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philtstone · 6 months

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Aragorn/Arwen, 63

#63 -- tujhe dekha toh from dilwale dulhania le jeyenge ok so the soulmatism of it all had me going completely nuts (simrans waking dreams.....i need to lie down) & before i knew it i'd re-read their appendix had 3 literary analysis epiphanies and was neck deep in the wiki page on love death and meaning and the paradox of religion and nonreligion in tolkein i say all that like i didnt just write movie verse kidfic lol. ellie is a shortened version of "nethel" which means sister in sindarin. in a different time in my life i would have named every single one of canon girldad aragorns "many daughters" & also included 5 of them but alas, at this time i am Busy. so we'll pretend that the other 3 havent come along yet. arwen has magic powers she will be fine. enjoy!

“My lady Luthien!”

The words come into Arwen's dream in the common tongue, whispered and full of a child’s awe. He is speaking as if to himself — the text has surprised him, or perhaps absorbed him so that he does not realize his mouth is moving, disrupting the Sindarin read privately in his thoughts with an impulsive, delighted exclamation.

To Arwen it is just as mesmerizing. She cannot know why her dream has brought her here, to this garden of her father’s House she has sought refuge in so many a time. She knows him very little, this child, not ten in the years of Men and so very human about it, with lanky limbs folded up against himself to cradle the book and a mop of dark hair that falls down over his eyes and the very beginning of spots on his chin (of endless intrigue to Arwen, who has only ever seen skin unblemished).

She has not met him, but knows of him from her brothers’ letters: her father’s ward, sweet and grave and beloved amongst the Rivendell kindred as any novelty in the shape of a child might be. But Estel earns it, too. He is earning his presence in her dream in the same way, sat in the exact spot she always chooses, under bows of trees she has long considered friends. He earns it, though Arwen doesn’t quite know why he’s here.

Don’t you? ask her thoughts of her self, and she does not answer.

Years pass, and she is home again.

“My lady Luthien,” he says, as she comes toward him, and within his voice is a gentle embarrassment that still manages to tease.

Arwen, firm in her earlier, gentle rejection (he is far too young), cannot help but find this terribly charming anyway. It is just after dinner, and she has found him behind a pillar to the side of where they dine. He holds his cup in both hands. Until her appearance he was studying the carvings on one stone edifice to their side, and seems in every way his mortal age save one: there is a new and convoluted weight in his eyes that was not there in the early afternoon, when he called so clearly and sincerely to her. It seems to have entered like the broken branches of a sapling swept into a fast-moving stream after a storm.

“I should be greatly flattered, Estel, to be compared thus,” Arwen says, offering that weight a smile. Estel drops his eyes back to the pillar. He seems to start and stop a few times before actually opening his mouth, and when he does,

“I should like to still be called Estel, for a while yet,” and there is great vulnerability there, in his young man’s eyes. It sneaks into her breast and cups a hand over the breath she draws, and despite the glade, and his youth, and the Truth her father has now shared with him, she is compelled: Arwen’s own hand slides over his knuckles, and they are holding the cup together.

“I will,” she promises. “I do.”

On the edge of the last word do his eyes flick up to hers, canny in a way that sparks beneath her skin. He lives up to his name, she thinks then (not quite knowing why), and when she writes this to him after they have parted, in the letters they now share, he writes back: so do you.

Before Estel, her experience of Death was altogether different. She knew it first in abstraction and then in keen loss. Now she feels its imminance and urgency, in both grand and mundane ways.

For example, earlier this evening, Arwen thought she might die if she did not kiss him. It was a thought that crept over her swiftly, silent and keen as a fresh ice water brook spilling into open hands, very different from the thundering roar of the river spirits she had summoned to herself – until it was suddenly quite the same, roaring, and it must have shown in her eyes. In the late quiet of the night she came to her rooms and found him, there.

(She has long since known why.)

The employment of her tongue is not new, but pulls a murmur out of him regardless. “My lady Luthien,” he starts, speaking almost directly against her mouth, with a wry amusement that is not so unburdened as to be playful and not yet a warning, either, and then he is properly startled into, “Arwen —!” when her next kiss includes a bite. The rasp of beard against her chin is uncomfortable and delightful. She can feel the rumble of her small victory in his chest. Aragorn has always done so much with just the two syllables of her name.

When she has lost all breath she pulls away, and does not pant — sweet air made salty by urgency comes in and out of her lungs in discordant sighs — but her lips stay hot against his ear and she feels every press of his fingers against the slope of her waist, burning. She thinks of death again; she has fought it off. Twice in one week now, in very different ways.

Aragorn does pant, in his own way. He lets out a quiet gasp and drops his head against the side of hers, not trembling but finding some stronghold deep within himself that begets composure.

Slowly she begins to comb her fingers through the hair at his temple. In the dark alcove of her rooms (safe), they sway together.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, and she knows: tomorrow the council is held.

“I meant it, earlier,” says Arwen softly, into his hair. It has begun to grey, the strands too hidden yet to shimmer in the moonlight but there nonetheless. Every so often she will catch a glimpse of them and it will leave her wordless, and desperate to touch him. “Your fears are not the truth you think them to be.”

“Arwen.” She can hear the desperation that threatens to choke his own voice. Duty turns the peaceful twilight of her home into a foreboding shadow. There are two large warm hands on her face before she has noticed them move, and then she feels the wetness of her own cheeks: she had not realized she was crying.

“I did not know it would be so momentous to love,” she says, while he wipes at her tears with war-roughened, gentle fingers. So many things about Men are a paradox. So many things about this man.

“Meleth,” he says.

“I meant it.” She repeats herself. “I know who you are in my heart, Estel.”

“You do,” he allows her, and she is not certain he believes it to be enough. No matter, Arwen thinks: her own belief will sustain them. It must, long enough that he has hope for himself as well as for Men, and then they might cross through the door, to the other side of the Dark.

The Queen finds her husband in Faramir’s study, reading.

“My lady Luthien,” she is greeted, words threaded full of the subtle humour that has turned her head for over sixty years.

Arwen clasps her hands over the laden basket she packed without needing any kind of foresight and sighs thinly.

“I did expect, mel nin, that you had gone the whole day without food, but I had thought you would be found holding grave council, or visiting the head healer, or even – forgivably – in the stables. Instead, you are here, nose-deep in an ancient poem.”

“It did not come to you in a vision?” he asks, and raises his eyes just enough to catch hers from beneath his lashes. This does nothing to diminish the focus etched into his dark brow, nor the way he holds himself (always it calls to her – it does not matter the shape), nor the deep blue of his mantle sweeping against the floor; he has not paused to change since returning from the Southern Wall. Whatever peace he thinks his feigned innocence will win him, she cannot know.

“Your Steward told on you, my love.”

“Aaah,” his face falls, so dramatically it is amusing.

She holds up her basket. “I have lunch.”

“My beloved wife has developed the sensibilities of a Hobbit,” Aragorn says, in her people’s language.

“Hobbits are good and noble creatures,” she retorts. She always argues better with him in Sindarin anyhow, “and have traditions from which we might learn.” She arches a brow: “Estel.”

“I am eating,” protests Aragorn, somewhat weakly. “I mean – I will.”

“You might do so now. With me – there is no one else here.”

