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megamindsecretlair · 3 months ago

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Sweet Escape, Part 1

Pairing: Bodyguard!Terry Richmond x Singer!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Cursing, trying out some angst, teasing, mentions of loneliness, suicide, depression, power imbalance. Mentions of blood, knife, and violence, all consensual. Sorry if I missed some.

Summary: You are on top of the world as one of the world’s most popular R&B singers. But behind the glitz and glam, you were unmoored, lonely, and aching for something you couldn’t put a name to. With freakish threats escalating, you turn to your stoic bodyguard, Terry, in hopes that you’ll finally feel safe and like you belong.

Word Count: 5,102k

AO3 Link | Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: I know we all have bodyguard Terry on our brains so here's my contribution! I'd love to know your thoughts on the angst, I wanna get better at it. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

You felt like a damn doll. You’d been plucked, prodded, lifted, and separated so many times, you felt like you were melting beneath the studio lights. This was the last interview of the morning and you were ready to slip back into your slippers and call it a fucking day.

As production assistants flittered around like chickens with their heads cut off, you scanned the room. The lights prevented you from seeing much, but you were able to make out your best friend and manager, Mirage, and your personal assistant, Joya standing by the monitors. Mirage gave you a thumbs up and you sighed.

Mirage knew you inside and out. She giggled, knowing that you wanted to turn all this shit over by now. They wanted you to be here on time but the messy host, A’Kierra West, was nowhere to be found. And if there was one thing you hated, it was to be kept waiting.

A makeup assistant came up to you and blotted you with a napkin. You smiled at her. “Thank you,” you said.

The assistant blinked and got startled and you lifted an eyebrow at her. You’d been nothing but nice so you didn’t know where that reaction was coming from. The assistant fled from the stage and you put it out of your mind.

You bit the corners of your cheeks to keep from exploding. Right as you were about to call out to Mirage, A’Kierra waltzed into the room in a cloud of hairspray and her defining feature, her big ass boobs. The boobs preceded her into the room, tucked into a too small red dress that was better suited for clubbing than a talk show.

A’Kierra took her sweet, precious, slow time making her way to the stage, stopping to talk to the directors and producers, before finally gracing the stage with her presence. You stood up, since it was technically polite, and gave her the fake Hollywood kiss to both cheeks.

She smelled like an old white lady at Macy’s. The cloying, flowery scent tickled your nose. You wrinkled your nose and sniffed.

“It’s new! I’m so glad you love it. I’ll send your assistant a bottle!” A’Kierra said. She grinned, showing a row of veneers too large for her face. You smiled to keep your face from showing your true emotions. This bitch was nuts.

“Thank you! I can’t wait!” You said and sat back down in your seat. “So we did the promo and the commercial, now we just do the whole intro and get into it,” A’Kierra explained.

“I’ve done a few of these,” you said.

A’Kierra laughed, the shrill sound like nails on a chalkboard. Her deep brown skin glowed with shimmery lotion but it only served to make her look washed out in the dress. Whoever was dressing her must hate her.

“Yes, but you’ve never done my show before,” she sniffed. A makeup assistant floated onto the stage out of the shadows and touched up A’Kierra’s lipstick. “Thank you, darling. Make sure my coffee is nice and hot when we’re done?”

The director emerged between the cameras giving his final notes on the taping. He instructed you to be natural and relaxed. You glance slid towards Mirage who hid a grin behind her hand. The phone that was permanently glued to her hand hid most of her face, but you already knew what she was laughing at.

Optics…Optics…

The director counted down and then the popular theme song of the show played. The audience you couldn’t see began clapping loudly, wildly, as if you were on stage for a concert rather than an interview taping.

A’Kierra cued up the questions Mirage had you go over earlier. You handled each question well, playing to the crowd, and leaning into the persona you crafted for the world. The carefree, girl power, rah-rah, confident diva with strong knees and an even stronger pair of lungs.

“But what do you say to all of these mommy coalitions calling for your head, saying you’re a bad influence on their children? Saying you’re over-sexed, lewd, and not lady like at all?”

It was only your media training that kept you from unleashing your pent up fury. You giggled and shook your head. This was not in the script. “What do you mean?” You asked, giving yourself time to answer.

“Some may say that the rise in your career also gave rise to all these conservative groups, using you to fund their message of protecting their children from your explicit lyrics and lifestyle. It’s no secret that girls and young women look up to you. Is this really the message you want to send out?” A’Kierra smirked, leaning back in her seat. She crossed her legs, and tapped her notecards against her knee.

You smiled and chuckled. “I’d say…I’m not responsible for your kids. Maybe if they spent more time paying attention to what their kids are listening to than up my perfect ass, there wouldn’t be an issue. I promote self-confidence for adults. I make grown music for adults. At no point have I ever claimed to be a role model for young girls and I’m not responsible for what these mommy coalitions think of me,” you said with a sweet, saccharine grin.

A’Kierra kept a smile plastered to her face but there was more than enough ooh’s and aww’s coming from the audience. You stared A’Kierra down, communicating with just looks. She blinked first, clearing her throat and organizing her cards. “Well, that’s certainly a take!” A’Kierra said and laughed along with the audience.

You giggled with her, feeding into all the fake bullshit. This was the last show you wanted to be on. But the optics. Fuck the fucking optics. This show trafficked in gossip and rumors, more focused on catching people on lies and half-truths than speaking about something normal.

Once the cameras stopped rolling, you waved to the audience and then removed the mic pack from your hip. You passed it to the nearest production assistant, wanting to be free of wires for a long, long time. Well, at least until your next city stop.

Mirage and Joya fell in step beside you, going over the next few items on your list today. When you were done here, you had a small promo shoot for the next city you were going to be in. It’d been a while since you were in LA and you were looking forward to the In and Out burger you were going to inhale at the first chance you got.

By the door to the studio, your heart skipped a beat looking over the scrumptious, delectable piece of meat you had for a bodyguard. Terry Richmond came highly recommended through the agency you typically used. You ran through their sorry excuse for bodyguards like a kid went through candy.

But Terry was different. From the first meeting, he was completely professional, calm, and courteous. He didn’t bullshit you with flattery, he didn’t flirt to get with his dream girl, and he treated you like a normal person. That alone had you saying yes before the ink could dry on the contract.

Add in the fact that he was a former Marine and prepared for…just about everything, you’d felt safe in his presence in a way that you hadn’t with other bodyguards. You didn’t know what led him to this position, but you were glad fate was looking out for you.

“Careful Mr. Terry, stand any straighter, and your back might hurt,” you said.

Terry stood ready with his hands in front of him, one hand holding the other wrist. He dressed plainly in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, showing off huge, bulging muscles. He slanted his ever-changing eyes towards you but there was no other sign that he heard you.

He went through the door first, taking his job a smidgen too seriously. “Would it kill you to talk, Mr. Terry?” You asked.

Joya handed you your phone and you absently went through your texts as you walked. “No, ma’am,” he said.

You nearly faltered in your steps. He actually answered. You shook your head in amazement, feeling a thrill that he was in a chatty mood today. You glanced up from your phone to watch his ass move in his jeans.

He was unreal. A fantasy in a male body that he honed to perfection. Bless his genes, seriously, because there wasn’t a single flaw on the man.

“See, we’re almost having a conversation,” you said. You handed Joya back your phone with your thanks and followed Terry to the greenroom. You couldn’t wait to take off the fugly silver outfit. Why were you so damn shiny?

“We have plenty of conversations, princess,” he said. You giggled and rolled your eyes at his back. He called you that when he thought you were being a little shit. He approached your dressing room and entered first, doing a quick scan for any potential threats. You waited in the cramped hallway for his inspection to get done. He emerged back out turned those sinful eyes on you.

“It’s safe to go in,” he said.

You smirked at him. “Try not to miss me for the thirty minutes it’ll take to get all of this off,” you said. You tilted your head at him. Terry blinked at you. You sighed. “You’re no fun!”

Terry’s lips lifted in the corners. “I’m plenty of fun. Thirty minutes,” he said, his rich, deep voice soothing.

“Yes, sir,” you said. You gave him a stern, no-nonsense nod and grinned at him. He did the little smirking thing of his and let you walk into the room with Joya and Mirage hot on your heels.

Once the door closed, Joya collapsed against the door frame with a wistful sigh. “I wanna pass out every time I get near that man,” she said, fanning herself with the planner she always carried around. It suited her more to write all of your appointments down rather than inputting it into a digital calendar anyone could hack. She never put the thing down. You half suspected that she slept with it under her pillow.

All of the safety measures were sweet, but after a month of no contact from your supposed stalker, you were starting to feel out of sorts. Like this life wasn’t real and you were watching your life pass by on a television set somewhere in a white room.

The first thing you did was take off your platform heels, sighing as your feet sank into the plush paisley rug. “Zip, please,” you said to Mirage.

Mirage chuckled at Joya and helped unzip the tight dress you wore. Air returned to your lungs with every inch gained and you sighed again. “He really is too pretty,” Mirage said quietly.

“Too damn pretty!” You agreed. That was definitely a concern for you when you met up with him. But after twenty minutes of conversation, you were able to glean two things from the mysterious Mr. Richmond. For one, he didn’t play, ever. He was as stoic as any soldier you’d ever run across. And two, something happened to him. Something…soul changing.

Maybe it was a lost love, maybe it was a personal tragedy. Whatever it was, it made him immune to you. You flirted, you teased, you harassed the man. And he kept his attention on guarding your body. Like you hired him to do.

You pouted as you approached a cabinet in the room that stored your real clothes. Next to it, there was a clothing rack with outfit choices that you had discarded. Thoughts of how you could get under Terry’s skin kept you occupied as you opened the cabinet doors and shrieked at the gruesome sight before you.

Your clothes were cut up to shreds, a confetti of fabric at the bottom of the cabinet. Joya and Mirage joined you and shrieked in their own horror. There was a replica mask of your own face staring back at you pinned to the door with a large, very illegal knife. Blood – or god, what you hoped wasn’t real blood – dripped from the mask and down the cabinet door.

