of your sinful dream, panting for air and you reached for the water on your bedside.

You didn’t know how you were going to survive.

Draco threw a rock in the air, catching it as it fell back into his hand. He could hear the faint dripping of a leaky pipe as water landed on the cold floor. The cell they had thrown him in was grimy, an unknown black substance on one of the walls.

It made him sick.

The little burner phone he held in his hands, something he’d managed to sneak in, was flashing with texts.

TN: pls don’t tell me you got caught just to see the new police officer.

TN: malfoy, istg if you did i will skin you alive.

TN: seriously??? draco, she’s a cop, we can’t have that.

Theo’s texts had come through once he had switched the burner phone on and he read through all of them. Sighing, he hastily texted back.

DM: piss off i need some fun.

The reply was immediate and Draco glared at the screen, switching it off. There was no point arguing with Theo, he didn’t have the time nor energy. He grinned at the thought of you, your flushed cheeks and jittery eyes. He had seen the way you were looking at him.

You would come sooner or later.

This was so wrong. This was so wrong. This was so wrong.

That phrase repeated in your mind, echoing through your body but your feet didn’t stop as they climbed the stairs, moving to cell number 80. It was 2 am in the morning and you were on night duty with Ron but you had offered to do the rounds instead, to which he had agreed.

Now, your feet were walking towards Draco’s cell and the nervous jitters kicked in. It was as if you were back at your first day of school, your mum patting your back as she ushered you through the gates. This time you had no one to comfort you. Your shoes made soft padding noises across the silent hallway and you hoped none of the criminals would wake up.

As you passed, you saw the various people in cells, some scrawny and tall, some buff and muscly. Each cell was identical and had just enough room for a single bed and movement allowance. You were taking a deep breath once you passed cell number 79 and when 80 came into view you didn't realise you were holding your breath until you found your lungs burning for air.

Draco was lying on his bed, arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Even though he was in the prison uniform he still managed to look stunning in the ridiculous orange. He wore a plain white shirt underneath and the jumpsuit was tied at his waist.

You cleared your throat, stepping closer. He lifted his head and his eyes flickered with amusement when he saw you.

“Well, well, well.” He whispered, getting up and dragging his feet to you. “Look who came.”

“What do you want?” You asked, feeling intimidated by his tall stature even though you’re the one who’s meant to be in power.

Draco smirked, the same one that has butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“I want...you.”

The last word was said with a deep, sultry tone that had your thighs rubbing together and your panties beginning to stick.

It’ll be alright. It’ll be fine.

That was what you told yourself as you unlocked his cell doors, fingers fumbling with the keys. You didn’t know what was wrong with you as you crashed your lips onto his. Your senses overloaded and everything disappeared. Draco’s lips were soft and pillowy, and you tasted the faint green apple gum he must have been chewing.

As he pushed your back against a wall, he hastily unbuttoned your shirt, hands fondling with your breasts. The black, lacy bralette made his mind go in circles as he growled. His hands massaged the soft flesh and you moaned at his touch. The warmth spreaded throughout your body, hitting your core. You panted and squirmed.

Draco’s lips were still attached to yours and when he pressed his body against yours, you felt his cock between the jumpsuit. Your fingers scrambled to grasp at the white material, tugging it off eagerly.

Everything about him had you seeing the stars.

“Knew you wanted me.” He muttered into your mouth. “Saw the way you were looking at me, Officer L/n.”

“Y/n, call me Y/n.”

Draco grinned wickedly. “Alright Y/n.”

His lips left yours, finding a new home on your nipple. He sucked, swirling his rough tongue over your sensitive nub. The feeling had your body wriggling around and he pinned you to the wall, keeping you from moving. He gave each breast the same treatment, the same seductive licks and nips that his tongue delivered.

“D-Draco…” You let out. “A-Ahh, fuck!”

His palm came up to cover your mouth. “Can’t make too much noise, love.” His fingers trailed down to your things, ripping the clothing off of your body and he groaned at the sight of your wet panties. “All for me.”