It is a potent suggestion, she does acknowledge. She watches him think about it, proud to note all the little tells which she has known since he was a barefaced and impulsive young man. The same canny look sparks under Arwen’s skin. Once, decades ago, she had met him in the wild woods beyond her father’s borders in a stolen moment between darkness and duty, and convinced him to bathe with her in the river. She remembers her joy at seeing his wet dark hair plastered all over his forehead. She remembers his own joy, and how it fought off the lonesome blanket of the gathering shadow.

“Your thoughts are of something I know,” Aragorn says now, suspicion arching his tone and narrowing his bright eyes, no longer that of a young man but still full of a life that thrills her. “Some joyful mischief that you’re going to coax me into again, no doubt.”

“There is sadly no river in the palace.”

“Aaah,” uttered in a very different tone from before. His eyebrows twitch out of their focused furrow and his face warms with the memory. He lowers his book a little. “Arwen …”

But he does not move from his spot behind the desk, so Arwen places her basket down and sweeps forward, intent. The silver in his hair streaks liberally now, and lines furrow down his cheeks when he laughs – often – but otherwise Aragorn remains mostly unchanged from the presence filling so little yet so much of the many years of Arwen’s memory. Affection rushes through her, swelling like the river, growing like the trees in Lorien. That glade, too, is a memory full of joy. He is much better suited to a beard, though. Arwen tells him this.

“So you have said many many times,” Aragorn says, chuckling. “I have no plans of removing it from my face, beloved.”

“I know,” Arwen hums. “I am only observing.”

Slowly she comes around the desk, on even steps, until they are very nearly touching and she can fold her hands over the top of his book. She takes a long moment to look at him, and though she in her chosen mortality no longer carries the same potency of power that Tinuviel’s blood held before, she conducts her habitual scan of his spirit, the truth of it ebbing through her fingers where they touch. Beyond her duties as Queen (of which there are many, and she both capable and willing) this is what Arwen knows most deeply in her heart how to do.

Finding Aragorn no more burdened than usual (though perhaps a little distracted) she leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Ah –” he clears his throat and touches two long brown fingers to her arm. Unexpectedly, then, Aragorn stage whispers, “We are not … as alone as it seems.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Arwen, paused very close to his mouth, is compelled to whisper back.

And then,

“It’s alright!” comes a familiar little voice from seemingly nowhere, and all at once Arwen looks down to see the outside shape of the King’s voluminous cloak wriggle. Her mouth parts in surprise. The whisperer continues importantly, “You may kiss Ada if you like, Naneth. We are not looking!”

“Ssssshhh!” materializes a second, equally familiar little voice.

Arwen tilts her head, mystified, as her husband sets his expression into something communicating exclusively the secrets and patient indulgences of fatherhood. Then he jerks his chin towards the door, eyebrows raised and everything, not a moment before there sounds the sharp cadence of what can only be a young boy’s footsteps (and Arwen would know this boy’s as she knows her own heart) and into the library bursts their only son.

At the sight of his parents, Eldarion comes to an abrupt halt, and tries very hard to compose himself.

“Ahem,” he says, straightening. She sees the way his body moves to mimic his father, and also the grass stains on his knees, and the disheveled mop of his curls that means he has definitely spent the last hour running around in the gardens. Arwen is unbothered by this. “Hello Ada, hello Naneth. Have you – have you seen my sisters?”

The front of Aragorn stays conspicuously still.

“Your sisters?” asks Arwen, clasping her hands demurely before her.

“I am afraid my attention has been elsewhere,” says Aragorn gravely, holding aloft his book.

“Indeed,” adds Arwen. “So much so that he has forgotten to eat.”

Minutely, the cloak quivers.

“Hmmmm,” says Eldarion, lost in focus. “I must find them to create an alliance with the brave rangers in the North,” he speaks, almost as though to himself – he is really giving this quite a bit of thought. He is so absorbed that she could be in Rivendell again, drawn by a dream into her beloved, occupied glade … “For we must defend the townspeople but I cannot do it alone.”

Arwen blinks. Her heart is filled with tenderness.

“They have assigned you the role of orc again?” Aragorn is guessing, sympathetic.

Eldarion droops only a little before springing back up with full confidence. “Yes! But I am determined that we will create an alliance. I am a good orc, you see.”

With hasty goodbyes, he rushes away, taking the excitable sound of his footsteps with him.

A moment of quiet passes. Aragorn’s cloak begins giggling, so he spreads open his arms and herds them out one by one.

“You must go quietly now, down the hall and into the gardens,” whispers their father.

“Naneth,” begins their youngest, halfway out the room, “Naneth, do you think if we formed a nalliance –”

“An alliance,” corrects Aragorn, still whispering.

“Shhh,” interrupts the other, “or Eldarion will find us!”

“But he must be getting lonely!”

“Oh, ellie …”

Their little voices trail out of the door.

“I believe an alliance would work,” Aragorn offers Faramir’s many inert books, speaking at a normal register once more. The study now empty, Arwen turns back to her husband. His eyes are twinkling. She does not say anything, but moves toward him, as she has done so many times before, and lays her head to rest against his shoulder. In moments the book is tucked away, and the warm hands she knows so well are cradling her arms.

After a moment he says, “You are well? Arwen?” a gentle question in her ear. Arwen nods. She can now say what she knows, and why they are here:

She sustained them, and there was hope to be found.

Aragorn’s fingers rub over the gauzy sleeve of her dress. “Did you have your heart set on lunch?” he asks quietly.

“I did,” Arwen says, and turns to hold his eye. “I do.”

#i rewrote the ending 3 times to procrastinate posting this bc i am so Nervous #ive literally written them before but never like Seriously you know?#Thee Blueprint from when i was 8 years old....#my writing #spotify wrapped prompt meme #aragorn #arwen undomiel #aragorn x arwen #the lord of the rings #the tale of aragorn and arwen #lotr #lotrweek

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the-yandere-cryptid · 1 year

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Heyy I hope you're well ❤️ I havent seen any activity on this blog for a while but whenever youre feeling up to it, would you share your favorite fics that you ever wrote? Top 5 or just whatever comes to mind. Feel better ❤️

imagine if you will: me, thinking "oh, what a nice way to return to my blog and also rant about some of my favorite stories." I take like 30 minutes to link some fics with little author notes about why they are my favorites. Tumblr shits, and all of it is lost. I am very normal and cool about it. ANYWAYS. 5. Thinking Outside the Box - Hanzo / Reader / Cassidy(McCree) This one was just a fun request that turned into a fun story, I find myself thinking about this one often--I'd love to expand on the idea in an original story at some point.

4. Conference - Carlos Oliveira / Reader BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK--ahem. This one was more about the flirting than the actual smut, but even I was impressed with how well both turned out. Plus, Carlos.

3. How Noble - Professor Venomous / Reader

Most of my best fics usually come from the random bursts of inspiration that have me writing 5k words in a single night like a madman. Less time to lose motivation = More attention during editing, meaning they come out nice and polished. I had always wanted to do a story with a Fetlife-esque social media aspect, and it turned out exactly how I wanted it to. Though, I have considered going back and sprucing up the smut itself. 2. Christmas Gift - Karl Heisenberg / Reader While not my #1 favorite overall, it's easily my favorite in terms of the smut. Since writing porn over and over can get stale, I really relished in the breath of fresh air that was this story. I could tell when I was planning that the premise could be really unique, so I gave it my all to make something exciting even to me and I think it really shines through. 1. What You'll Do - Michael Myers / Reader This fic, when I planned it out, was much more shallow than it wound up being. I still remember the first chapter, going from an unattached opening to writing 13k words in 3 days, exhausted yet compelled forth like a puppet. It turned out way different, my characterization of Michael is shoddy at best, but the story just erupted out of me, and wound up becoming the piece I feel has the most soul out of anything I've ever written, especially in the second chapter. I do plan on writing a 3rd and final chapter at some point, but that would probably require an insane burst of motivation like the ones that created parts 1 and 2.