The mask was uncanny. One of the most realistic ones you’d ever seen. Terry rushed into the room, gun in his hand but pointed towards the floor. He scanned the room with a flick of his eyes, immediately moving in front of you, and shielding you from the mask.

It was too late. The image was already burned into your retinas. His massive back took up your field of vision, but due to the black t-shirt, it only let your mind drift. Your mind’s eye recalled the mask in every finite detail and your stomach turned with churning bile.

“I’m gonna be sick,” you whispered.

Terry closed the cabinet with his elbow, turning around to you. You looked at him, just in time to feel dizzy. Your knees buckled and Terry caught you, yelling to Mirage and Joya for a doctor.

Terry hefted you into his arms and left the room. Outside, the cold blast of air in the hallway shocked you enough to not slip into unconsciousness. Terry positioned you on the nearest crate.

The air in your chest began to boil, clawing its way through your clogged throat. Distantly, you knew that you were hyperventilating. But all you saw was your own face. Your own soulless slouched face, rubbery, with makeup stains on the teeth, and a giant knife through the forehead.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Terry said. He grabbed both sides of your face. You grunted, trying to shake your head. Trying to shake him off of you. His foreboding presence was screaming for you to run.

“Breathe. Breathe, princess,” he said.

You groaned, turning your head away. You couldn’t stop seeing it. Your face. Your face. Your face.

“Count with me. Six, two, four, nine, one, five,” Terry counted.

“What?” You whispered. Terry tightened his grip on your face and forced you to look at him. His startling light eyes bore into yours.

“Count. Six,” he said. He was so close that you could count every single one of his long, pretty eyelashes.

Your body shook uncontrollably. A lone tear dripped from your eye and you rubbed it away. “Don’t do that. Let yourself feel it,” he coached.

You shook your head. “Never cry,” you whispered. You narrowed your eyes at him. Whatever he saw in your eyes, he backed off. He nodded.

“Count then. Six, two, four, nine, one, five,” he said.

“Six…four…”

“Start again,” he said.

He repeated the numbers easily, remembering whatever asinine digits he wanted you to repeat. You needed away. You needed to be free. You groaned and jerked in his hold. The image of your face twisted and melted in your eyes. Turning your memory into slush. What was even real anymore?

“If you can’t do it, I’ll start with three numbers,” he said.

You huffed as you turned your attention back to him, repeating his damn numbers. You had to slow down, had to think about which number came next. Nine and one were the easiest to remember. For some reason, you kept wanting to throw a seven in there.

When you were able to repeat it three times without stopping to think, Terry lowered his hands from your face. You shivered at the lack of contact. His big paws covered your entire face, generating heat. Now that you no longer had it, you felt colder than ever.

Another tear threatened to fall but you were much calmer now. Better able to hold back the raging tempest inside. Later. Later you could break down. But it wouldn’t be here.

“Who would do…”

“Someone who doesn’t know the difference between a fantasy and a reality,” he said.

It was quiet in the hallway. The studio was on the other side, down the hall. At the T-instersection where you were, there weren’t even assistants carrying things. It was just the two of you.

Terry stood directly in front of you, pushed in between your legs so that he could bend and cup your face. Now, you were acutely aware of how close he was. How his chest rose and fell as if he were the one calming down from the scariest shit of his life. And you were the one who found a fan had attempted to kill himself in your swimming pool a month ago. This far surpassed that harrowing night.

“I just wanted to sing. I wanted to stop being invisible. I never asked for this,” you said, the back of your eyes burning with the need to cry. You hadn’t cried in years. The well had long dried. And now twice within Terry’s presence, you wanted to break down and lay it all at his feet.

“You were never invisible,” he said softly.

Terry gave you a look you couldn’t quite describe but knew instantly. Almost like for a brief moment, he knew you inside and out and didn’t flinch. You cleared your throat and straightened up a little. You grabbed the front of your dress and crossed your arms. The air from the closest vent blew across your back and made you shiver.

Mirage jogged down the hallway with a paramedic close on her heels. She was scrambling, practically in tears, as she ran down. Terry cleared his throat and stepped back, finally turning those crystal eyes away from you. The spell he’d woven broke, stealing your breath.

You took a deep breath to get it back and fended off Mirage after she clung to you, telling you how worried she was. “I’m fine, babe, I promise,” you said. You waved off the EMT and Terry pushed the EMT forward.

“Let him do his job,” Terry ordered. And for some reason, that didn’t bother you a bit. You shut your mouth and stared at Terry while the EMT went through his preliminary workup. He shined light in your eyes, asking you basic questions like your name, age, and where you were.

You answered all of his questions, without attitude. For once feeling like you didn’t have to come out swinging first. The EMT cleared you for shock, telling you to get some rest. “I have a photo shoot to keep,” you said, shaking your head.

“Not anymore,” Terry said.

“You don’t get to make that call,” you shot back. The EMT looked between the both of you, the subtle daggers you were throwing each other. The EMT quickly put up his supplies and slipped from between you and Terry.

“I’m tasked with protecting you. Let me,” he said.

You hopped off of the crate and watched two officers arrive, stepping into your dressing room with security guards from the studio. You stood up straight and pulled on that bitchy persona you were known for. You wore it like a well-used coat, broken in and comfortable.

“Your job is to guard me wherever I may be. I only have a few more stops on this tour and this incel isn’t going to ruin my dream. If that’s going to be a problem for you, I can call your agency,” you said. You looked at him from beneath your eyelashes. Wondered if you were able to fool him after he’d gotten a peek behind your four inch thick walls.

Terry leaned back, his stare turning hard. Judging. Your lips parted on a silent gasp. “No need. We’re clear,” he said, his voice just as hard as his eyes. Cold like diamonds. His jaw flexed and he stared straight ahead, giving you a blank, thousand yard stare.

Joya ran into the hallway, pushing past looky-loos and producers. Everybody had a phone out. It’d only be a matter of time before the press caught wind and accosted you outside. You couldn’t leave in this stupid dress.

Joya finally poked her tiny head up from between the gathering crowd. She held a bag in her hand and handed it to Mirage, leaning over to grab her knees and huff. “Emergency stash,” she huffed.

“You’re a genius, Joya,” Mirage said.

You avoided Terry’s gaze as you walked further down the hall to a different dressing room. Terry cleared this one first, moving about the room more thoroughly than he did the last. He opened the cabinet and you flinched, half expecting another doppelganger staring at you.

Nothing jumped out so Terry brushed past. “All clear,” he said.

He closed the door and you sighed, closing your eyes for a brief moment. That was bitchy of you. Hella bitchy and he didn’t deserve it. You paid him to worry about your safety. You snorted. You were paying people to care about you now. That’s how far you’d fallen.

“Dare we ask?” Joya asked.

Mirage turned to her, making a cut it out gesture. “You can say it. I was mean for no reason,” you said. You peeled the silver dress off of your body and shivered. Felt like shedding snake skin. That was the last thing you needed to visualize.

“It wasn’t…not..for a good reason,” Mirage said.

“It was out of line,” you said. You didn’t typically feel guilty this soon after pulling the diva card. It usually took a few days. After you were half deep into your favorite bottle of wine with only Mirage and Joya as your company.

Joya handed you a pair of leggings, an oversized orange sweater, and a pair of socks. You quickly got dressed, pulling your hair into the best ponytail you could manage. She handed you a hat and a pair of sunglasses. You sighed, feeling more like yourself. You liked dressing up in your costumes for the tour, liked getting pretty like the dolls you used to play with. But there came a time when you just wanted to pig out in a pair of sweats or shorts.

You slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and Joya draped the silver dress over the back of the couch. She took out her planner, flipping to a sticky pad that she scribbled a note on. She stuck the paper to the door of the dressing room.

Terry looked you up and down, noting your wardrobe change. He looked at Joya and nodded and she giggled breathlessly.

“Look, Terry,” you began, ready to own up to what you did.

“We’re good. Stay on me, okay?” He asked.

You nodded. Terry used his full height to stalk down the hallway. You avoided looking at your dressing room. At the…you were going to be sick. Your stomach twisted as you passed the room, passed the police.

“I already talked to them. They know about the, um, you know. They won’t need to question you,” Mirage said.

“Thank God,” you said.

Terry pushed and ordered people to move as he led you out of the studio and to the black truck parked in the connected parking lot. He opened the door for you and you paused before climbing in.

“I’m sorry about what I said. Truly,” you said. Terry’s eyes defrosted a fraction. He glanced at you and nodded.

“We’re good,” he said.

You nodded and hopped in the car. Mirage and Joya hopped in on the other side. Terry walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in, pulling out of the driveway just as the first news cameras were arriving.

You sighed and leaned against the backseat. “Great thinking, Joya,” you commended.

“Thanks, but it was Mirage. She made the point that the press was going to have a field day and I took off,” she said. She had her pen and phone out, staring down at your calendar.

“I called ahead and told them that we were going to be late because of what happened. They said they can move the shoot if you–”

“No. I can’t slow down,” you said. Your schedule was held together by glue, paperclips, and chewing gum. Together with Mirage, you managed to carve out true rest periods. Slots of entire hours where you didn’t have to go anywhere, didn’t have to smile at this, or endorse that.

Your mind drifted back to what you told Terry in the studio. All you ever wanted to do was sing. You watched countless videos of your favorite singers, sung your heart out whenever you had the chance, snuck and took singing lessons because you knew that this was where you wanted to be.

Hollywood never showed the uglier parts. The parts where it felt like there would always be a thousand hands crawling all over your skin. Thousands of fans taking it too far. Sending you disturbing videos of either their tiny dicks, feet, moles, chest hairs, or telling you how much you sucked at singing. They said you were overrated. Mannish. Too full of yourself. Every one of them had a different fantasy of you in their heads. Every one of them wanted a piece of you. And whoever this maniac was, they weren’t going to stop until they succeeded in killing you.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. It might be time to step down from singing for a while,” you said.