Slowly, he slipped his hand into your panties, playing with your clit. He dipped a single finger in easily, teasing your needy cunt. You whimpered practically begging him for more. Your pussy fluttered around his finger and you desperately tried to grind down on his palm for some sort of friction but he gave you none.

“Such a needy whore.” Draco smirked, breath fanning over your face and you moaned at his words. “So wet f’me, just hear her speak.”

Another finger slipped inside and you gasped and clung onto Draco’s shoulders for support. The lewd sounds of your wet pussy filled the cell and you couldn’t help but flush with embarrassment. The criminal continued to curl and thrust his fingers, relishing in the sounds he was able to elicit. The pace he set was incredibly fast and your body failed to catch up. A strangled moan left your throat as you tried to stifle your vulgar noises.

Draco pumped his digits in and out of you, the wet sounds reverberating around the walls. He scissored you open, bending down to look at the way your pussy was dripping. The growl he let out made your knees buckle. Every single thing about you had Draco begging for more. His fingers were drenched with your juices as he continued to thrust messily.

“Fuck this. I can’t wait.”

He stripped his clothes and your pussy clenched at the sight of his cock. The flushed, red tip, leaking with precum. A whimper bubbled to your mouth and your mouth watered. You desperately wanted to suck him off but your thoughts were interrupted as he thrusted into you.

The sensation of his cock filling you up had you reeling and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Pain filled your body at the stretch to accommodate his size. Draco moaned, resting his forehead against yours, not hesitating to deliver harsh thrusts into you.

“Draco.” You whined. “Fuck, feels so good.” You said drowsily, high on the feeling of his cock.

“Yeah.” He panted, gripping your hips as he pounded into you. He watched as he disappeared into your wet heat. “You like this, love? Like me wrecking this slutty cunt?”

You struggled to find words and when you did it came out in a soft stutter. “I-I do…”

“Course you do fucking whore. That’s all you are isn’t it? A nasty hole to use, fuck I’m going to fill you up. You’d like that, my cum all stuffed inside this pretty pussy.”

You mewled incoherently, babbling at the pleasure you were receiving. It’s a feeling you never wanted to forget and as his huge cock plunged in and out of you, a silent scream ripped through your body. Only one thought was on your mind and it was Draco Malfoy, wanted criminal, fucking you in a dirty cell.

His hair fell into his eyes and you reached your fingers up to brush it away. Draco looked up, eyes filled with lust. When he met your eyes he couldn’t help but crash his lips onto yours. You let him swallow every one of your moans and lewd noises.

The harsh, hard pounds he delivered made you whimper his name over and over again. Draco loved it, he found the thing he loved hearing the most. Your voice. He urged it out of you, thrusting into you deeper, hitting that sweet spot that had you screaming in ecstasy. Your body leaned into his touch every time.

“D-Draco gonna cum, ‘m gonna cum.” You gasped, nails dragging down his back. “So so so good, don’t s-stop gonna cum, need it so bad.”

Draco grinned as his grip on you tightened and you cried out in pleasure. “Such a pretty voice. Don’t you just love to beg and scream. I’m gonna fill this filthy cunt with my cum, does that sound good love?”

You were too blissed out to properly respond with words and all you could manage was a weak nod. His smirk traced over your bare skin and you could feel his hot breath as it enveloped you. He never once stopped telling you how he was going to ruin you, make you full of him that you wouldn’t be able to forget him inside you for weeks.

The thought was enough to send you over the edge. Your body convulsed at the overwhelming feeling. Every one of your limbs felt as if it’s being tuned to the perfect melody. You gasped and moaned Draco's name, closing your eyes as you threw your head back. The harsh thrusting didn’t stop and he snapped his hips to yours faster than ever.

“Oh fuck.” He cursed, groaning at the sound of his body meeting yours. “You’re so good, such a good girl.” The low hum had your body shivering with delight.

It wasn’t long before he was coming as well, eyes squeezed shut, cursing, as he continued his shallow thrusts. Hot cum shot into your pussy and you felt a warmth spread within you. It dripped out of you. He panted, sweat glistening off his forehead and you held onto his body so you didn't collapse.