#yandere talk #everything in my life must give me extreme difficulty

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darkmulti · 4 years

Text

Detention!

Stray Kids

Parings: teacher, incubus! Chan x female reader

Genre: smut, duh

Word Count: 1.9k

HEAVY SMUT

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

———

Synopsis: Y/N lies to Mr. Bang and well.... he has to punish her.

~Hope you enjoy~

———

A/N: 🤷‍♀️ warnings are after undercut~ not edited, please don’t kill me😔

⚠️Warnings: degradation, compelling, mentions of watersport, rough sex, spanking, slapping, spitting, marking, readers first time, hair pulling, choking, blood, overstimulation, dacryphilia

—————————————————————————

Y/N lays her tongue on a flat piece of paper, making it wet. She rips the wet part and rolls it into a ball, then loads it into her straw. One eye closed and the other eye aimed right at her teacher. She blows into the straw and the spitball launches out, landing on her teachers face. “Y/N! I’m trying to teach a class here!” The troublemaker makes a baffled face and says, “it wasn’t me!”

“I saw you spit it at me.” He turns around and puts the marker on his desk. Her teacher walks over and inspects her desk. “Ah ha!” He pulls out the piece of paper and sets it on her desk. “What’s this?” He questions, moving his glasses down.

“It’s a random piece of paper. It’s not mine!” She scoffs and kicks the chair in front of her. “Nice try, detention after school. I need to discipline you for lying.”

Y/N sticks her tongue out to him, “you’re not my mom! You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Chan rolls his eyes and goes back to the front to finish off his lesson before school ends. Y/N chewed on her gum, while twirling her hair with her finger. She was half asleep when school finally ended. She quickly puts on her bag and mixes in with the students trying to leave.

“Not so fast, Y/N!” The man pulls her back by her backpack and tells the rest of the students to scurry off. “You have detention.” The brat makes a shocked face. “Oh, I forgot.”

“I’m sure you did…” he goes over to the door and locks it. “Little slut.”

“Excuse me? You don’t say that to a student, sir.”

“I can say whatever I want to say. I can make you do whatever I want you to do. I can stop you from breathing… If I wanted to, I could even piss in your mouth.”

“S-sir, I can report you for this!”

“With what proof?”

The girl's heart raced in her chest and her breath hitched. “It’s still wrong and you know it!” Chan slowly walks closer to her, tracing his fingers along the desk. “It’s wrong, but it feels right.” Y/N starts backing away not knowing what to do. “P-please sir. We can work something out. I-I won’t lie, or misbehave in class. I’ll be a good student!” She keeps backing up until her back hits the wall. She looks to her right for one second, and the next Chan has her arms pinned, above her head. His eyes slowly turn red, and Y/N notices. She rapidly blinks, to check if she was hallucinating or not.

Chan chuckles and cups the compelled girls cheek. “From now on you’ll do whatever I say. You will enjoy everything that I give you, and will take it without a problem. You will call me daddy or master, and be my little housewife. Understood?”

“Understood daddy.” Her cold eyes turned into soft ones and she slightly smiled. “P-please u-use me.” Her eyes sparkle upon saying this. “Gladly.” Chan lets go of her hand and starts kissing her jawline down to her neck. He rips off her clothes and throws them behind in a blink of an eye. “Wow daddy! That was fast!” The demon hums and attacks her tits; sucking on her right one while roughly massaging the left.

“Master! It feels so good.” She throws her head back and arches her back. Her sensitive nipples stung from all the saliva it absorbed, causing her to hiss. Chan left purple marks all over the girl's chest and neck. He picked her up and laid her on the desk. She put her legs high up waiting for her masters order.

Her master takes his belt off and spanks the girls ass. He grabbed her legs and flipped her over, onto her stomach. “Are you ever going to lie to daddy?” He spanks her ass, and pushes her face down. “Tell me babygirl, I’m giving you permission to talk.” The demon spanks her again, this time leaving a little blood. “I-I w-will never l-lie a-again.”

“Good.” Chan gets on his knees and licks the blood away. “I wonder if your cum will taste as sweet as your blood… Let's find out.”

“Uh.. daddy, can you please be gentle? I-it’s my first-” Before she could finish her sentence, the man starts to laugh. “Master, what’s so funny?!” She frowns and looks behind at him. “The school’s slut is a virgin?” Daddyy!” She cries out. “It hu-urts!” She sobs in Chan’s arms and he ruthlessly goes faster. The tiny girl lets out a quiet scream while cumming.

Her legs go numb and she almost collapses to the floor but the man behind her catches her. He bends her over the table and picks up his pace. “WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU CAN CUM?!” He angrily growls at her. “N-n one, master.” She silently sobs, and looks away not wanting to get in more trouble. “Next time tell me!” He gives her another full thrust and his tip reaches deep in hitting her gspot. “AhHHHH IM GONNA CUM!” She lets out her sobs and cums again. “I-I’m so s-sorry daddy! Please forgive me I-I couldn’t control it!” She shakes in fear under the man.

“You could’ve held it in, but you just like being a disobedient brat. Just you wait. Once I’m done with you, you’ll be afraid to make eye contact with me. I’ll fuck that little brat right out of you body, and fuck her too.”

“N-no! Please don’t hurt me master! I-I love you.”

Chan smirks, knowing that he has her tightly wrapped around his finger. “You love me? Already? Even though I’m fucking your guts out?”

“Y-you don’t l-love me?”

“No”

Y/N gasps and starts screaming and crying under him. “GET OFF ME IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” The little kicks her feet trying to get him off of her, clearly hurt that he doesn’t love her. “Listen here you fucking cunt. I won’t EVER love you. I don't love. I’ll fuck you everyday, you take it, no questions asked.”

“NO! I WANT SOMEONE TO LOVE ME!”

“NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE SUCH A NASTY WHORE!”

Chan throws her across the room in anger and his eyes start turning black. “You want to love a demon? Demons can’t love! And even if they could, why would I ever love you?!”

He picks her up off the floor and pins her against the whiteboard, getting closer to her face. “Am I unlovable?” She asked. The man picked her up and held onto her thighs. His tip rubbed her wet lips and Chan titled his head. “Do you think that you’re unlovable?” She nods. “Well you’re wrong. No one will ever love you.” His hand immediately covers her mouth as he thrust his hips up, shoving all of his cock in. She squeezes her eyes shut, but the tears keep coming anyways. At this point his words hurt more than his actions.

Her core began to sting from overstimulation. Each time he would thrust in, her breath would be knocked out of her, as well as some tears. She no longer wanted to talk to him, even though her pussy was saying something else. Her cunt was throbbing around his cock, suffocating it. This drove the demon insane. His black horns started to rise up in his head, indicating that he was sensitive but angry.

He held her still while fucking the attiude out of her. She sobs and tries to get him to loosen his grip, but he only holds tighter. “Daddy I’m going to cum!” Her hair sticks onto her forehead and she rolls her eyes back feeling him destroying her gspot. “Don’t cum yet, hold it in” her eyes widen and she quickly sucks everything in. She clenches her jaw and starts crying again, but this time, a lot louder. “I-I can’t hold it!”