“What! Noooo. Why? Because of this loser?” Mirage asked.

“It’s everything. I’m just so tired,” you whispered. Terry’s eyes flicked to yours in the rearview mirror. Your eyes burned again and you looked away from him. Curse him and his damn hypnotizing eyes.

Terry got you to the photoshoot without breaking any traffic laws. But he was close. He escorted you to the door, a steady presence the entire way. No one was getting through Terry. That thought put you at ease as you turned your mind off and went back to the doll everyone wanted you to be.

Hours later, Terry was at the receptionist’s desk at the hotel coordinating your move. You were switching hotel rooms, again. You were packed up and loaded up into the truck, again. You were checking into a different hotel, classier than the last, under a different name and was once again in the elevator with Terry by your side.

He hardly carried a duffle bag. A small thing that looked silly bouncing against his big ass. Terry escorted you to the room, dropping his bag to the floor. He unsheathed his gun and pressed it close to his body.

“Wait here,” he said. He opened the door with the keycard and let himself in first. He turned on the light and swept through the entire suite, checking behind every nook and cranny. You followed behind him anyway. Even if your stalker did manage to find the place, there was no way he had enough time to set a trap.

Terry came back into the foyer and stopped up short when he saw you looking at the complimentary wine bottle. You read over the standard hotel note. “I told you to wait outside,” he said and put up his gun.

“I’m tired and I want to lay down.” You waved him off. What you really wanted to do was take a hot fucking bath and bawl your eyes out. The “later” had finally come and you wanted to break down in peace.

Terry moved to the door and grabbed his duffle, bringing it inside. He closed and locked the door, putting on the safety latch for good measure. He slung the duffle over his shoulder and walked to the adjoining suite door. He opened it and then stopped across to his side of it.

“I’ll be right on the other side if you need anything,” he said. You leaned against the open door and gave him a small smile.

“Thanks, Terry. For today,” you said.

“It’s my job right?” He asked.

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?” You asked.

Terry smiled tightly, like he wasn’t quite used to it anymore. “Not a chance, princess,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again, pinching your lips together to keep from smiling. All it did was bunch up your cheeks and give away the rising heat in your cheeks. “Goodnight, Mr. Terry,” you said.

“Goodnight,” he said. He closed the door and you stood on the other side of it. Wondering what it must be like to know him intimately. To know what made him smile or laugh. What made his eyes light up with joy. Or what brought such sadness to his eyes.

You wondered what it would be like to fall into his arms, easily, readily, and have him embrace you like you were the most precious thing in the world. For a brief moment, you let yourself daydream. Let the fantasy take shape in your mind.

That was a much more comforting image to hold onto than the crushing weight of the day. You turned away from the door, heading to your side of the suite. You entered your room and ran yourself a bath.

The room steamed up with heat from the bath you ran. The clawfoot tub was pristine, with an ornate faucet. The rug underneath felt like clouds. You focused on the strangeness around you.

The few trips you did take were nothing like this. You stayed in nice hotels, hotels your family was able to afford, but not like this. It didn’t stink like mold. The opposite. There was some kind of subtle, expensive perfume in the air.

The bathroom was so spacious, you could fit three clawfoot bathtubs in it and still have room left over. You were in the lap of luxury and it felt like a gilded cage, designed to keep you in a perpetual state of “other”. Temporary. In the world but never of it.

You turned off the hot water and swirled your hands through the foamy bubbles. It was the perfect temperature so you took off your clothes, threw on a bonnet, and sank in. The heated water was a welcome balm, soothing the tension you carried in your body.

The tears came too easily, just under the surface. It slipped down your cheeks and you finally let yourself break down. Allowed yourself to feel the stress and loneliness of the day. You had one of the most horrific days of your life and everybody who mattered already knew about it.

There was no one to vent to. No one who wasn’t already on your payroll. And to be honest, that hurt most of all.

Ya'll know what I'm about. The Secret Terry Richmond Files | Part 2 | Part 3

Taglist: This skyrocketed LOL. I love ya'll, so so much!

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sl-vega · 4 months ago

Text

0.1; retired theater kids-(y/n's squad)

project: love liason! - a scaramouche smau

y/n:

hopelessly in love with childe (has been since freshman year) you are on fairly good terms with him, (even if half of your interactions play out in your head rather than reality)

(ridiculously) hopeful romantic

you were the one who started your friend group after you met everyone else in a drama camp during eighth grade (hence the name retired theater kids)

the "responsible" friend (even though the general consensus is that lynette and navia are the actual responsible ones)

mona:

your best friend and scara's academic "rival". having been forced to have tons of classes together in the past two years, mona and him have been pretty cut throat when it comes to them competing with each other

mona finds him insufferable, and has vented to you about him on numerous occasions, even though you've never even met the guy

super into astrology and zodiacs

she's well known around campus for having scary accurate predictions

"that wasn't on your 2024 bingo card? well it was on MINE."

furina:

president of the drama club at your school, and is often put in charge of directing all of the drama club's shows

she used to be a semi-popular child actress that frequently appeared in famous kids shows, but she took a break recently to focus more on her directing career

was essentially a guarantee for any lead in school productions when she was younger

absolute drama queen

navia frequently keeps her up to date with all the latest gossip so she's a real treat to talk to

lyney:

lynette's older twin brother, and a part time magician for kids birthday parties

one of the girls

also a member of the drama club

both an actor and member of the stage crew as he helps with special effects for productions as well

wants to continue working in the film industry after high school

bounces around as a freelance worker instead of being tied down to a specific gig despite having many offers from several places

says that if he waits the salary offers will get higher

lynette:

lyney's younger twin sister and part time magic assistant

her brother often jokes that she ditched him, but she just preferred to explore her own interests outside of lyney's career

member of both the drama club and science club

unlike lyney she only helps with behind the scenes work

most notably special effects, but she's more interested in the scientific aspect of making it work

navia:

DEFINITION of an fbi friend

knows everything about everyone, does loyalty tests on people's boyfriend's sometimes if they pay her

picks up crazy amounts of info, and has a shit ton of connections to tons of people and places

doesn't disclose how she finds out all of this

the type of friend that can find someone only by their first initial

give her a single piece of info and BOOM

she has their full legal name, all their social media accounts, the location of the grocery store they frequent, and their parent's Facebook pages

currently in a situation ship with chlorinde

additional notes:

profiles are out!

not much I wanna say but yeah :D

i'll try my best to do frequent updates

if you wanna be tagged just send me an ask/comment!

𝜗𝜚 SYNOPSIS: you're head over heels in love with childe, and scaramouche is (begrudingly) smitten with his "rival" mona. and, by sheer divine coincidence, you both happen to be the best friends of each other's objects of affection, so you strike a deal with each other. if scaramouche helps you ask out childe, you'll set him up with mona. so with the annual spring formal right around the corner, the two of you vow to be each other's wingmans so you can end your junior year on a high note (and maybe even kick off your senior year with a new relationship!). between, scheming, planning, and researching, you and scaramouche find yourselves developing a new relationship via helping each other out. now the real question is whether this friendship will remain as a pure platonic bond, or blossom into something more?

< PREV ll MASTERLIST ll NEXT >

🎀 - taglist!;

@agaygothicmushroom, @035814, @freyao7, @sketcheeee, @tsukimara, @shyentsmissingink, @justpeachyteastea, @aries-afk, @lxkeeeee, @sakiimeo, @sugxryratz, @shutingstar, @lalaloveallmydays, @bellflower1257, @haruumei, @kichiyosh1, @littlemisssatanist, @dee-zbignuts, @candyescapism, @crimxeorcremeexistspeacefully

#💌 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃: 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x y/n #scara smau #scaramouche smau #wanderer x reader #wanderer x you #wanderer x y/n #smau #mona #lyney #furina #focalors #navia #lynette #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader

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dabisbratz · 2 years ago

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can we cam up? eren yeager x male reader

w.c: 4.3k

genitalia terms: dick, cock, hole, fuckhole, cunt (1 time), pussy (1 time)

WARNING: spit, blowjob, rimming, anal (obvi), creampie, dirty talk, humiliation, filming, degradation, humiliation, nerd!eren, jock!reader, intoxication, may read kinda dubious but it’s 100% consensual, light d/s dynamic, alcohol, weed mention, dumbification, eren compares you to a hentai character one (1) time bc he’s deranged

a/n: i was kicking my feet twirling my locs screaming into my pillow writing this and it shows. also eren has a BIIIIG phat crush on you but i didn’t wanna get too into it… you definitely remember him, probably even sexted him w/o even knowing it was him

Let’s get one thing straight: You're not an arrogant man. Not at all— in fact, you’d consider yourself to be quite humble. This night may be about you and your winning score, but you’re humble about it. Considerate, even. So you feel no guilt when you accidentally spill alcohol on someone’s shirt, explaining that if they can somehow find you on instagram and send a DM, you’ll pay for the laundry and potential damages. The stranger peers at you with a funny glint in his green eyes as his hands pull the wet fabric apart from his skin, his glasses falling down the arched bridge of his nose.

You shrug and wave to your teammates, your football jersey loose on your form as you make way through the frat house’s large interior. Music blares in your ears for the millionth time tonight, the bass rattling your skeletal system with each increasingly tipsy step you take. Grinding, flushed bodies invade your vision, all around you as you shimmy through the sea of bodies to pour yourself another generous shot. Cool, blue rays of strobe lights dance and flicker across your eyelids. Warm, pink rays that caress your cheek like the confines of your safety helmet, the vinyl of your mouth guards. It overwhelmed you at first, so bright and unapologetic as your eyes adjusted and focused.

Somewhere beneath the tranquil hum of alcohol flowing through your veins you can feel your phone buzz in your pocket, rippling through your skin and sobering you up just a little.

Your girlfriend.