“You really are something else, love.” Draco chuckled, pressing his lips against yours. His eyes transfixed at your leaking cunt. “Fuck, look at you.”

You closed your thighs, embarrassed at the sight. All of your thoughts were coming back to you and they weighed you down once more. He noticed your worry and he cupped your face, cooing.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

You didn’t remember how you got home, nor do you remember the rest of the conversation with Draco. Everything was a blur and when you woke up in your bed the next morning, all you had left was the lewd memories of his cock pounding into you. The loud, obnoxious ringing of your phone startled you out of your dreamy haze. You picked it up, rubbing your eyes at the bright morning light.

“Y/n.” Ron’s urgent voice crackled through your phone and you immediately sat up straighter. “Y/n, something really really bad has happened. I don’t even know how and of course I don’t blame you. It's just...Malfoy’s escaped.”

Half of Ron’s rant was cut off when you notice a piece of paper at your bedside followed by an unfamiliar gun holster. It had the familiar cursive handwriting, followed by a series of digits. You gasped, eyes filling with shock.

“I-I’ll call you back Ron.” You hung up immediately, diving for the note.

Call me. xxx-xxx-xxx

#draco x reader #draco smut #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy smut #smut #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x y/n #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco fanfiction #draco fanfic #draco malfoy #slytherin boys #draco malfoy fic

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decolonize-the-left · 2 months

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Sound familiar?

"After the First World War, the map of Europe was re-drawn and several new countries were formed. As a result of this, three million Germans found themselves now living in part of Czechoslovakia.

When Adolf Hitler came to power, he wanted to unite all Germans into one nation.

In September 1938 he turned his attention to the three million Germans living in part of Czechoslovakia called the Sudetenland. Sudeten Germans began protests and provoked violence from the Czech police. Hitler claimed that 300 Sudeten Germans had been killed. This was not actually the case, but Hitler used it as an excuse to place German troops along the Czech border.

Things that happened in September 1938:

Sept 7. On instructions from Hitler, Konrad Henlein broke off negotiations with the Czech government. Allegations of Czech police brutality at Moravská Ostrava were used as an excuse

Sept 7. A famously controversial editorial appeared in The Times which recommended giving Hitler what he wanted because "the advantages to Czechoslovakia of becoming a homogenous State might conceivably outweigh the obvious disadvantages of losing the Sudeten German districts of the borderland."

Sept 13. French Prime Minister Édouard Daladier asked Neville Chamberlain (leader of Czechoslovakia) to make the best deal he could with Hitler.

Sept 20. The Czechoslovak government rejected the Anglo-French proposal in a note explaining that acceptance would mean that Czechoslovakia would be put "sooner or later under the complete domination of Germany."

Sept 20. Hitler met with the Polish ambassador Józef Lipski and told him that Germany would support Poland in a conflict with Czechoslovakia over Teschen. Hitler also said he was considering shipping Europe's Jews to a colony (Israel, a colony for Europe's displaced Jewish population would be established in 1948) and expressed hope that Poland would cooperate with such a plan. Lipski replied that if Hitler could solve the Jewish question, the Poles would build a monument to him in Warsaw

September 26. In the Berlin Sportpalast, Hitler made a speech threatening Czechoslovakia with war. "My patience is exhausted", Hitler declared. "If Beneš does not want peace we will have to take matters into our own hands.

Sept 27th. The French government announced that France would not enter a war purely over Czechoslovakia. Neville Chamberlain gave a radio address saying, "However much we may sympathize with a small nation confronted by a big and powerful neighbor, we cannot in all circumstances undertake to involve the whole British Empire in a war simply on her account. If we have to fight it must be on larger issues than that

Sept 27. President Franklin Roosevelt writes to German Chancellor Adolf Hitler regarding the threat of war in Europe. The German chancellor had been threatening to invade the Sudetenland of Czechoslovakia and, in the letter, his second to Hitler in as many days, Roosevelt reiterated the need to find a peaceful resolution to the issue.

Sept 29. German Führer Adolf Hitler, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, French Prime Minister Édouard Daladier and Italian Duce Benito Mussolini met in Munich to settle the Sudetenland crisis. Czechoslovakia was not invited, neither was the Soviet Union.