“HOLD IT!” The demon bites on her neck, sucking some blood out. She screams and kicks her feet, wanting out. “Too much- daddy please!”

“Cum for me whore! Cum all over my cock!”

Y/N moans and throws her head back, banging it on the whiteboard. She spills her white juices on his cock, while he releases in her. They stay like that for thirty seconds, trying to catch their breath. Chan drops her onto the floor and she lands on her buttocks. “Get on your fucking knees” the little is quick to obey and gets in knees infront of her master.

“When I cum, I cum a lot.” He strokes his cock super fast until his cum shoots at her face and tits. “Open your mouth.” She opens her mouth and his thick, sweet cum lands on her tongue. Chan looks down and spits in her mouth too. “Swallow.”

Y/N gulps it all down while making eye contact with his black eyes. He picks her up off the ground and praises her for taking it. The man was about to lick his cum off her face until someone walks in,

“Chan, what’s taking-” Felix’s eyes widen and jaw drops.

“Perfect timing brother. I was just about to call you.”

To be continued~

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Y’all already know an aussie threesome bout to happen.

Not edited… too tired 😓

Edit: I STILL HAVENT EDITED IT SOMEONE HELP ME! SCHOOLS SLAPPING MY ASS HARDER THEN BANG CHAN!

Don’t make fun of me for dumb mistakes:(

It 1:34am 🥺

#bang chan #chan #christopher bang #stray kids smut #chan smut #chris smut #bang chan smut #kpop smut #kpop #dark kpop

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ladybugsfanfics · 4 years

Text

Shut Up And Kiss Me [14/?] | Tom Hiddleston

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x reader

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: pining, angst, implications of sex,

Summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with.

A/N: so this is late, and i havent posted anything in like two weeks, but school’s crazy and im kinda tired but this is finally here and i’ve reached 1k followers. I don’t know if i’ll make something out of it but thank you to every one who is following me and i hope you enjoy this part ^_^

Little goes through Tom’s mind when he wakes. Surprise catches him at the feel of someone lying in his arms, and more surprise at the unfamiliar room he’s in. Tom looks down to see who’s cuddling into him, whose fanning breath spreads across his chest.

His breath gets punched out of him at the sight of Y/N. Her hair tangled, arm draped over his bare torso, and heavy breathing mixing with the hammering of his heart.

Oh, God. He didn’t…?

But Tom knows he did. He didn’t drink. The events of the previous night flashes through his mind. How she’d asked if he could drive her home, how she’d needed help to get inside, how he’d watched her fiddle with her keys before getting open the door. He remembers the way his chest beat so rapidly, waiting for that inevitable goodbye that was doomed to come.

Everything stopped working inside of him when she pulled him into her doorway, when she tugged at his tie and made the motion to look up. Adrenaline had coursed through his body when his lips met hers. The five years of pining and trying to get over the painful breaking of his heart had been swept to the side. When she’d deepened the kiss with her arms wrapped around his neck and a jump before her legs were wrapped around his waist and his hand had come to cup her ass and they’d moved to the bedroom, lips still locked together, had been the most intense moment he’d ever experienced.

The picture he saved in his mind of her naked body in bed pops up and Tom has to shake away the thought.

This isn’t happening. Y/N had been drunk. She is with Chris. It was a mistake, clearly. A drunken one.

And he’d made the mistake of indulging.

It takes him only a second to make up his mind. He does his best to peel himself away from her, gaze flickering to her every moment just to make sure she doesn’t wake up. Boxers on, trousers on, shirt wrongly buttoned, a quick grasp of socks and jacket, and he double checks his wallet and phone are still there, and knowing he has his belongings, he soundlessly slips out the door.

Only a week left before Christmas break. Only a week where things might be slightly awkward between the two of them. Only a week to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do now.

This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

---

Awkwardness is the least of Tom’s worries, apparently.

When he makes it to the classroom before class on Tuesday (and mind you, he hasn’t seen Y/N since before they fell asleep Saturday evening), he’s met with the pleasurable yet very frightening bright smile Y/N sends him.

“Hey,” she says, eyes lighting up with a passion Tom hasn’t ever seen before. “We haven’t talked that much lately, but I thought we had some time now.” She hands him a paper. “I wanted to talk about the upcoming exam, and how to best prepare them to get the best possible grades.”

Tom takes the paper she hands, and sees a list of suggestions. The title reads Tips To Get The Best Exam Results. He nods slightly. “Sure, sounds good.” His voice sounds weird to his ears, lighter than normal. He coughs slightly, and tries again. “Did you have anything specific in mind that we should focus on?”

Nope, still no good.

But if Y/N noticed, she doesn’t say anything, the smile still brightly lighting up her face. “Just thought we could go off the list, really. Something I threw together on Sunday. Already had a rough draft, but you know, can’t stop working.” She tips her head a little, almost a shrug but not really one.

He’s tempted to ask her; if he did something wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her apartment? Maybe they should talk about it?

Tom looks down to check his watch. Still fifteen minutes until any students are supposed to make an appearance. That’s more than enough time to talk about the incident, more than enough, only how does he start―

“Tom?” Y/N waves a hand in front of his face, her own searching for a response.

He shakes his head. “Sorry, what?”

“Just asked if there was anything you thought I’d missed. I want your input.”

There’s something so completely foreign to that sentence that Tom freezes. Even if they were making progress with how well they got along, he’d never actually thought she’d willingly ask for his input. Especially not after he left her apartment after a (great) round of sex and hasn’t actually talked to her since―as far as he knows, most people don’t like that.

However, he has to pull himself out of his head. So he shakes his head (no, he has not read the list) and just gives her a weak smile. “I’m sorry, I’m not really present today.”

“That’s okay,” she says, smile back on her face, though more sweet and less bright. Almost bordering on saccharine. “Can’t always be present, can we? I bet you had a pretty rough Sunday, too. Might not have had that good a Monday either?”

Tom raises a brow. “Rough Sunday? Were you very hungover?” Yes, he avoids the questions. He needs to know if there’s a possibility she doesn’t remember. Of course, that would only make matters worse because he would feel compelled to tell her.

Y/N scrunches her nose a little. “Not that much. I didn’t drink a lot, with the exceptions of the shots I took, but honestly, without them I’d never dared to kiss you either, so… kinda thankful.” And as she talks, her demeanor changes. Tom starts to wonder if she wasn’t being passive aggressive all this time with her sweet voice and big smile.

“You… uhm.” Tom’s words don’t work. Or maybe they don’t exist.

“Yeah, great night, actually. You know, other than you walking out on me, but I can’t blame you.” She shrugs. There’s nothing close to hurt in her voice, nothing close to anger either, really.

Tom has to swallow, because he feels like there’s something more she wants to say and he’s not sure the tug at his heart can take it if she does. Whether that’s a bold reveal that she does, in fact, not like him, in any way, or if it is that she likes him. But what if she likes him only sexually? Will he indulge?

“You know?” she says and takes a step closer to him. “We got about ten minutes. Or more, if we lock the door.” A finger comes up to drag down a little of the shirt he wears, exposing some of his chest. She doesn’t say the last words, but Tom can hear them.

His heart beats rapidly in his chest. Her fingers dance with flames as they graze across and trace their way to his chin. A firm hand takes hold of it, steadying his gaze into hers and he’s not sure he can say no when she licks her lips in that way.