She’d been blowing up your phone all night, something along the lines of forgetting her gift for your anniversary— what was a few weeks, anyway? — and how ungrateful you were for yours. She was a good lay, a quick way to resort to getting your dick wet on particularly lonely nights; when you couldn’t stand the sound of silence dancing around your head. But that was all.

You shake the thought of her squawking voice the second you find Connie, surrounded by sorority girls with glossed lips and pink-tinted eyes. Finding solstice in his company, they’re huddled relatively close, knit together in some sort of baked clique. He’s perched over a bong, lighter in hand as he inhales the fumes with muffled haste. Pothead.

Your hand finds the crown of his head, palm nestled in the bristles of his buzz cut. Noone is allowed to touch Connie’s hair, at least not when he’s coherent enough to stop them. It usually ends in flying fists and bruised cheekbones, but all the man sends your way is a hazy glare. Someone punching the university’s all star just isn’t a good look. Especially when he’s pretty and popular with the public.

“Do that again and I’ll throw this bong at your head.” It’s an empty threat, clear of malice and slurred on Connie’s bitten lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” You steal the smoke exuding from his mouth, swishing the fog in your mouth a few times before blowing it back into his face. “Never again. Scouts honor.”

You shoot back up, mind reeling and posture straightening as a particularly pretty cheerleader hands you a bottle of something you can’t quite make out. It’s brown and rich though, smacking against the glass as you take a swig and chase it down with Connie’s leftover beer of all things.

One thing leads to another and suddenly you’re trapped between sobriety and full on plastered drunk. You remember chugging something sickeningly sweet, despite it leaving a harsh burn in the back of your throat as you took in a deep breath of victory. There were many eyes on you, loud cheers reverberating off the walls as you’re hoisted into the air for your skillful performance and high-fived by your frat brothers. But there are those green eyes again, staring straight through you with a look you can’t quite place.

Not that you can place much. You’re shitfaced.

He smells good, you later discover. There’s a strum of wind as he pushes forward and straight by you, weaving through the crowd like he’s invisible. The swaying of bodies— the sight is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, and it makes his head swim while liquor glides across his tongue, clumsy and inexperienced. He must not get invited to parties often. Or maybe he does, and you’ve just never noticed him.

He’s quite nerdy, some sort of graphic design on his stained shirt that resembles that of a video game or cartoon logo, and a poor excuse of a beard litters his chiseled jaw. And oddly handsome, pale face flushed from the alcohol, pink and pooling at the apples of his cheeks as he stares at you expectantly. But you’re not into men, and all the shots in the world couldn’t get you to even think of advancing with one. He quirks his thick brow in passing, settling back into his seat with a depleting mumble you can’t make out under the loud music.

But the alcohol paired with the sultry music-choice is doing things to you, you can’t help but stare longer than you should when he swallows down his adams apple, throat bobbing as he downs a fruity drink. His tongue darts over his lips, quick and steady as he nods along to the bass. You’re thinking with your dick, pushing past the batting lashes of cheerleaders and curvy bodies of sorority girls until you’re uncomfortably close to the guy who won’t stop looking at you.

“Do you- do you have a staring problem?” You ask, a slight slur to your voice as your face leans in close enough to count the nerd’s lashes individually.

Just to reiterate, you’re not arrogant. In the slightest.

He jumps back in response to the evasive question, strands of hair falling over his glasses as his emerald eyes roam your face. The lines are blurring now, his nerdy, almost irritating face looks kissable and inviting— his parted lips look warm and skilled. You can smell the pineapple on his tongue, sweet and citrusy.

“You heard me,” You hiccup straight into his face, watching his gorgeous features distort into something not even remotely akin to disgust, which makes confusion rack your brain. “Do you talk, or what?”

Your tongue is sharp, much to Eren’s chagrin. You’re too pretty to talk to people like that, especially him. He may look the way he does, but that doesn’t mean you can talk to him like that. It’s not like he can’t recognize a brat when he sees one. Usually, you’re a bubbly team player— everyone likes you, even if they say they don’t. Still, he shakes his head, humoring your drunken irritation. He understands, at least a bit, as he has a natural temper of his own.

Truthfully, Eren has been keeping his eyes on you for the past millennia. It started when he accidentally walked in on your practice, a sunny day that simply got brighter when he saw your face, cheerful and bright as you joked along with your teammates— Jean, Reiner, Levi? Was it? It didn’t matter, his focus was on you.

You and your sinfully tight compression shorts. You and your hands that curl into fists as you grasp at his sheets like a lifeline, as if holding them tight will somehow keep him inside of you, right where he belongs.

You and your stupid football that’d smacked him right in the face at full speed. But it was in his favor, you came running over apologetically as he rubbed away the blooming bruise. Your voice was sweet then, a melodic chirp that he couldn’t stop thinking about since then. He wants to hear it break.

It seems you too always meet at the expense of his dignity. But not tonight.

“Your phone is buzzing,” Eren grunts, sliding his glasses back up his nose and turning his head away. His glasses are fogged up, but it might just be saving his pride. He’d rather not get hard in front of the person he’s been fantasizing about for the past few months, not when you clearly had no recollection of him. He doesn’t blame you. “My bad. I’m not, yknow, stalking you or anything.”

“Oh, because staring for hours and stalking are very different things,” You’re staring at his lips now, ignoring the vibration in your hand. The second your phone screen lights up you slam it face-down into your front pocket. There isn’t an ounce of remorse in his voice, like his response is calculated and open-ended. “What if I like that?”

Your eyebrows wiggle, even with the mind splitting sensation of your brain beating against your skull. Almost as hard as your heart hammering in your chest. Eren’s scoff is barely audible over the music, but the comment has his heart racing.

You pull him in by the collar of his t-shirt, fists bunched up in the dark fabric as your lips press against his. It’s feverish and sloppy, your teeth occasionally grazing his own. His mouth is hot and wet, fruity essence on his tongue as it slips past your lips and into your mouth. You’ve never had a kiss feel this good. He nips at your bottom lip, pearly teeth digging into the skin until he feels you make an embarrassingly high pitched noise in your throat.

There’s a twinkle in his teal eyes as his posture straightens, slowly leaning back to catch a breath of fresh air (as fresh as it can get, anyway). You watch him readjust his position, lifting his hips instead of his actual body, practically rutting into the thickening air as he shifts. His bubblegum lips curl into a lazy smile as his fingertips circle the rim of the red solo-cup he’s been drinking from. “What if I like you?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Your phone just doesn’t shut up, does it?” There’s clear agitation in his voice, his arched eyebrows furrowed as your feet carry you somewhere much more secluded. Eren trails behind you, his eyes glued on the mound of your ass as you walk. He has to help you occasionally, without even knowing the layout of the place, just so you don’t fall over. The light shine of your phone screen emits across your hip, and he can see the contact of whoever it is that’s so deeply desperate for your attention.

Too bad it’s all on him.

“I’m a pop— popular man.” You finally respond, shutting the door behind you to what Eren assumes is your bedroom in the frat house. It’s between two other bedrooms and across from three more, with a sizable closet that holds more trophies than clothing.

“Can see why, pretty mouth like that,” The words slip before he can think, but it’s worth it to see the way you oh, so conveniently hiccup in response. The implication of you being some type of campus whore makes your throat feel tight, and you can’t help but twitch in your tight pants. “Talks a lot of shit, though.”

“You talk too much.” Correction: he doesn’t talk enough. But you shut him up with a kiss anyway, hungry and frantic because whatever this is, whatever you feel when you look at him, you don’t want it to end. His hands travel under your shirt, cold from his previous icy drinks, and you squirm under his palms. He spreads goosebumps across your skin, and when his fingers brush the bud of your nipples you can’t help but jolt where you stand.

A malicious grin snakes across Eren’s face, all teeth and predatory as he runs his tongue over his sharp canine teeth. “Been thinking about fucking you for weeks. The whole time we were talking, all I could think about was shoving you down on my dick.”

Oh. Your cock aches at that, which is almost already too much for you, you’ve never done this before. Not with a man, not with someone who looks at you like they’re going to devour you whole. You swallow hard, alcohol dispelling from your body the more blood rushes south, and suddenly you’re on your knees, unbuttoning Eren’s jeans with trembling hands.

The door locks behind you, a small click that only the two of you can hear. You look back up at the nerd, who’s watching you intently with a smirk.

He’s a complete juxtaposition to his appearance— if you were a bad man you’d call him a loser, but he exudes dominance and power. You want to wiggle under his gaze, shifting your weight between knees. Eren’s large hands cradle your face, oddly tender and affectionate as he rubs your cheekbones, slowly sliding them to the sides of your head. He lifts your gaze, forcing eye contact.

His glasses hang low on his nose, clouded from his breath as he lets out a satisfied sigh. You want to pull on his hair, flyaways barely reaching the base of his neck as the rest remains in a ponytail.

“This okay?” His tone is beyond sincere.

“Yeah,” You breathe, momentarily losing yourself in the forest of his irises. Blinking rapidly, Eren removes his hands from your head to free himself from his jeans, his long cock decorated in a small vein that disappears below his head. It’s pretty, arched against his stomach and dripping onto his shirt. The leaking precum makes you wonder how long he’s been hard. “Yeah. This is—this is more than okay.”

“Open,” It’s more of a command than anything, Eren’s very hands on, his fingers slipping into your mouth to pull at the corners of your mouth. Your tongue covers your teeth, your mouth watering as his salty fingertips graze your tongue. His other hand is busy working at the head of his cock, twisting smooth circles over the slit until it crashes down against your tongue. Again, and again, and again. “Good boy.”

You find yourself drooling on your jersey, sucking in a deep breath through your nose as his tip rests on your tongue. He goes slow at first, letting you suck on the tip while his fist roams his shaft. You’re a big boy, he knows you can handle much more than just the head— even if he is thick. Your eyes water immediately, gagging instinctually as he shoves his dick deeper into your mouth. “Say thank you.”