Sept 30. Munich Agreement: At 1 a.m., the four powers at Munich agreed that Czechoslovakia would cede the Sudetenland to Germany by October 10. The territorial integrity of the rest of Czechoslovakia was guaranteed by all signatories. Neville Chamberlain flew back to Britain and declared "peace for our time"

I think we all deeply need to reconsider what we were taught about WW2. The allies who "saved" everyone from Hitler's camps are also the Same People who allowed him to get so much power in the first place.

Closer looks at these histories show they had their own motives for allowing it just like Biden does today. FDR & Biden are actually mirroring each other really well considering they're separated by time and death. FDR was pleading and asking Hitler to please stop doing war until Pearl Harbor cuz they had a good relationship like that :) Yeah, so all he really did up to that point was play arms dealer for France and Britain because he didn't wanna jeopardize his relationship with Germany by Directly getting involved.

Yeah.

See what I said about it sounding familiar?

And can I remind y'all that Hitler didn't start by saying he hated Jewish people. No.

You know what his plan was at first? A "Greater Germany" that would unify Germans across the territories that Germany was forced to concede after WW1.

.....Y'all remember this image?

Fascists and dictators and warmongers come in all shapes, sizes and belief systems, but you can always recognize a Fascist Supremacist by the thinly veiled expansion genocide being done in the name of their people. And the guys who help them are always trying to gaslight you about how things are "It's not that bad"

All this to say: get the fuck up and make sure history doesn't keep repeating itself because it's starting to

Y'all are sitting there asking how the Holocaust could happen and Palestinians are asking why nobody is fucking doing anything.

These are related questions.

Get up and do something. Yeah it is crazy that you're going to work when a genocide is happening...so don't!!! So many people are scared of losing their comfort because of what MIGHT happen if it's for nothing, but I'm BEGGING y'all to ask yourselves what headlines you'd rather read about the 1930's-40's and make those real.

"Mob storms parliament, stops the Munich Agreement," "Citizens of (anywhere) create Organization to protect Jewish, Black, and Homosexual peers in opposition to state sponsored violence. Quote: These are my neighbors and Nazis can't have them." "Meet the University Students who chased Nazis off campus." "'We Couldn't Do Nothing' say arrested group of women who beat a Gestapo officer with a clothing iron." "'If they can't afford us, they can't afford war': How global strikes and the lack of scabs are changing the the future of war" "'I'm afraid to Sleep' American Nazis restless after serial arsonist publishes their addresses in the paper"

Germans literally tried to assassinate Hitler. Like several times. We need to step it up.

There are SO MANY things we can do if we can just agree that none of us will be doing them alone! You are NOT powerless to stop this war just because you aren't in Palestine!!!

#i just keep looking at back then and now and everything that led up to ww2 snd Hitler's ideologieies and its like... O H f u c k #ww2 #world history #world war #Nazis #decolstw #palestine #gaza #germany #czechoslovakia #colonization #settler colonialism #leftist #neo colonialism #direct action #biden #capitalism #free palestine

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antiterf · 1 year

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Cops only exist to enforce laws that, if broken, would be a blue-collar crime. They exist for shoplifting, murder, illegal drug use, protests, an in-progress robbery, and more extreme cases of domestic violence, you get the picture. This service is paid for by taxes, and it's supposedly free to all citizens, but we all know that POC and other minorities fear calling the police.

Police exist to enforce crime associated with the working class. White-collar crime doesn't involve the police. You have to enforce that yourself and pay hundreds to thousands of dollars for a lawyer. You can be put in physical danger at your job, but the police do not handle that. They handle when you are put in physical danger at home, and that's even if the police always gave a shit and did their jobs correctly.

The police are not there to enforce all law equally, they are there to enforce laws that are broken by the marginalized. They are not there for you being denied housing, fired from work, hurt on the job, assaulted by your employer, going unpaid for your work, etc. They do not target the upper classes, that is not in their job description.

Cops exist and have always existed to maintain the current power structure. This is one of the reasons why the system needs to be removed entirely.