God, his pants are tight.

When he lets her tug him down to ghost her lips over his, he knows he’s screwed. He’s breaking his own heart, breaking the pieces he thought were mending slowly but surely, breaking the trust he put into himself to be strong enough to resist the temptation.

But when Y/N’s lips graze past and connect with his neck, he can’t control the impulse that makes his hands fly to her hips to pull her flush against him. His hands graze the lining of her shirt, and he knows they don’t have time for teasing or foreplay or anything Tom really enjoys.

He doesn’t care. He gives in, succumbing to the desire that resides deep within him. If the only way Tom can be close to Y/N is by being a fuck buddy, he couldn’t care less. At least he gets to be with her.

---

By now, Tom would be home. He’d be with Bobby, cradling the dog into him to gain the cuddles he so desperately needed but didn’t get from the person he most wanted.

Yet, Tom isn’t home. He’s still at the office, slumped down in his too small couch with its too lumpy cushions and too hard armrests. It was the first thing he’d done when he got back after the Creative Writing class. Mostly because he needed time to think, but he can’t think because all that’s on it is how good those ten minutes before class started had been.

God knows he loves foreplay, but God knows they hadn’t needed it.

It’s not like that isn’t what he wanted to think about, it’s just that he can’t stop thinking about how it felt, instead of thinking about what this means for him. For them. For Y/N: His mind should be travelling through all the consequences of such a relationship. Or his mind shouldn’t only be focusing on the positive consequences.

He should focus on how this might rupture the steady going of an actual friendship (with the hopeful something more), but instead he can’t stop thinking about the feelings that rushed through him when Y/N’s lips had press to that spot on his neck. He can’t stop thinking about the throbbing in his abdomen, the swirl of hurt and guilt and arousal deep within his gut, the adrenaline that rushed through his body knowing she wanted him.

However, the one thought (that’s a mixture of positive and negative) he can’t let go, is that she avoided kissing him. She avoided pressing her lips to his, despite the obvious passion that had come from it on Saturday. She almost avoided his face entirely (the slight hint of a red mark on his neck―that one of their students had pointed out over the course of the class―isn’t necessarily unwanted).

But that feeling, that deep, deep longing that had accompanied the kiss on Saturday (no matter if it was prompted by alcohol), he missed that. He wanted it. He still wants it. He wants all of it. More than just friends with benefits, more than a casual relationship, more than… He isn’t even sure exactly what it is they do have.

Maybe they have something that can lead somewhere? Maybe they have something that won’t continue? Maybe they have something―

Tom’s train of thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. He scrambles to sit upright on the couch (though he nearly falls off). And, with some sense of dignity still left, he says, “come in.”

The door opens agonizingly slowly. Tom has a silent wish of it being Y/N wanting something more, but he also has a huge wish it’s Benedict and that he can talk to his best friend about the problem that is eating away at him.

And thank God, his prayers are answered. Benedict fully steps into the room and gives Tom a quick once up. He raises a brow and smirks slightly. “And what did I walk in on?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Tom shakes his head. “No, there is something. You have time to talk or did you just come here for a favor?”

Benedict closes the door and sits down in the chair at his side of the desk. He turns it to face Tom and leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “I was coming in here for something else, but you look like you need to talk more. What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N.”

“Of course it is. Did something happen Saturday?” Benedict raises a brow.

Tom nods, slowly. “We… uhh, I don’t know how to put this, but… we, uhmm…” He takes a deep breath, unsure of how to say the words, unsure of Benedict’s reaction. “We slept together.”

The man’s eyes go wide, and a frown comes through on his face. “Like in the same bed, or the… you know?”

“We had sex, and then fell asleep afterward. Why would we just sleep in the same bed?” Tom shakes his head at his best friends.

“I don’t know. Maybe there was something else.” He shrugs. “But that can’t be everything.”

Tom presses his lips together. He drapes a hand across his face, a sigh accompanying the gesture. “We did it again. I guess you could call it a ‘quicky’. In the classroom. Before our students came in.”

“Is that the reason for the red mark on your neck?”

“Yes.”

When Tom looks up to meet Benedict’s gaze, it feels almost like the older man is mocking him. The teasing, and halfway disappointed, look on Benedict's face is tantalizing.

“She or you initiate?”

“Her. Both times.”

“But the first she was drunk?”

Tom nods. “She had a mistletoe in her doorway. I guess it helped when I followed her up to her flat, seeing as she couldn’t really walk.”

Benedict chuckles. “Are you going to keep it up?”

A sigh falls from Tom’s lips. “I don’t know. Should I?”

“Is it worth it?”

Is it worth it? Is it worth the ache in his heart when she looks at him as if he holds everything she desires but not the part he wants her to desire? Is it worth the stab in his gut when her lips don’t connect with his? Is it worth the scorching heat that comes off of her fingers grazing his skin, of her hands studying his chest? Is it worth his heart leaping into his throat because she feels so close yet so far away? Is it worth it, if his heart will only break past redemption in an effort to be close to her even if it’s not in the way he wants?

“I don’t know.” Tom shakes his head. “What if it’s the only way? What if that’s my only option to be close to her? What if I lose everything if I stop it?”

Benedict smiles, but whatever is really on his mind, he doesn’t say. “Tom, be real. Is it worth it?”

He takes a deep breath, unsure of his answer. Unsure until his lips part and the words carry around the room.

“Yes.”

permanent tags: @devilbat @adefectivedetective @gamillian @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @heartislubbingdubbing @wiczer @chillcan @geeksareunique @fandom-imagines1

Tom tags: @inlovewith3 @bookgirlunicorn @mindlesschicca @justawriterinprogress @wolfsmom1 @loser-alert @satanskatze @timetravelingsociopathicwalker

suakm tags: @plooffairy @just-the-hiddles @jennytwoshoes @lokissidehoe @fruitfly123 @princetale @scorpionchild81 @noplacelikehome77 @winterisakiller @lostsoldieronahill @nonsensicalobsessions @cherrygeek86 @louhpstuff @olyamoriarty @sunshinein17 @kthemarsian @kumikowi @secretcupcakekitty @buckygrantbarnes @josis-teacup @runawaygiirl @januarycalendargirl @funny-fangirl @kinghiddlestonanddixon @scorpiomindfuck @dr-kayleigh-dh @inmyworstlies @twhgirl @maah-chan @florencia93c @i-am-a-mes @o-deya @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @cantaloupewatch @carpediem-spero @createdbyanintensenerd @beananacake @lysawayne @nightrose64 @bradfordbantams @feyre-thehighlady @thundermaximoff @lys-syl @beenthroughalot @xrainydazeteax @mautand @coldbookworm @cursed-moonstone @justanobodyinthisbigworld @holyodepius

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kosmicdream · 7 years

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The Patience and Pressure of ...A Secret

Now that Chapter 11 is completed, I am left to reflect on the journey as well as plan for the next one. This has been a very intense chapter for me emotionally and physically...Somewhat more draining than any previous chapter to date. I am thankful it is over, I wish I could say it was the most fun chapter I’ve had but honestly it was pretty stressful and exhausting. Regardless of that, I am exceptionally proud of its completion it and I don’t think I’ve ever been so satisfied with an ending to a chapter, not since ch5 I think.