Before you can pull away with an answer, both hands return to the back of your head, holding you in place. He encourages you to breathe through your nose, cooing at your inexperienced efforts to catch the drool escaping your mouth, and even goes as far as to wipe one of your tears, “Gonna thank me? F’letting you be such a good, warm n’ wet hole for me?”

You feel yourself nodding, blinking hazily as he rocks in and out of your mouth. There’s a sound you don’t recognize coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, and it has you whimpering on the mouthful of cock. You don’t mean to make such a pitiful noise, but it feels so good, letting yourself go a little brainless over a cute boy.

You slurp loudly— not on purpose, but it earns a throaty chuckle from the man above you. He pulls out to let you breathe, his cock slowly sliding up your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit. The tears in your eyes spill unabashedly, your face nearly crashing against his dick.

“Thank you.”

“Hm? For what?”

You want to groan, to bang your fists against the wall because he’s being so mean. He knows what you mean, you know what you mean. Regardless, still focused on his cock just inches away from your face, you moan against nothing. It’s a light noise, breathy and quiet but effective enough to make his cock jump. “Please, please— I mean- fuck, thank you for letting me be…yours.”

Eren tuts, feigning annoyance as he grips your chin between his fingers, digging into the soft skin so you’re actually focused on his face. You smile into his palm, eyelashes batting against your cheek and he just can’t help but spit onto your cheek.

“What, d’you just go dumb the second you see some dick?”

You’re barely listening, instead grinding against the fabric of your jeans because his touch treatment has you feeling some kind of way. “Does your girlfriend know her boyfriend’s a cockslut too? Does she know other boys spend their nights getting your holes wet, fuckin’ you in the same bed?”

It’s much easier to hear the vibrations in your pocket now that you’re alone, the only barrier between you being the muffled music on the other side of the door. Eren’s hand leaves your jaw, and you have no complaints when he helps you to remove your jeans.

The jersey can stay on, though. He wants to fuck you in it.

He pushes you into your bed, watching you bounce in the mattress in nothing but your jersey, and helps himself into solely his birthday suit. You’re just as exposed, seemingly moreso, as he pulls your bottom half into his lap. It’s an odd position, not anything you’re used to, maybe your exes and past hookups— but never you.

Eren hunches over, his breath tantalizingly close to your hole. First, he licks a fat stripe across the surface, holding your thighs open when they threaten to instinctively close. You can’t prop yourself up on your elbows at this angle, your feet dangling over his shoulders while he holds you up. The nerd is stronger than he looks.

His tongue is hot and wet, and you feel yourself clenching when a glob of spit lands on your hole. He massages it in with his ring and middle finger, and your body finds itself squirming against his touch. You expect fingers, one at first, maybe, then another. But instead he uses his tongue, lets it dip inside and lap at your insides. Eren looks hungry, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he spreads you open and holds you there with an iron grip. A punched-out “Eren!” leaves your lips the second his tongue is lapping you up, leaving tingles up your spine and smog in your brain.

He kneads his fingers into the fat of your thighs, nipping occasionally where your skin folds into your ass, just to get another choked whine out of you. And, oh, you whine. The intrusion isn’t unwelcome, in fact, the feeling of Eren’s face slick with his spit as he tries to get his tongue as deep as he can into you makes your toes curl. You fist your bedsheets, finding comfort in the pillows you’re pressed into, and go as far as to hold yourself open for the man while he goes to grab something.

“Oh, baby. You shouldn’t have,” You shiver at the sound of his dark chuckle, and squeal when his ring finger finds a spot next to his tongue. “Look at that. Hole’s leaking. You just sit here and look pretty while I fuck it on my tongue, hm? Think you can do that?”

“Mhmmm, mhm, yeah! I can— I can do that, ‘Ren.” You sound like a bitch, with your nose buried in your pillow as you moan with every brush to that special spot inside of you. Your cock jumps against your stomach, leaking into your belly button and down your chest. Your jersey is ruined, but so are you, especially when Eren rubs your cock once, twice—

Holy shit. You’re cumming.

“That’s it, come on, give it to me.” Your jersey catches it all, right over your reserved number and embroidered nameplate. Your brain is too fried for you to care, tears streaming down your face as your hole flutters on his tongue and fingers. Sensitive now, moreso than you were before, you whimper and shimmy in Eren’s lap, simultaneously moving toward and away from his touch. He keeps you where you are though, staring at your blissed out face through clouded glasses and licking his lips like he’s just finished eating the best meal he’s ever had. And as if that’s not enough to have you cumming again already, he places an open-mouthed kiss to your puffy hole just for good measure.

“You felt so soft on my tongue, fuck, I almost busted right on you,” His cheeks are pink, and the rosy shade blooms down his neck and disappears into his chest. He pulls you forward by your wrist, sucking on your tongue and licking over your lips so you can taste yourself. He’s gonna be the death of you.“Bet this hole’s gonna be even softer. Nice and warm while you take my cock. Gonna let me cum inside? Pump that soft cunt full until it’s all creamy and used?”

He’s so filthy, so unashamed. The nickname doesn’t go unheard, and despite the slutty moan that you let out in response, part of you wants to pinch him just for that. Damn Eren and his shameless mouth! But you nod anyway, an everlasting stream of ‘yesyesyes’ floating in the air as he lines himself up to finally give you what you’ve been gagging for so prettily.

Eren just can’t help himself. Not when you’re folded up and presenting yourself to him like this. Not when your eyes are wide and your lips are parted and you’re letting out such pretty sounds. Sounds that belong to him. Plus it’s not all on him, you’re the one with an unlocked phone. You’re the one with space in your camera roll.

He’s sure the camera is shaky, maybe even a little blurry, but he makes sure to get your face in it, fucked-out and crosseyed as he pounds his dick into you, keeps you steady with his hand on your jaw. A string of precum connects you together, pooling at your ass and Eren’s thighs as his hips crash down, yours convulsing upward to meet him halfway. It’s a bit half-assed on your part, but who’s gonna blame the guy getting fucked stupid?

“‘Ren, you’re,” You sob in disbelief, eyes rolling along with your hips. “You’re— ohh, you’re fuckin’ me.”

He smiles down at you, feral and heated as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his balls slapping against the curve of your ass. He never seems to stop, always chasing that feeling of you clamping down on him even when you’re almost too sensitive to take it. “That’s right, I’m fuckin’ you. Just how you like it, hm? Right in your fuckhole. S’what it’s there for, right?”

“That’s—“ Absurd? Vulgar? Objectification? It’s hot. It’s hot and you know it, Eren knows it, and your dick sure as hell knows it too because you can feel your next orgasm coming. “Yeah. N’my fuckhole.”

He makes a pleased sound in response, groans and pants joining your moans when he speeds up, his slow and deep strokes becoming fast and hollow, pounding that sensitive spot deep inside you over and over and over. “Should train you to take this dick.”

“Hold on,” Despite looking straight at him you can’t understand what he’s saying, not until his glasses are placed over your eyes and you’re blinking away the prescription blur. You struggle to collect yourself, wailing as you reach for his free hand that begins to nestle between your jawline and your neck. He squeezes affectionately, lets you cry and arch on his cock while he breathlessly sighs, “You look straight outta my favorite hentai.”

And, technically, you’re making a sextape now. A tape that showcases closeups of his cock disappearing deep inside you, pummeling your puffy hole until it carves the shape of his dick into you. Until only Eren can fit, big and thick and unbelievably deep. A tape that has you, a popular and well-known straight jock, crying on the dick of a guy you just met.

“Eren, m’gonna… ‘Ren—” You may as well scream, your body tensing as you spray across your chest — when did your jersey get bunched up enough to expose you like that? — sticky cum shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body ablaze. He doesn’t let up, castelon eyes narrowed as he fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, milking himself for all he’s worth. “Inside, wanna be full, I deserve it, please, Rennie.”

He bounces you a few times, watching you fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you. It’s the nickname that gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. It’s clear you feel proud of yourself for making him tremble inside you, and Eren takes the opportunity to scrapbook the memory.

“C’mere,” He’s not asking, simply pulling you closer to the camera so it can focus on your cum-stained face. “Smile for me, baby. Tell your ‘girlfriend’ how much you like it in your pussy too.”

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questionablecuttlefish · 7 days ago

Note

You recently said ur an encyclopedia of lightcannon. So I want to know what light cannon media is there, also just what lux media is there. New to the fandom and I just want all the canon lux stuff to get a solid grasp on what exists. also maybe a reading order/watch order.

Oh gosh. So this is the tricky thing with Lux, she's one of the oldest champions in League of Legends so she has a LOT of lore, but it's all scattered around.

She also has a TON of skins, she's one of the most popular champions for new skins to the point that it's almost a meme, so there are a LOT of Alternate Universe Luxes out there, and one of them (Star Guardian) is what popularized (but didn't actually start) the Lightcannon ship.

You can find a good chunk of her core Runeterra lore on her Universe page. I recommend all of the material written by Graham McNeill, including her bio and the "For Demacia" story. "Last Light" and "Flesh and Stone" are also excellent.

The "LUX" comic produced with Marvel, however, was where her story (and all of Demacia's) kicked up a notch, with the introduction of Sylas of Dregbourne, an imprisoned mage who teaches Lux how to control her power and introduces her to the truth about Demacia's brutal persecution of mages like both of them.

That said, even though Very Important Story Things happen in the Lux comic, there's a general consensus among Lux/lightcannon fans that the comic isn't very well written and mischaracterizes both Lux and Sylas pretty badly.

The Katarina comic retells some of the same events from the POV of infamous Noxian assassin, Katarina DuCoteau, and Lux does briefly appear in it, and her interaction with Katarina is pretty freaking great. So I recommend looking at this one, it's much better than the Lux one overall.

After that, the Riot Forge game studio (which has now been shuttered) produced a spinoff game starring Sylas called The Mageseeker.

This is actually a really rad little game that I recommend to anyone, especially anyone interested in Demacia lore or in any of the characters involved.