#I'm putting this on antiterf because I know a lot of my followers are White leftists #and us White people usually don't care nearly enough about police violence brutality and how they exist to oppress #and I've been thinking about this a lot #how I can name so many instances of laws being broken that hurt me and others but couldn't do anything #because that's a lawyers job and lawyers cost more than I can afford #and the instances I see are usually going to be too minor for them like being fired from a few dollars above min wage job #notaterftip #not sarcasm

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sanjoongie · 27 days

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𝛵ᴡ𝕠-𝓦𝛂𝛾

ღPairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader (f) ft Seonghwa

ღAu: detective au, murder mystery au

ღTrope: exes to lovers

ღRated: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp

ღWarnings: abuse of power, ⚠dub-con⚠, exhibitionism, angry sex, manhandling, degradation kink, sumata (rubbing cock against labia without penetration), non-penetrative sex, sexual interrogation, edging, questionable sex position just go with it 😆

ღWord Count: 1,232

ღSummary: As one of the suspects in a murder case, Yunho decides to interrogate you the only way he knows how... with your legs spread and his cock between them

ღBeta's: @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland

ღDedication: @daesukiii @flurrys-creativity @mingsolo because without you, I wouldn't have had to suffer through this. Thank you 😒

ღAuthor's note: happy birthday to Yunho! apparently the only way to lit a fire under my ass is to write angry Yunho smut. it's a ritual at this point 😂😔

“When are you going to change your tune?” Yunho demanded, both hands palm down on the table between you and him.

Yunho, or Detective Jeong, had been hounding you for several hours in the interrogation room. Past lovers, you having a degree in criminology and he moving down the more physical route through the police force, had a history and it was most definitely not helping the matter at hand. A woman had been murdered and you were one of the top suspects. But still you continued to insist on your innocence.

“I’m not,” You said with a bored voice, “And the sooner you realize that, the better, Detective Jeong.” You said the latter part of that sentence like it was a derogatory term.

Yunho’s jaw clenched in anger. “I know you’re a part of this. My gut is telling me you’re knee deep in this shit.”

You stared at the gray concrete wall, using a tone indicating you had better things to do. “Good thing your gut isn’t enough evidence. Now you can only hold me for twenty four hours so be a good boy and fetch me some coffee.”

Yunho shot over the table and grabbed both your upper arms. “Stop playing with me,” He growled under his breath.

You gave him a smile that was sharper than a knife. “Who’s playing a game right now? Certainly not me?”

Yunho knew that smile. That smile was a mask you used to hide any other emotions under. Yunho hated that mask because he knew it was a lie. The last time he had seen that smile was when he had broken it off with you when you proclaimed you weren’t going to follow him into the police force to better the world. And now you were here in his precinct, as a suspect? Fate was a cruel task mistress.

His anger fueled his body. Yunho pushed you up against the two way mirror rather roughly. “Tell me what role you play in this?” Yunho insisted.

“Yunho!” Detective Jeong’s partner, Detective Park, voice came through the comms rather perturbed. “This is uncalled for.”

“Is it?” Yunho cooed cruelly under his breath. “As I recall, you respond well to orders when you’re manhandled.”

You held yourself still, holding your breath, waiting for Yunho’s next move.

After a moment of silence, Yunho said, “Why don’t we show Seonghwa what a good little slut you are, hmm?”

A quick yank had Yunho lifting your shirt and bra, exposing your breasts to the detective on the other side. “Seonghwa doesn’t know how much you love others watching you, otherwise he’d sit down and enjoy the show.”

You watched your reflection as Yunho’s large hands encompassed your breasts and began to massage them. He squeezed and groped, making you moan in response.

“See? Once a good little slut, always a good little slut,” Yunho said in a sing-song voice.

“Yu-yunho!” Seonghwa protested on the comms once again.

You could see Yunho staring through the two way mirror. “Don’t worry Seonghwa, she’s loving the attention, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nodded your head and then let it fall back on Yunho’s shoulder as he played with your tits. You could feel yourself getting wet, quickly falling back into that mindspace you always had with Yunho in bed. But you got too comfortable too quickly.