Usually when a chapter ends, I feel immediately anxious for the next or just.. dunno, empty, disappointed, doubtful.. Usually anxious. Anxious to keep going because of all the loose ends I’ve left, new situations and characters I’ve introduced, desperate to provide context and more information and.. usually in the hopes that it all makes sense, without it making too much sense that its boring and predicable..? This kind of comes to this point of Spoon, who has been the most interesting character in FFAK to me for a long time. The most interesting and complicated, as he was made from the inspiration of “what would happen if I wrote someone who split in half and the two halves went on to live different lives?” Its exceptional to me now, to imagine how far that idea carried and how much it still provides with hours of introspection. I thought it, honestly, might take years and years before I revealed this huge aspect of this character despite it being one of the topics i cared about the most in this story. It almost became so very important, exciting, compelling I just.. Didn’t want to share it? It was very special somehow, i suppose because of how much the story’s plot is pushed by these two individual characters (That are still the same man.) I wanted it to be done right, done perfect. Because it was the almost the “best” idea i had, so. of course as it remains in your mind, or hidden, it can remain perfect, you can pick and fine tune it, set up more for the reveal, debate on the scenes you could do for the reveal, hypothesize on reactions, stress over it being figured out before you can explicitly reveal it.. and... and.. Its been almost two years since I made this character. ... It feels weird to be suddenly open about it. I don’t think its hit me yet? I don’t know when it will. When I finally shared I almost felt like, surrendering something. Surrendering and failing, to keep something guarded. It also felt liberating, I wanted to share every secret my story had, because none was as important as this one to me. None would have as much impact, on me. But I wondered, for something that mattered so much to me, it might not be the same to my readers. I almost felt sad that they might not feel the same way or as.. shocked as I was. Maybe I felt, that was because I ruined it by not doing it better, or in a more hype-y way. It was just the way it ended up coming out. It happened in.. none of the fashions I planned, but instead, of the way it happened.. like.. In the scenes I didn’t plan on drawing, but just got to privately experience for my own enjoyment. There’s many scenes like that. And theres so many scenes I wonder, are only the most enjoyable to me and not to anyone else. Not the same way. I dont know, its a weird thing to try to think of other people’s perceptions, or enjoyment, when I do realize that making this comic is really just, an exercise of enjoying my own thoughts. I often feel a sense of doubt or shame I was not more patient, yet i feel happy i am liberated of my secret so I can move forward to more interesting pastures. I almost never was going to share anything of Knife’s past. His entire character was going to be a mystery. Yet.. I have devoted all of 2016 to him. I think about the secrets I decided to tell early.. or tell at all, when I planned NOT to, and how that has only opened the door to more and more that i could have not thought about sharing before. But instead, now I can experience more, and have fun living in moments I only shared in my heart in a perfect vision. Drawing them is so much more tangible of an experience. reading them is validating, it makes them real. They are an added proof they happened. But when I guard secrets in my stories, i feel like I have sacrificed something of “worth” by sharing them. Worth of myself as a writer, for cheating and sharing the idea before I could somehow, more tastefully craft the reveal of this concept. It bottles inside me and instead of having all that control, the opportunity comes and I blurt everything out. I feel emberassed or nervous about it. Not about the idea itself, or even the execution, just the fact that I have shared the secret in a way I didnt plan, or in a moment sooner than I expected. It just happened..so go with it. There are still so many things i felt i definitely should have gotten to by now but still havent. Things i planned for the first day i have still not drawn. I am not as excited to share them as many of the ‘secrets’ i have revealed. (I will still enjoy them when I draw them anyway. Maybe even more than i expected, too) I enjoy them but, its not the same as like. “Oh wait ‘till they know about THIS!" This process of experiencing writing this story is so strange. The concepts and the execution. I am always in a whirlwind with myself, in some parallel adventure to the ones of my readers. I feel like several people at once, experiencing it from many different perspectives. I try to make sense of it, knowing I can never do that and knowing so much (of what i feel) will be lost before I can comprehend it. I feel satisfied with this ending of chapter 11. I am satisfied with the new journey of 2017. It didn’t happen how i thought it would, but I am going to continue with it (not that I have ever thought not to continue, just, added affirmation) and I feel better about the future of my story than I ever have before. My anxious “I need to do more” feeling is not as prominent for the first time in a long time. I feel like ive reached a certain.. goal. I have let some vital, important knowledge out that i can build on, instead of delicately avoiding or hinting at. For all the things my comic has taught me, I am amazed at how much Spoon has done already. He is so intimidating. I want to fully embrace what he is. I am happy I can share him as intimately, I am amazed that i almost avoided so much of that journey by keeping it a secret.. I’m glad I don’t have to hide it anymore. I look forward to elaborating more and more about him, as well as the dynamics he shares with the rest of the cast. Anyway, thanks for reading. I just really wanted to write some of my.. stream of conciousness feelings tonight. And thanks again for reading my comic too! -Kosmic

#personal #spoon #feast for a king #ffak

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jessicakehoe · 5 years

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Wonder Women: 5 Canadians Bringing Diversity to Pop Culture

They move us. They shake us. They make us laugh. They make us think. In addition to our October cover star Annie Murphy, we’re highlighting the Canadian women—across fashion, culture, beauty and more—who are impressing us the most right now.

LILLY SINGH, INFLUENCER AND TALK-SHOW HOST

Of all the YouTube stars who rule over gamers, Gen Z tweens and young millennials, Lilly Singh, who hails from Scarborough, Ont., is probably the most compelling and the most deserving of mainstream success. Singh—previously known as her screen name iiSuperwomanii—used her YouTube comedy channel, where she lovingly skewered her immigrant parents, along with contemporary life, to launch a small media empire that includes world tours, film roles, endorsements and now her own late-night talk show. A Little Late with Lilly Singh will be replacing Carson Daly’s show this fall, making Singh the only woman of colour to own real estate on late-night network TV. —Greg Hudson

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Loved this sparkly look from a recent episode of #LateWithLilly. After I wore a sparkly sweater and sparkly purple lip, I got a lot of comments from people saying they could never pull this off and I’m here to tell you, you can pull anything off. So much of this show is out of my comfort zone, including some of the styles I wear. But anything gets pulled off when you wear a layer of confidence underneath it all. So hi, friendly reminder that you’re fabulous baby. Wear what you love. Wear what makes you thrive. Have fun. You can def pull it off ❤️ 📷: @wanderlust.sam

A post shared by Lilly Singh (@lilly) on Sep 29, 2019 at 11:30am PDT

TANISHA SCOTT, CHOREOGRAPHER

You may not recognize her name right off the bat, but you’ve definitely seen her work. Tanisha Scott is the force behind the moves in Lil Nas X’s history-making “Old Town Road” and also works regularly with Cardi B, Rihanna, Drake and the Jonas Brothers. Born in Toronto and now based in New York, Scott began her career as a featured dancer in music videos and eventually graduated to choreographer. “The journey has been filled with powerful moments,” she says. When she’s not coaching stars for their stage shows and tours, Scott can be found working with fashion brands—like Coach and Lacoste—on their commercials and making cameos in some of her clients’ music videos. She’s the dancer who appears at the end of Drake’s “Hotline Bling” sporting classic red lips (her go-to confidence booster). “Red is often associated with courage, and it’s said that when a woman puts on red lipstick, she feels invincible and unshakable,” says Scott. “Red lipstick definitely adds to my confidence. It’s my anthem.” —D’Loraine Miranda

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From the video shoot to the @bet stage! @lilnasx & @billyraycyrus it was an absolute pleasure riding with y’all 🤠🤠 Shout out @draico on the choreo collab!