Lux is a prominent character, though she only appears pretty late into the story, and it follows up on the fallout from Lux and Sylas's friendship, the mage rebellion, and Sylas's betrayal of Lux in a way that is just really well done and IMO does justice to both characters.

(as well as making even more explicit than the Kat comic did that their relationship was only ever a platonic friendship/mentor relationship, but I digress)

It also leaves Lux in a really, REALLY interesting position in terms of her story and her role in Demacia, that I think has a lot of story meat, and that has factored into a lot of Lightcannon fics especially post Season Two.

It hasn't been officially explored from there, though. The next (and chronologically final) time we see Lux is in the "Warriors" promo video from Season 2020:

youtube

...where her truce with Sylas from the Mageseeker game doesn't seem to have lasted too long 😮

It's also probably the most baddass Lux we've seen depicted yet.

Legends of Runeterra, the spinoff card game, also does a couple of good Lux stories, including the recent "Lux Illuminated" where we see Lux dreaming (literally, she's in her dreams) of her idealized Demacia, where she's confident and powerful and adored for her magic instead of shunned.

...only for a creeping shadow to infiltrate her perfect world.

This is also where we get the only 'canon' interactions with Ezreal in the main timeline, maybe, and she's still shooting that poor boy down in flames 💔❤️‍🔥🔥even in her dreams. Ouch.

I'll talk about Lux AUs / skinlines in a different post if you wanna, because that's a whole other kettle of fish, but for Canon Lux, that's your main go to outside of her League/LoR voice lines.

Hope it helps give a picture!

#lux #luxanna crownguard #lux league of legends #jinx x lux #lux lol #lux league #lol lux #arcane #arcane netflix #league of legends #lightcannon #lux x jinx

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royakahoshiart · 4 months ago

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Gonna be ranting about the way harassment is talked about so leniently in tbhk.

That part where Tsukasa kissed Nene makes me so mad because we didn't get to even see Nene's genuine reactions, she only thought manwha type stuff it's so annoying.

Let's also talk about Hanako he's also harassed people constantly.

Looking up Nene's skirt, throwing Kou to the ground numerous times, never respecting boundaries even when told to.

I feel like I should add how both Aida and Iro are guilty of this in most of their stories actually.

Sure it's a popular thing in Japan to treat it as a joke but that's exactly why so many horrible shit heads can get away with harassment.

Oh god let's not forget the scene everyone on twitter and tik tok hates.

Chapter 69 during the aoiaoi fight, I will always defend it to my heart forever and ever but I acknowledge that the way Akane was touching her was kinda weird that's why I struggled to read it at first. The kiss at the end was consensual but holding her in place, and we whatever that panel of him was I don't wanna think about it was definitely not consensual.

I don't like how it's treated. I don't care that it's a comedy sometimes or that a shounen trope like this are common, both writer and artist are women I'd expect them to try and treat it with a little more care.

I've seen how most Japanese readers don't really address the bad things of the manga or maybe they just don't notice and I don't think that's good at all.

So many characters have done weird things I'm just picking who didn't, mitsuba and the adults seem to be the only ones who haven't harassed anyone really, even then they have faults.

Even Kou , he tied up Mitsuba it kinda pisses me off for no reason. Maybe im just petty but I knows it's supposed to be comedy, I still laugh at that thing but it's still weird how Kou tied him up in the first place and had no objections by Mitsuba at first maybe I'm thinking too hard about it.

I despise that part where Hanako enters Nene's body. Not consensual, plus using her as a way to get away with things.

People see it like a funny moment but it's still sexual harassment and harassment in general I hate is so much. The fact that he commented on Aoi's breast size makes me even more mad because he touched it wanting or not, and decided to say it even making fun of her.

Plus Nene was obviously uncomfortable with it I'm not sure how she was able to look at Aoi ever again.

Also poor Kou???? He's a poor 14 year old boy Hanako does not need to do that with Nene's body I feel so bad for both Kou and Nene. Kou wanted to do something about it but he couldn't even dare to look at the scene Kou Minamoto they could never make me hate you.

English translation fucked it up a bit , they made him comment on the occurrence saying "seductive" but what i think is more fit is "embarassing". AUGHHH tbhk stop putting your main characters in weird scenes challenge failed.

The image in the first volume of Nene being naked errr it's censored yes but weird. We could've had just hanako talking about it but we didn't need an artist rendition. Someone made an edit of that panel making her covered parts visible and it disgusts me like it would for other people too.

Talking so freely about wanting to see her naked is very weird from Hanako's part I don't exactly know if it does count as sexual harassment but for me it is.

I think we forget Sumire tried to erffghnb with Hakubo and I like that all she got was a headbutt. Oh oh and well Hakubo's kiss was uncalled for but her slap was even more.

The scene where she gets eaten goes down easier if you remember she was completely fine with it, both of them where okay with it happening (i still struggle reading that part 😓) so it's not really that bad.

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boygiwrites · 6 months ago

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Harley D. Dixon 37

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

— TW: OFF-SCREEN TORTURE. NON-CONSENSUAL KISS INVOLVING CHILD.

Hey, everyone :) Please be mindful that this chapter is pretty intense. If what's listed in the TWs isn't something you're comfortable reading, kindly skip this chapter and read the end notes for a summary.

A few hours later, once the sun begins to sink below the windowsill and turn the room orange, the front door slams shut.

I can't see him from where I'm curled up in the cramped space between the sofa and the wall, crying and sniffling into my hands, but I can tell it's Merle just by the weight of his footsteps and the sound of him dumping his keys on the kitchen counter. He calls out for me — "Harley? Why's the door unlocked?" — but I keep my mouth shut, 'cause I know he's gonna find me, anyway.

His boots appear in my line of sight, stopping before he sighs to himself. "Aw, shit."

As he crouches down in front of me, I rub the wetness from my eyes and bravely meet his gaze. He always hates it when I cry, but he especially hates it when I don't look him in the eye. It's one of the many, random things he finds disrespectful.

"What's wrong?" He asks, lookin' more confused than anything. "C'mon, cry-baby. What happened?"

"There was a man in here," I whisper, watching his expression turn to stone.

"Like Hell there was."

"He had keys," I continue frantically. "I wasn't gonna let him in, I swear. He said his name was Philip and—"

"Of course it was fuckin' Philip."

"—And he said he was gonna cut Daddy's th-throat open if I didn't tell him where our group is," I exclaim.

"And did ya?"

"I ain't told him shit, but he said he'd be back!"

While I was sitting here, waiting for Merle to return, I thought about climbing out the window or leaving through the front door to go and help Dad and Glenn, but I'll admit it. I got scared, and this hiding spot seemed a lot more appealing than out there.

He pins me with a meaningful look. "Ya say he only talked to ya?"

"Uh-huh," I sniffle, nodding.

"He ain't done nothin' else?"

I shake my head, tears quickly gathering in my eyes again. "He said he'd cut his throat open, Merle! I'm worried about 'em!"

As soon as the words come outta my mouth, I catch him trying not to roll his eyes. "Girl, I left you with a box of snacks and all the movies a kid could ever want, and now you're all upset? Come on, now. You ain't already know what was gonna happen?"

I knew we weren't gonna be popular here, but I ain't thought anybody would get they throat cut!

Glaring at him, I ask, "What, and you did?"

"Jesus." He looks down at his boots, chewing on his cheek before he meets my gaze again. "Yeah, I knew, okay?"

"And you let—?"

"I told you. My hands are tied," He explains, lowering his voice. "I ain't the golden child that makes all the decisions here. But like I said, I went to see yer Dad. And for yer information, yer Uncle Merle's the only reason he's got food and water right now."

Oh. Great. Dad's gonna get murdered in a cellar, but at least he's got food and water.

He adds, "I ain't yer enemy, here, alright?"

"He don't need food and water," I say, offended he thinks that's what any of us want. "We need to go home!"

"Wanna tell me where that is, then? End all'a this?"

That shuts me up.

Conflicted, I stare him down, knowing I won't say it. Despite everything, I can't. I know it'd be the wrong thing to do.

"Okay." He grins sarcastically. "So, we're gonna go with my plan, then. Good to know."

"What is your plan?"

"To not let ya Daddy get killed. So, get up," He reaches out for me, grabbing my arm and forcing me to my feet. "He's refusin' to say anythin' until we prove you're alright, so now we gotta take a lil' field trip back down to the blocks together. Let's go."

I gasp as he drags me over to the front door. "I get to see Dad?"

"He's holdin' a guard at gunpoint as we speak, so, yeah. They're takin' him serious."

As he grabs his keys, I ask, "Was you there when he did that?"

"Nah. I just talked to him a lil' bit a few hours ago. Was out by the gates when they told me to come get ya."

"Wait."

I suddenly come to a stop, diggin' my heels into the carpet so he can't drag me any further.

He turns to look at me. "What?"

Feeling proud of myself, I decide, "I'm only lettin' ya take me to see Dad if you promise to let Glenn see a doctor."

If Dad's allowed to threaten people to get what he wants, so do I.

"Like I can't just throw ya over my shoulder, anyway," He jokes. "Ya weigh about as much as a tin of beans."

"I'll kick and scream the whole way," I warn him, and I'm dead serious.

Merle considers me for a moment, before he sighs in defeat and pulls the door open. "Fine."

"Yes!"

"Let's go."

The five-minute walk from Merle's apartment to the abandoned building leaves me with just enough time for my anxiety to settle back into my bones, though I guess it never really left, always a firm sediment permanently fixed to the bottom of my stomach.

My palms begin to sweat as we approach the cellar doors, feeling like I'm about to jump off a tall building.

When Merle knocks on them, they're opened from the other side by an angry-lookin' man who gestures for us to enter.

Oh, man, I think to myself as we descend the concrete steps, our movements echoing loudly off the walls, It's cold down here. The light slips away as the doors close behind us, reminding me of the hundreds of tunnels in the depths of the prison, where even the sun and the fresh air can't reach. I feel a chill creep up my skin as I huddle closer behind Merle, afraid of the guards' lingering gazes.