Yunho switched positions, scooping your body up, hands under the back of your thighs, and squished you against the two way, your legs spread slightly beyond comfortability. You were flexible, it wasn’t impossible, but you still felt your thighs burn at the quick spread. Your nipples pressed against the cool glass surface, cheek smooshed as well, hands barely bracing yourself.

“Look how wet she is, Seonghwa. She fucking loves this. She loves being manhandled and groped and watched. Such a good little slut,” Yunho praised you and degraded you at the same time.

Using his weight against your back, Yunho one-handedly undid his belt and zipper, pulling out his cock that was very hard by now. He pushed it downwards, so that it could slide against your wet folds and shuddered when his tip hit the cool glass after brushing past your clit. You whined at the stimulation and Yunho couldn't help but chuckle darkly.

“That desperate for my cock, sweetheart? You won’t be getting that until you tell me how the hell you’re involved in all this,” Yunho insisted.

You bit down on your lip and moaned as Yunho bucked his hips, trailing his cockhead against your most intimate parts but never entering you. He worked his cock against you, pushing his cockhead against your clit and the glass wall, surely leaving a smear there. You were a hot mess with this scene, totally unable to say a word right now.

Yunho halted his motions, however, when you didn’t respond to him. That allowed you to cool down for a moment and use your words. “Yunho… I need…” You panted.

Yunho’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “I can give you what you want. You just have to tell me what I want to know.”

By now, your mind was simply on searching out that sweet high that you had forgotten only Yunho was able to do. His cock was the only one long enough to hit the end of you and even though he had been rubbing your clit, you knew in the back of your mind, if you did what you were told, you would get his cock. Your submissive mindset was slowly but surely coming back to you.

“I--” You bit down on your lip, a rush of pleasure running through you at the realization that Seonghwa was still probably watching this entire thing, even for the sake of making sure you weren’t too brutalized. You hoped he was enjoying the show and wasn’t holding his hand over his mouth in horror. You truly were enjoying yourself.

As an incentive, Yunho moved against you again, this time groaning himself, the sound music to your ears. You whined and started to move your hips back against him. “I’m… innocent…Yunho…I swear…I didn’t…do it!”

“You have the motive,” Yunho growled, “It’s on record you hated the girl. You were seen in the area she was found in and you have no alibi. If it’s not you then why are you a suspect?”

“Hhhnnnnnn,” You whined, “It’s because! Oh fuck Yunho, just like that, yeah yeah! I’m San’s lover!”

With the admittance to your connection to this case, you came loudly, high finally found. You drooled a little, feeling the spit dribble down your chin and along the glass. “Yunho,” You whimpered, as the detective pulled back, letting go of your legs. You slowly melted to the floor, legs like jello.

Yunho tucked himself back into his pants and straightened himself up. He did run his hand through his hair, not helping the matter. It only made him look more like he had just had sex. “Alright, Seonghwa, I got you an answer. Now it’s your turn to find out what it means.”

“But--?” Even post-orgasm, your cunt ached for Yunho’s cock inside of you.

Yunho smirked, cutting you in the best of ways. “Don’t worry, I hear Seonghwa is pretty long too. He’ll finish what I started. Be a good little slut and show Seonghwa exactly how good your cunt can be for him.”

#ateez smut #jeong yunho smut #atz smut #yunho smut #jeong yunho x reader #topaz's work #ღatz #recent

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joannechocolat · 1 year

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On why women’s rage is a superpower

My mother hates my new book. I gave her a proof just a few days ago, and although she’s still only halfway through, she can’t wait to tell me all the ways in which she hates my novel.

“Is this science fiction?” she says. (She detests science fiction.) “Were you ill when you wrote this?” (I was.) And repeatedly, she says: “Why are the women so angry?”