A post shared by Tanisha Scott (@tanishascott) on Jun 25, 2019 at 5:12pm PDT

JESSIE REYEZ, SINGER-SONGWRITER

Potential energy, as you may recall from middle-school science class, is the energy stored in an object because of its position relative to the objects around it. Some examples: a wrecking ball at its zenith, a drawn bowstring… and Colombian-Canadian singer-songwriter Jessie Reyez. For the past few years, she has been building energy by touring, working with big names like Calvin Harris and Dua Lipa, releasing two EPs and winning the 2018 Juno for Breakthrough Artist. And yet despite all that heat, it still feels like Reyez is on a launching pad with the countdown ticking away. Arguably, if you have been a face of Roots and count Elton John and Steven Tyler as fans, you’ve made it. But Reyez, who started out busking and playing open mics in Toronto’s Kensington Market, deserves to be much bigger than that. With her stripped-down, almost-Winehousian sound, not to mention her deeply personal lyrics that confront issues of racism, misogyny and inequality, the Toronto-based singer is perfectly suited for our present moment: She’s authentic, grounded, frighteningly hard-working…and a mass of potential. —Greg Hudson

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Liddo baby and me. YOURE NOT A REAL ONE IF YOU HAVENT WATCHED FAR AWAY YET. YOURE NOT A REAL ONE IF U DONT TAG A FRIEND WHOS NEVER HEARD OF MY SHIT TO GO WATCH IT. IF U HAVE, I apologize, I’m a Gemini it’s not my fault, youre a real one and I love u. 📸: @norman__wong

A post shared by Jessie Reyez (@jessiereyez) on Oct 7, 2019 at 2:25pm PDT

LADAN HUSSEIN SINGER-SONGWRITER

Ladan Hussein is proof that a little danger isn’t the end of the world—or even the end of a career. Late last year, the singer-songwriter who used to release music under the stage name Cold Specks opened up about the psychotic break that led to her being diagnosed as schizophrenic. While it has become common for artists and public figures to talk about their struggles with depression, anxiety and/or addiction issues, having someone discuss a condition that most of us see as hopeless and scary feels groundbreaking and more than a little important. What’s even more significant, though, is the work Hussein is doing now. She would probably like to be known more for her music than for her medical history. Luckily, she’s back to making music, and now that her mind is clearer, it’s better than ever. —Greg Hudson

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dissolved girl

A post shared by Cold Specks (@coldspecks) on May 7, 2019 at 1:42pm PDT

ANIQUE JORDAN, ARTIST

Anique Jordan is an interdisciplinary artist from Toronto whose work includes Evidence, a performance based on Clara Ford, a black woman who was accused of murdering a wealthy white man, and The Feast, which brought together 100 black women and gender-nonconforming artists around an exaggerated dinner table. Black history in Canada, working-class communities and the relationship between our country’s black and Indigenous peoples are among the themes in her work, which also includes sculpture and photography. She creates what she calls “impossible images,” reinterpreting the past in order to develop a new vision of the future. “I don’t have any formal art education,” says Jordan. “When I was younger, I knew I didn’t want to work for anybody. I’ve always wanted to be able to do my own thing and to use the full capacity of my brain. What I knew was that I was creative and that I had questions that were urgent.” —Tatum Dooley

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So excited to share my piece, Malvern, has been selected for the inaugural Black Art Fair held by @niacentre on October 19th. This is an art fair, directed by and presenting the work of Black Canadian artists. The first of its kind, as far as I know. If you've never considered purchasing artwork before or want to get a sense of the art scene in Toronto, come through and check it out. As artist who is also a collector, and as someone who has run a gallery and curated some of the most amazing Canadian artists, I can say that the importance of investing in original artwork can never be understated. Come thru y'all

A post shared by ʜɪɢʜ ᴘʀɪᴇꜱᴛᴇꜱꜱ (@aniquejordan) on Oct 5, 2019 at 5:08am PDT

The post Wonder Women: 5 Canadians Bringing Diversity to Pop Culture appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Wonder Women: 5 Canadians Bringing Diversity to Pop Culture published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

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trendingnewsb · 7 years

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MIA: This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me

Maya Arulpragasam is bringing dancehall, hip-hop and grime to this years Meltdown. Is the outspoken British Sri Lankan the best argument for positive cultural appropriation?

The Guardian said that you couldnt shag to my record. As conversational openers go, MIAs beats the banal niceties of, say, Hello, how are you doing?. Its no surprise that she charges straight into a chat about why her last album was considered too confrontational for the bedroom by this paper. Its an icebreaker moulded to MIAs very own design: abrasive, compelling, underpinned by sex. Yeah, she finally concedes with a grin when I suggest we move past it, you cant have it all, can you?

Its a theme she warms up to when we talk about her edition of Meltdown at the Southbank Centre, which were ostensibly here to discuss. Usually, I wouldnt do something like this, she says, slouched under an oversized khaki coat dress. [But the organisers] were like: Hey, you can do whatever you want. Still, putting on the South Banks annual festival, curated in previous years by the likes of David Bowie, David Byrne and Patti Smith, has turned out to be a fairly arduous affair for MIA who says she doesnt do computers at the moment.

They didnt tell me it was nine days long. I thought it was a weekend. And then all my lists were, like, Well, this person wont be in London and that person is doing Glastonbury. Organising festivals is actually really complicated, she stresses. It wasnt just about dreaming something and then it appeared. Programming literally means, like, programming.

For all that Maya Arulpragasam didnt quite know what she was letting herself in for, one suspects the Southbank Centre didnt either; logistics aside, the mornings photoshoot has already been met with some flapping from the press officer made nervous by MIA climbing on the roof without safety clearance. Still, her lineup dancehall, Brooklyn hip-hop, depressive Swedish rap and Nigerian grime is perhaps the most underground the festival has seen in its 24 years. How much is she expecting to shake up its comfortable concert halls, cafe bars and conference-room spaces?

youtube

Click here to watch the video for last years Go Off.

When I was a teenager in London, I would just get a Travelcard and go somewhere, explore the city and go to weird places, she says. I would never judge the place, like, This is middle class and white. This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me, but there wasnt ever a limit on where I could go or what I could do.

A long, elliptical digression on London then and now follows, which takes in the optimistic multiculturalism of the 90s, Tamil house parties, empire and British identity. Its the bento box of an MIA interview: individually contained ideas that dont obviously bleed into one another and yet, overall, make a collective sense if youre prepared to go with it. Thats the key thing about MIA: you have to be willing to go with her to properly get her. Given that she still looks and sounds like a beautiful, bratty, art-school upstart and is prone to labyrinthine tangents, its easy to portray her as inarticulate or unhinged. But MIAs intelligence is instinctive rather than intellectual, and fuelled by the political.

The Mehrabian maxim that reckons that only 7% of communication is verbal is one that might best be proven by the transcript of a chat with MIA removed of all tone, attitude, context and body language. Take, for instance, her explanation of why only the future remains relevant:

As humans, we dont use our past and our history to work out the importance of what our role is in the present, she says. And if you cant use the past to define your present, then it should not be an element that holds back the future. Greece is a perfect example. More than Britain, they were brought to their knees, and not a single white country thought about saving them. And it was part of their heritage. Its where their mythology comes from or their concept of capitalism and democracy comes from. Nobody cared, everybody cared about the modern. Right?