"Bring her in here," Dad's distant voice echoes. "Bring her in here right now, or this bastard loses his brains!"

I think of Merle's apartment as we make our way down the long corridor.

It's strange to think that he lives just around the corner from this nightmare, as if the flower beds let him forget about it.

"They're comin'!" A guard shouts back at Dad. "Don't shoot!"

With each door we pass, I wonder, Is that the one?

Until we come to a stop at the very last door, and Merle gives a meaningful look to the guard standing outside it. This is it.

"So, you're that psycho's daughter," The stranger muses to himself in distaste, before he grabs the doorknob and pushes it open.

The very first thing I see is my Dad standing in the middle of the room, holding a man to his chest with a gun to his head. His whole body tenses, posturing himself for a fight, fingers clenching around the grip, before he realizes that it's just me.

"Harley," He exhales with his whole chest and throws the gun to the ground, running up to me.

I wrap my arms around him as the guard makes a noise of relief, snatching up his gun and scrambling outta the room.

The door slams shut behind him.

"Harley," He says again, pulling back and cupping my face in his dirty hands. "Fuck. Them bastards told me they—..."

"I'm alright," I assure him with a shake of my head, but I ain't as relieved as he is, not even enough to return the small smile on his lips, the tender, beaten expression on his face. He's— He looks worse than he ever has. His nose is bent the wrong way like it belongs to a different person, leaking fresh blood onto the already dried, tacky blood caked onto his upper lip. It tracks lines back up his pinkened cheeks, looking like reverse tears, pooling into his hairline as if they had him hanging upside down. "A-are you okay?"

Remembering what the scary man said, I check his neck. There's no slice or mark from a blade, but there are colorful bruises blooming in a line over his Adam's apple that look a bit like the milky way galaxy. It's awful. I think he must've been strangled.

"Don't worry about me," He croaks, touching his fingers to the browned, purple skin. "It's nothin'."

"Daddy, I don't like this anymore," I desperately confess. "At first, I thought it was gonna be okay because Merle was with us, and he said they was only gonna question ya, but now they're sayin' they gonna kill ya, and we can't go hom—"

"Shh," He croons. "Shhhh, no, no, no."

Gently, he leads me over to the blanket crumpled up against the wall, sitting down on it and setting me in his lap.

"Shh. No more of that," He whispers, leaning his chin on the top of my head, too weak to talk any louder. "You been at Merle's?"

Yeah. Let's talk about something else.

Staring at a stain on the floor, I answer, "We talked and he left for a while, so I watched a movie."

His chest rumbles beneath me as he chuckles, his breath warm on my scalp, before I feel him shudder, sniffle.

Oh. I realize he's crying quietly to himself.

"Movie, huh?" He eventually murmurs, his voice thin and shaky. "That's real good. That's good, baby. Which one?"

Whatever they told Dad they was doing to me, it must've been bad. It might've even been that they was cuttin' my throat open, because if I heard that Dad was had only been watching movies this whole time, I'd be just as relieved. But it ain't true.

Ignoring the bruises on his arm, I say, "Somethin' with a lotta gun fights."

"It weren't that corny one with the robot-soldiers he always liked, was it?"

"I think it was."

"Well, that's worse'un anythin' they been puttin' me through," He jokes, sniffing wetly. His breath hitches before he groans and coughs something thick and red onto the floor. I feel his muscles loosen as he sighs heavily. "Used to hate it when he put that shit on."

A fat, white tooth sits in the middle of the puddle of blood like a pearl.

"He got cartoons, too," I add, hoping he finds it a little bit funny. "Got a whole bunch of 'em."

"Remind me to bring that up later, huh?"

"Shit!"

I flinch.

At the sound of Glenn's muffled cry coming from the other side of the wall, I straighten, calling out, "Glenn?"

"Harley?" He shouts back, panicked. "Oh, my G— You animals! Let her go!"

"She's with me," Dad cuts him off sternly. "She's alright."

"Oh. Oh, thank God. Are you guys safe?"

"There's nobody else in here wit'us, if that's what'chu mean."

I hear a door slam shut.

"What's that?" Dad asks him. "You alone, too?"

"It was some guy," He groans, and I imagine him sitting with his back against Dad's, with only the wall to separate us from each other and it makes me feel a little better. "He wrapped gauze around my thigh and gave me some pills. Hope it wasn't poison."

"I threatened Merle on the way here, Glenn," I proudly tell him. "He promised me he'd let you see a doctor."

"He didn't look like any doctor I've ever seen," He jokes. "But thank you, Harley. That was kind."

"Smart," Dad agrees fondly. "Guess I'm sorry I ain't thought of it."

"It's alright, man," Glenn says. "If it was me who had that guard at gunpoint, I would've asked to see Harley, too."

I ask, "It still hurt?"

"Uh. No. No, don't worry." It's easy to tell he's lying. "I feel better already."

"We gotta get the fuck outta here," Dad grumbles lowly because he can tell, too, but nobody says anything else after that.

It's a little difficult with all the gray, concrete walls and the single lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling by a thin, red wire, but I imagine I'm in the forest. Any forest. It's where I'd be all the time if I could. I'm in the forest and I can see the sky, clear and blue above me, reminding me that I have nothing to worry about because maybe I'm a leaf on a bush or a thorny flower, blowing softly in the breeze.

I can't picture the smaller details, but that's alright. All that matters is that I can see the sky.

The forest blows away like sand in the wind when the door opens.

Lifting my head from my Dad's shoulder, I blink away the grogginess that sticks behind my eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the room. I must've fallen asleep, dreaming about clouds. I think for a moment that I'm in my old bedroom again, curled up in Dad's lap after he drifted off while reading me a bed time story, but I'm quickly reminded of where I am when Philip's voice fills the room.

"I almost thought you were a total monster," He says as I turn to look at him. "But you're just a Dad."

He slowly stalks into the room, smiling nicely as a guard follows him in and closes the door.

"There's always two sides to a person." He comes to a stop just a few feet from us. "She looks just like you. I didn't notice until now."

Dad's fingers curl tighter around me, glaring up at the man through his brows, saying nothing.

"Hm?" Philip chirps with a little shrug. "What's the matter, Daryl? Not in the mood to spit on my face again?"

"I will be," He rasps lowly, "Once y'all take Harley back to my brother's."

"Back to your brother's? I think I remember you threatening to kill one of my men unless we brought her in here." His smile grows into a friendly grin, flashing his perfectly clean teeth at us. His hair, gray and healthy, hangs down in the shapes of crescent moons against his temples, like it's come loose in a fight — The only imperfection to his neat appearance. "She can stay. Tell me, how old is she?"

"Take Harley back to my brother's," Dad warns him again, voice dropping into a growl.

"I'd say she looks eight. Maybe nine," Philip guesses. "You know, that's around my daughter's age."

Slowly, my Dad stands up, matching the man's height. "This ain't got nothin' to do with her. You got a kid, you'll understand."

"I've also got a town to keep safe. If you were a leader, you'd understand." He retorts calmly, nodding to the table. "Now, sit."

The guard leaning against the wall smirks at us.

Breathing harshly, nostrils flared, Dad glances down at me. We have to do as he says. Realizing this, he grabs my hand and we carefully make our way over to the round table in the middle of the room, the glow of the light bulb lending it a soft, yellow hue.

I sit down in the closest chair, Dad taking the one opposite mine as Philip takes up the head of the table.

As we sit together in an uncomfortable silence, I notice I was wrong.

Philip's unkempt hair is far from his only imperfection — I just had to see him under a better light for them to make themselves known, like noticing a scuff on a window only when the sun hits it, or peeling back a bandage to reveal a hideous wound. I begin to squirm anxiously, unable to take my eyes off him. His forearms are littered with tiny droplets of blood, red freckles against the beige of his clean skin, a large splotch smeared over the glass of his expensive watch, still tick, tick, ticking away with each second that passes.

Strangely, his tie is still perfectly straight.

"Let me tell you this, Daryl." He doesn't take his eyes off Dad, and Dad doesn't take his eyes off him, matching his cool gaze with an impossibly hot, angry one. If he could, he'd tackle this man to the ground. Philip leans back in his chair, looking like he enjoys Dad's obvious struggle. "I don't want to hurt your daughter. I've done a lot of things for this town, but hurting children isn't one of them."

"Daryl?" Glenn shouts from the other room, earning only silence. "Daryl, is Harley still in there?"

"But if you make me hurt her," He continues cooly, "I won't have any problems with that."

Glancing down, I watch Dad's knuckles turn white as he claws anxiously at his thighs.

"Harley, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Like I said." His smile turns smug. "There's always two sides to a person."

"Harley?"

I want to answer Glenn, but I'm scared that if I do, it might make Philip angry. I can't make Philip angry.

"I already told you when you was beatin' my face in earlier," Dad mutters angrily. "They cut us loose months ago."

"No, that story's not gonna cut it anymore," Philip sighs in frustration. "Your brother told me he had a chat with your daughter and that she said your group is probably worried about where you've been all day. How can those two things be true at once?"

I see the breath leave Dad's body, defeat taking over his expression. Oh, no. I messed up. I messed it all up.

"You know kids. They never lie."

When Philip looks at me, my whole body stiffens.

I ruined Dad's story. I—I didn't mean to give anything away, I swear. I didn't even know I was giving anything away when I was talking to my Uncle Merle. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. How could I have not realized he and Glenn were probably gonna lie?

"So, now that we've got that out in the open — Here's how this is gonna go."

Dad won't look at me, but I wish he would so that he could see I'm sorry.

"I'm going to ask you three times where your people are." Philip leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "The first two times, you're going to tell me to go fuck myself, or to go to Hell, or what-not. But the third time, you're going to tell me."

I flinch as a dull thud comes from the other side of the wall, Glenn crying out in pain.

Philip doesn't flinch at all. "Where are your people?"

Shaking his head in disgust, my Dad lets out a weak, sarcastic chuckle. "Go fuck yourself. My daughter doesn't need to be here."