I get it. She’s out of her comfort zone. At 83, with no internet, no interest in pop culture and a deep-rooted hatred of anything close to horror or the supernatural, she wasn’t my target audience. And yet it’s never easy to hear such criticism from a loved one. But in some ways, she isn’t wrong. Broken Light is an angry book. It came from a time of lockdown, when social media was my only window onto the world. It came from a place of trauma, when I was fighting cancer. It came from a place of corrupt hierarchies, self-serving politicians, anti-vaxxers, Covid deniers, victim-blamers, and those eager to blame all their woes on minorities. And of course, it arose against the background of the #MeToo campaign and the Sarah Everard murder – a murder that shocked the nation, not least because the murderer turned out to be a serving police officer with a reputation for sexual misconduct - which unleashed a collective howl of protest, as well as an ugly, misogynistic backlash. Even so, my story came as something of a surprise to me: the story of a woman’s rage, and, on reaching the age at which women often feel least valued, her coming into her power.

It surprised me, most of all because I wasn’t an angry person. At least, I didn’t think I was. Those who know me describe me as someone who tends to flee conflict, who generally tries to find common ground, who gets upset when people fight. And yet, writing this story, I found myself saying and feeling certain things on behalf of my heroine, Bernie Moon; things I might not have said for myself, but which felt right and urgent, and true, and strangely liberating.

Anger has a bad press. A woman’s anger, especially. While men are encouraged to express feelings of justified anger, women are often criticized when they try to do the same. Angry women are often portrayed as “harpies,” “banshees,” “Furies.” It suggests that a man’s rage is righteous, but that a woman’s is unnatural, making her into a monster. Male anger is powerful. The God of the Bible is one of wrath. Seldom is he ever portrayed as expressing any other emotion. In the same way, men and boys are often led to believe that expressing emotion is weak - except for anger, which is seen as acceptably masculine.

In comparison, women are often criticized when they show aggression. Angry women are hysterical, shrill, out of control, unreliable, unattractive, unfeminine. A perceived lack of “femininity” makes a woman less valuable, less worthy of respect and of protection. The Press coverage of women victims of violence is a case in point. A victim of violence needs to be attractive, white, gender conforming and virtuous in every way if she is not to be overlooked, or worse, portrayed as somehow having contributed to her misfortune. When trans teenager Brianna Ghey was stabbed, the Press were very quick to state that her murder was not thought to be a hate crime, whilst at the same time obsessing over – and questioning - her gender. When Nicola Bulley disappeared, police felt obliged to divulge details of her struggle with the menopause, as well as her alcohol issues, even though this was privileged information and of no public relevance. When Emma Pattison, the Head of Epsom College, was murdered alongside her daughter, the Press immediately assumed that her husband George must have felt “overshadowed” and “driven to distraction” by his wife’s prestigious job. In all three cases, the victim falls under the hostile scrutiny of the Press, while the perpetrator is given an excuse. In all three cases, the victim – one trans, one hormonal, one better-paid than her husband - is effectively portrayed as “unnatural”. Subtext: Unnatural women do not deserve the protection of the patriarchy. Unnatural women come to bad ends.

Once you start to acknowledge it, rage grows at a surprising rate. Over the past three years, I have found myself growing increasingly angry. Angry at the injustices committed by our Government; t the greed of corporations; angry at the prejudice extended to those who are different.

Connecting with others on social media has made me more aware of the lives and experiences of those from different backgrounds to mine, and with different levels of privilege. For a long time I’d been resistant to calling myself a feminist. Feminists are angry, I thought. What right have you to be angry?

Growing older, I realize that this was my mother speaking. A woman of a certain generation, who although she was aware of the challenges of living in a patriarchy, still had a level of privilege that many women do not share. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the luxury of choosing not to be angry. White, professional, cishet women can sometimes have the illusion of equality. But feminism isn’t only for just one kind of woman. A feminist must look beyond the limits of their own experience. And that’s where the anger really starts: anger at injustice; anger at corruption and lies. Most of all, anger at the prejudice against certain people for just being themselves; for being transgender, or Black, or old, or simply not conforming to what a white, patriarchal society expects and values. And once you start seeing injustice, you start to see it everywhere. It’s like an eye, which, once opened, cannot unsee inequality.