Kim Kardashian is actually more powerful than Greece. She has more money than the whole of Greece, she continues. Therefore, thats where the power lies. If you then define it that way, then you kind of just have to live with that. And maybe whats happening in modern society: that if youre going to judge it by that, then other countries are gonna come in and define the future.

In print, its a statement that seems lacking in logic and coherence. In the moment, Im fairly sure Im able to follow her and we go on to consider how and where this future is being defined (for the record: You cant ignore the fact that China is going to be doing their thing in the next 50 years) and how Arulpragasam believes the immigration issue has become a red herring covering up a truth that can explain the American and British swing to conservative populism.

With Brexit, the idea was to get away from Europe and reinvent our identity, she says. And really, that identity was going to be American, but then they gave us Trump! So, everyone now is like, Oh shit, what is Britain? Are we going to rewind back to the 1800s? We cant. Its too late for that. So, going forward, we need a charismatic leader who then va va vooms the British identity. And we dont have that either.

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted … MIA. Photograph: Stephanie Sian Smith/The Guide

The prime minister has called a snap election on the day we meet. Does MIA have any faith in our political system? Or in the left?

Everyone keeps going, Corbyn cant do this, but its, like, well, who else is there? she says. If people just left him alone to actually do the job and actually gave him some support, maybe hed be different. Treating him with so much contempt fighting that takes all his energy. How the fuck do you expect him to do interesting things? In any case insists the estranged daughter of a Tamil revolutionary, politicians are people who couldnt get jobs somewhere else.

MIAs politics, unwieldy and unslick though they may be, have often made her an easy target for tedious sneering in the press; the most insistent narrative is that, like Banksy, shes big on arch, subversive statement but lacks substance. Or that she is a hypocrite for making herself the poster girl for the worlds most marginalised people. And yet, shes one of the best pop stars Britain has ever produced. For all the ear-clanging experimentation of her five albums, MIA has always kept a sleeve full of pop bangers Bucky Done Gun, Paper Planes, Bad Girls, Finally that have sounded like little that came before or since her. Even if she didnt have the tunes, here is an art-school refugee Sri Lankan single mother with a visual aesthetic co-opted by everyone from Vetements to Versace who was born into political rebellion and revels in controversy. Gleefully gauche and carefree, MIA is the best argument for when cultural appropriation works. Bland singer-songstress beloved of Radio 2 playlists she isnt. So how much has the criticism bothered her?

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted because Im not, she ays. I just had to fight for shit, and I still do. I just dont care any more. I dont know. She stops and starts. What I deal with as an artist, the media, the public persona, its a walk in the fucking park, compared to how confusing the universe really fucking is. Theres so much beauty in it and theres so much mystery, theres so much confusing shit in it. That is way more interesting to think about than why, like, Patricia hates me. You know what I mean? I laugh. Its like, Who the fuck is Patricia? and How can Patricia say this shit about me?. It just does not matter to me at all.As it is, she says shes most preoccupied with how to be a functioning grown up, an adult and a mother to an eight-year-old son (whose father Benjamin Bronfman is son to the billionaire heir of the Seagram fortune) born into immense privilege.

When the war came to an end in Sri Lanka in 2009, it actually did affect me, she explains. Everyone was, like, What the fuck does she know? Shes, like, a pop star, but that was my life. It was 50% of who I was, it was my identity. I didnt know what to do with myself. So I had a kid. Its the year the cause died, but the year my personal cause my son was born. And then, OK, I have to figure out what to do in very small parameters: I have a son, how is he going to see his grandma, am I going to make it there on Saturday? Can I make sure that I dont mess up his head by being depressed about certain things?

She struggles to reconcile her upbringing poor and living in Sri Lanka for her childhood to poor and living on a council estate in Mitcham, south London, in her adolescence with her sons. Im not very straightforward as an immigrant. That whole My kids would never see the pain that I saw; Im not like that. Im totally up for reintroducing him to the pain. I dont have any qualms about that. Her problems havent changed, she says, because of money or better circumstances. Whether Im in a mansion or a council flat, I would feel the same anxiety waking up going: I need to write this thing in a scrapbook, wheres my notepad? I would still have all those problems. I might still overcook the fish fingers. Those things are not going to magically transform because your house has changed. At the beginning I thought that money couldve saved my family. Very quickly I realised that money is not the thing.

Her conflict in wanting to being huge and commercial versus credible and ahead of the curve has been a persistent tension threaded through MIAs career. When I got into the music game, it was never an option to shut up and make lots of money. she says. To be a huge pop star, I would have to be, like, Yes, I think bombing Afghanistan was a great idea, I love our democracy and what it has achieved. I love the American flag and Im going to make a jumpsuit out of it. I just think it was important to have all of those Arab Springs, and its great and lets drink Coca-Cola. I had to do that, and do it all in a thong. Could I have done that if it meant that my mum had the nicest house in Chiswick by the river?

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Click here to se the video for MIAs Bad Girls.

Does she worry about money now? If youre preaching living within your means, you have to, to some extent. But I also know that if youre someone in society that speaks out about injustice or political issues, one of the things that happens is that you get economically punished, 100%. I take that hit all the time.

The most recent, obvious example was MIA being forced to quit her headline slot at Afropunk last year, following a contentious quote in which she asked in an interview why Beyonc and Kendrick Lamar might not discuss why Muslim lives matter or Syrian lives matter. I dont regret [raising the issue], she says, with triumphant chutzpah. You saw how bad it was. And the Muslim ban didnt happen just with Trump, it was already happening under Obama. But you couldnt say that about him, you couldnt say that he introduced the Muslim ban, or banned seven different countries, or was already monitoring people, or dropped more bombs than Trump has. In truth, Obamas administration did identify the seven countries on Trumps list for additional screening measures, but it didnt bar their nationals. Shes already skipped ahead. The quantity of damage cant be quantified right now, she insists. Well have to wait the four years. After eight years of Obama, we kind of knew [his failings], but we just werent allowed to say them because he was so great. He was better than any person in Hollywood that I wouldve watched. He was really likable and just had loads of swag. That doesnt mean that you have to deny the truth, though.

This (and much more) comes moments after she tells me she has no time for opinions these days. She claims she doesnt read the news any more and that her primary sources for information are customers at the local kebab shop, taxi drivers and then sort of figuring it out. What about the state of the world? MIAs moment as an agitprop pop activist has never seemed more potent. Politics? I have no time for these things because Im so stuck in the zone. Ive become a hermit. [Meltdown] is actually giving me the chance to actually go out and meet people again. Ive gone for weeks without talking to a person, I do that happily. I tell her I dont believe her, as I suspect it would be a recipe for her to go fully barmy.

Im actually quite an extreme person, so I dont see that as madness. I see that as, like, solitude, doing a phase of solitude is not that bad. After declaring her fifth album AIM to be her final one, shes also trying to find new ways to channel her creativity. Im trying to write a film. I havent stepped into it yet because I want it to be good. Once you hit the start button you cant really stop it. She has, she tells me, the added complication of ADD to contend with. When was that diagnosed? I just have it. Dont even need diagnosis, its a waste of time, its a waste of the NHS. In truly blithe MIA style, she adds: Its just when you have too many ideas and not enough ways to get them out.

MIAs Meltdown is at the Southbank Centre, SE1, 9-18 June