Nodding, Philip simply asks again, "Where are your people?"

Glenn cries out again in the silence that follows, and again, and again, the blunt sounds of a fist coming down on his body making me flinch each time as if I'm the one being hit. It's such an awful thing to listen to, but Dad's refusing to fill the silence and Philip seems more than happy to let us stew in it. I feel like I've been tied to this chair, unable to move, but it's just his presence that's keeping me down.

"Okay," Philip mutters after a minute or two, taking a deep breath, and reaching for his holster.

My Dad's eyes go wide, and that's the last thing that happens before Philip's pointing a gun at my head. My blood runs cold. Oh. I stare into the barrel. It's a single, black eye staring straight into mine, a slender finger resting on the trigger.

Don't move, Harley, I tell myself, even though my hands are shaking, And it'll be okay.

"This will be the last time," He says. "Where are your people?"

Squeezing my eyes shut, a tear slips down my cheek.

When I open them again, my Dad is looking at me. I don't think I've ever seen him look this scared, not even when our house got robbed when I was seven, or when Merle sniffed all that powder and broke a window, or when Tank got injured. He's never scared. If I could tell ya one thing about my Dad, it's that. He's the bravest, toughest person I know, who right now, looks absolutely terrified.

He's gonna tell him, I think, already mourning the moment he does. He's gonna tell him.

Sniffling, swallowing down whimpers, I hope he can tell that I won't be angry at him for it. Rick wouldn't be, neither.

"Meriweather County prison."

A hiccup escapes me. My chest violently shudders, filled with heavy dread. He told him.

None of us are safe, anymore. Not even Judith. We're— We're gonna have to move, or hide,— O-or maybe we can't do anything. Maybe when they come and take everything we own and all the people I love are dead, I'll think of this moment.

"That's where they are," He adds, quiet, ashamed.

Philip's smile returns.

"Look at that. I could just get him to do anything like this, couldn't I, Harley?" He chuckles, but I just can't stop crying, not even if I hold my breath like my Daddy taught me how, or if I imagine something nice, something that isn't a gun pointed at my head, or my Dad's bruised face, or the guard standing in the corner, watching this play out. "Your big, strong Dad. Have you ever seen him dance?"

"Just stop," I beg him. "Ya wanted to know where our group was, and he— he told ya. Just s-stop."

"C'mon, Daryl." He grins at him, ignoring me. "Stand up. Give us a little dance while you're feeling so compliant."

My Dad reluctantly rises from his seat, and I wish I didn't have to watch. I want to tell him, it's alright, because that's what he would tell me. This whole thing is almost over. Just do as he says. After standing there for a moment, embarrassed, looking at the floor, he starts to awkwardly do the hustle. The sound of his boots shuffling against the floor fills the room and somehow it's crueller than watching him be punched or kicked or strangled because at least then, I could see the thing that's being broken and it would be dignified.

Philip's chuckling to himself, enjoying the show. I feel the overwhelming urge to ask him what the Hell is wrong with him.

"It's like being at one of my daughter's ballet recitals all over again," He laughs. "I'd like to see a spin, Daryl."

Glancing at the gun again, my Dad defeatedly spins in a circle, his expression twisted up in shame.

I think he wishes I didn't have to watch, too.

When he comes to a stop, Philip's laughter dies out, smile lingering like a thin ripple after a tall wave.

He looks at me. "I want you to remember this the next time he says he can protect you. Will you do that for me?"

"I hate you," I seethe through my tears.

"Harley," Dad hisses in desperation, his eyes darting between me and Philip. "Harley, shut the fuck up."

"I hate you."

"Well, that's not nice," Philip croons. I hate him so much. No, I will not remember this the next time Dad says he can protect me. My Dad is brave. He's tough. That ain't gonna change just 'cause this bully humiliates him while he hides behind his gun, too much of a pussy to pick on somebody his own size. I hate, hate, hate him. "'If you don't have anything nice to say'... You know how it goes."

"You're a bully," I spit, feeling the anger simmer up into my face. "You're a crazy, stupid bully and you should die."

"Harley," Dad warns me again. "Harley, baby, please."

"You gonna shoot me like y'all shot my friend, Glenn? Huh?"

"When I shoot you, I won't be doing anything your Dad hasn't already," He tells me. "You're forgetting why you're here."

"We're here 'cause my Dad shot some feller who was tryna kill us!" I shout at him, ignoring the way my Dad keeps begging me to, shut up, Harley. Please, shut up. "And you told me you ain't even liked him, so you can shut the fuck up about it!"

"Are you done?"

"Just leave us the Hell alone, already!" I squeal, furious, panting. "I just— We just— We wanna go h-home."

Whenever I shouted at my Dad or Uncle Merle like this, I'd forget about myself right up until my anger bubbled down and the room went quiet, my heartbeat drumming against my skull the only thing I could hear. Then, everything would become clear to me again, and the anger quickly cooled like a red metal being dunked in a bucket of water, hardening into fear. We would stare each other down for a minute or two, huffing and puffing like offended bulls in a fighting ring until one of us snapped — And it was never me.

Here, now, Philip doesn't reach for his belt, pull it from its loops, whip it over the backs of my thighs. He doesn't grab me by the ear and bring my face close to his, lecturing me on manners while I nod for every word he says.

All he does is ask one last time, his voice as calm and smooth as a glass lake, "Are you done?"

Gulping, I glance around the room, as if to check it's still the same as it was before I lost my temper.

"You got what'chu wanted," My Dad reminds him. "I did what'chu asked. You know you ain't got no issues with my daughter."

"I do have issues with little potty-mouthed girls who can't hold their tongue," He says, raising a brow at me.

Usually, this is where I'd start babbling, Please, I didn't mean it. I was just angry. But I'm still angry. And I did mean it.

Stubbornly, I say nothing.

"Okay. Harley," He says, light as a feather. "Come and give me an apology kiss, and it'll all be forgiven."

I almost falter.

That's what he wants?

I can't stop myself from mumbling, "What?"

"You heard me."

That's right. I did hear him. A kiss?

Like what Glenn and Maggie do, because they're boyfriend-girlfriend? And Rick and Lori, because they're husband-wife?

Is-is he—? "Are you serious?"

"I don't think you should ever ask that question to a man with a gun to your head," He says smugly. Yes, he's serious.

For some reason, I glance at my Dad to get permission from him, because he'll put me in time-out for giving Philip a kiss without his say-so. It's one of them things I don't need to know all the logistics of to know — to feel — that it's wrong, but he don't look angry with me, even though he and Merle have always told me I ain't allowed to kiss a boy until I was eighteen. He just looks broken.

Looking back at Philip and the expectant look on his face, I force myself to stand from my chair.

It scr-cr-crapes painfully against the floor before I'm on my feet, creeping around the table as he keeps the gun trained on me.

Every step feels like a stride through a minefield, careful, terrifying, bracing myself for the gun to go off if I make the wrong move.

When I come to a stop in front of him, the tear clinging to my jaw slips onto my shirt, soaking through the fabric, onto my skin. It's warm. I think I hear Dad seething something under his breath as Philip leans forward and his nose almost grazes mine.

A kiss. That could also mean the type of kiss my Dad or Maggie or Carol or Lori gives me, right?

A kiss on the cheek?

"You know, in my family," He says, tapping the gun against my lips. "We used to kiss on the mouth. Must be an Italian thing."

I shy away from the cold metal, turning my head to the side as if it's a spoonful of broccoli I don't want anywhere near me. His breath is hot, fanning gently across my chin. The smell of sweat and shampoo mingles together into a thick, poisonous gas and I quicken my breathing, short and shallow pants escaping me just to stop it from entering my lungs, to make it feel a little less real.

"C'mon." He says quieter, looking at me, the little fish he knows he's got on the hook. "Aren't you sorry?"

Glancing down at his mouth — Yes. Yes, I am sorry. I'm sorry I said those things aloud.

Dad tries to talk to me like I'm the only other person in the room — "Harley Dixon, look at me," — but the guard cocks his gun.

I have to do it.

It'll only take one second.

Everything that happens in this room will stay in this room and I'll forget all about it once we're back home.

I kiss Philip on the mouth. It's quick. It's barely there. It's like I'm kissing a hot coal and I don't want to burn myself, and I'm flinching backwards, trying to will away the warm sensation on my mouth as Philip smiles, pleased. I'm gross. I'm so gross.

"That wasn't so hard." I can feel his gravelly voice all over me. I want to go home. "All's forgiven."

"You're sick," My Dad grits through his teeth, tears brimming on his lashes. "A sick motherfucker. Somethin' real wrong with you."

Unbothered, Philip stands from his chair. "I'll leave you to figure out what that is, then."

"I wanna talk to my brother."

"See you later, Daryl."

When he and the guard leave the room and the door slams shut in our faces, a piece of me leaves with them.

Author's Notes.

— SUMMARY: A few hours after the ending of the previous chapter, Daryl is refusing to reveal any information until it can be proven to him that Harley is alright. Merle brings Harley to the blocks and she is locked in Daryl's cell with him until the Governor arrives to interrogate them.

Daryl reveals the group's location when he puts a gun to Harley's head. She gets emotional and cusses the Governor out, prompting him to force her to kiss him on the mouth as an apology.

Should I start this off by saying I'm sorry?! 😭 I'm sorry!

This was messed up. I felt very uncomfortable writing this, but I needed a traumatic event to happen to Harley while they were in Woodbury. It's part of my plan for her and Daryl's arcs this season. I hate when media throws sexual assault around as a key point in a female character's story but I just had a problem with the Governor physically torturing Harley. I feel like this is more realistic.

And don't worry about Merle. He wouldn't have let this happen if he wasn't also being threatened.

Let me know what you thought! See you next time! :)

@poetoflawed

#the walking dead #twd #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon twd #fanfic #rick grimes #angst #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #twd daryl #tw noncon #glenn rhee #the governor #norman reedus

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