My anger flourished in lockdown. A time of growing divisions. Masks are invaluable in a pandemic, and yet they inhibit connection. They serve as a kind of reminder of who can speak, and who is to be silenced. While Boris Johnson was urging the public to trust the police, a vigil for Sarah Everard was broken up, with violence, by officers citing lockdown laws. While elderly people were dying alone; while I drove for four hours just to go for a half-hour walk in the park with my son; while I sat alone in my chemo chair, politicians were partying. Billionaires were enriching themselves. Behind the mask, the eye opened wide. I caught myself making faces behind my disguise at strangers. There was something weirdly liberating about this; as if, behind the piece of cloth, I could express myself at last. Not unlike writing a book, in fact. On screen, the eye opened wider. Bernie Moon, my heroine, was unlike like me in many ways, and yet anger connected us. The anger that comes from helplessness; from seeing others mistreated. Anger at a society that propagates inequality. And the anger that comes from hormones – those mood-altering chemicals that everyone produces, and yet which allegedly make women erratic; unreliable; hormonal.

In his novel, Carrie, Stephen King tells the story of a girl, whose telekinetic powers are unleashed by her teenage hormones. Carrie is unpopular, bullied, isolated. Her rage finds an outlet in her power. Driven to breaking-point by the bullies, she becomes a monster. Of course she does: after all, the author of this tale is a man, writing from the perspective of a couple of thousand years’ worth of patriarchal inheritance. In literature, a woman’s anger is unnatural; monstrous. It leads to terrible, unnatural things: makes murderers and infanticides of Clytemnestra and Medea; monsters of Medusa and Scylla. Unnatural, monstrous women are always punished in literature, even while acknowledging that they are often the victims of men. And unnatural women are often seen as physically repulsive – a reminder that, to be valued and loved, women must be young, and pure, and conform to the standards of beauty set out by their society. In literature, just as in life, those women who do not conform tend to be less valued, less seen, and when they do appear, do so as wicked witches, evil stepmothers, ugly crones and hideous travesties of womanhood.

But what would happen if a woman took control of the narrative? In recent years, we have observed a number of retellings of Greek myths from the point of view of the monster. Stone Blind, by Nathalie Haynes; Medusa, by Jessie Burton; Circe, by Madeline Miller. In both cases, the monstrous woman is seen from a different perspective; her rage absorbed and justified; her narrative reclaimed from a patriarchy that seeks to tame and subdue a woman’s rage, even at the cost of her life.

My new novel, Broken Light, comes from the same process of reclamation. It owes a debt to Carrie, but I have avoided the explicitly paranormal theme of the original, as well as the girl-on-girl bullying and the psychopathic mother. In my version, Carrie lives; marries her childhood sweetheart; internalizes all her rage and suffocates her power. Until the menopause – a topic which until recently has been largely misunderstood and taboo – at which point her power returns, and with it, a new kind of freedom. Freedom from the male gaze; from the responsibilities of motherhood; from the largely impossible expectations of society. Unlike puberty, menopause is triggered by a lack of certain hormones; and yet the symptoms can be just as dramatic and isolating. Loss of libido, exhaustion, depression, emotional outbursts as well as unpredictable and alarming hot flashes – my version of Carrie’s pyrokinesis. Whether my heroine’s powers stem from any kind of paranormal source is very much up to the reader to decide – after all, paranormal is only a step away from unnatural. And what counts as unnatural is in the eye of the reader – an eye that has been opened, I hope, to a series of new possibilities.

One is that rage is natural. Living in a patriarchy, women have a right to their rage. In fact, it seems more unnatural to me when women are not angry, given how much misogyny remains in our society. And growing old is natural. Being hormonal is natural. Differences are natural; so are disabilities. All women matter; whatever their age, or colour, or sexual orientation, or marital or reproductive status. The value of a woman’s life should not be defined by her popularity, or her age, or her looks, or her kids, or her value to the patriarchy. And no-one else gets to decide what a woman ought to be. A woman is not what, but who - a person, not an object; an active participant in her world. Women have lived too long behind the mask. They deserve their own stories. Stories in which they are allowed the full range of human possibility. So, to answer my mother’s question: Why are the women so angry?

Because it’s a superpower.

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