#not if people insist there's a singular answer.
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Voting for Other, and here's my thoughts on this topic as asked for:
Any word to describe a quote-unquote "non-standard experience" cannot be placed in a yes-or-no dichotomy here. You cannot cover the broad range of lived experience that way.
There is no definitive answer, however that doesn't mean you shouldn't or cannot use it for yourself and those who give the all-clear.
Slur reclamation is a personal thing. It isn't community-wide. It is individual because the entire concept of reclamation is about a person's feelings on harmful terminology and how that interacts with a power imbalance.
"Is queer reclaimed" is not a topic with a definite conclusion. When discussing reclamation, it's important to bear in mind that you're taking the temperature of individual response and that the data doesn't aggregate beyond "This percent of responses indicate this feeling about the word queer, and this other percent of responses indicate a different feeling."
Much like the point of the word queer itself, you will never define it on a dichotomy, you have to accept that there are uncountable experiences on the topic instead.
Thank you for reading.
#harpy scratchings#I may have misunderstood the purpose of the poll in that it might be doing exactly what I talk about folks NOT doing#but this feels important here.#queer as a term is not definable like that. why would the STATUS of queer as a term be definable like that?#just bugs me.#I'm queer as in fuck you not queer as in please put me in an easily labelled box that helps someone understand my identity and#makes my preferred terminology statically easy to comprehend#if you want to know about me you ask. you talk to me.#that's how we treat others with respect.#I respect wanting to bring the debate to a close but it simply isn't gonna happen#not if people insist there's a singular answer.#and if I have to hear ''queer is a slur is TERF Koolaid'' again...#like just please shut the fuck up you know?#I didn't grow up in the early aughts still hearing gay and lesbian hurled harder than dyke and fag#where even as late as 2015 you could get lesbo thrown at you#because of how deeply catholic this fucking city is#I hate TERFs too okay? but they aren't some bogeyman responsible for all queerphobia#they're just one head on the hydra.
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studying birds and bees
3.5 k words / warnings - penetrative sex (i imagined a vag but there's no anatomy listed), riding
summary - viktor, alone and glum, is not comforted by the company of a fellow scientist at a hextech exhibition party. not until you mention taking him home, at least.
Gold drenches each wall in streamers and plates. Curtains shimmer overhead. Silver platters dazzle each passing caterer’s hand -- specialties half the size of his palm gleam fresh and dewy. Clear coupes and flutes pass, full of wheat sparkles. Sour, no doubt, but sure enough to waste a man as thin as he.
So surely, in fact, that Viktor actively avoids drinking anything besides water. He’s a common lightweight, never finding time to flex tolerance between working hours, and he distrusts anything he can’t see through. Anything that has a smell, whether it’s sour or sweet, he staunchly avoids.
Similarly, he refuses to follow conversation: people unreasonable or unfortunate in nature that approach are limited to singular, curt responses. Thankfully he’s smart enough, well-regarded enough, famed enough that it has no bearing on his life outside these miserable hours. Hours he’s sure are better spent down in the lab. Nose buried into his work: he’s most comfortable that way, living as he always has.
Viktor believes his hate is layered beneath several swathes of cool. An expression he believes to be neutral -passive, if anything- is actually a scathing scowl that has many guests rushing off to inform Jayce of his unapproachable partner.
He hears that a lot.
He’s impersonal, strange, distant.
He likes living that way. It makes working easier.
Jayce is everything he is not: warm, talkative, generous. His face is on porcelain mugs.
Viktor would know that, he got one for a generous discount of Free. It’s sitting in his sink at this very moment, coffee dribbling the rim and baked into the bottom. It could risk a stain if he doesn’t wash it before bed tonight.
But then, who knows? Perhaps he’ll be too exhausted from standing all night and straining a smile whenever he makes eye contact with Jayce. At some point, the muscles in his cheeks become too sore, so he begins ignoring the man wrapped around Mel Medarda.
If he’s lucky, Jayce will not try waltzing over to ask for the third time if Viktor is enjoying the night.
And if he’s unlucky, as he suspects he is, then someone else is rapidly crossing the shiny tiles toward him. Two glasses, one in either hand, glinting beneath ball lights. Shoe heels clicking closer and closer until it’s pounding right beside his ear.
“Never saw anything like this back home, did we?”
You say it so familiarly, as if you know anything about Viktor’s home. Maybe you do. But not like that.
“No,” he answers politely enough despite pointedly ignoring the glass you offer him, “we didn’t.”
“I got a real drink for you,” you’re not content to be ignored though, “I noticed you’ve been nursing an empty cup.”
“We didn’t have anything like that in the undercity, I don’t know if I trust it.”
“Then trust me,” you sip from your glass, leaving a dewy smear around the lip, “It’s not bad. Sharp, but not bad.”
Viktor leans more weight onto his cane as he leans, grabbing the glass from you before slanting back, “Sharp, but not bad.”
You swing another sip, watching from the corner of your eye as his arm remains stationary -though you don’t comment, “You seemed incredibly lonely.”
“So you thought it’d be generous to bother me.”
“Practically,” you clink glasses, “You strike me as a man who doesn’t get bothered often. Someone should keep you upright.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” not even he can tell whether he means that genuinely or not. Maybe he does, but only as long as it isn’t you providing the company. His eyes flutter and he imagines: if it were Sky, would he be satisfied?
Jayce?
Mel?
Heimerdinger?
His long disgraced mentor?
“You finally get to leave the lab and you insist on spending the time alone, I wonder why…” you say with enough wisp in your tone to excuse it as a non-question.
Viktor puffs a laugh, weighed down by annoyance -- do you have no eyes? Are you ignorant to your surroundings? Scratch that, his laugh was a total scoff by the time it breached his throat.
“I’m not interested in people,” Viktor briefs, then sighs, “Especially the types that feel the need to keep me company- like I’m some sad thing on the side of the road.”
“You don’t want to feel pitied?”
“Who would?”
“People who’ve never experienced harshities.”
Viktor shakes his head, swirling the glass flute and watching the bubbles twirl, “I don’t care for any of this conversation.”
“Then what conversation would you care for?”
“Why are you here?” he forces himself to remain quiet, afraid that raising his voice could attract attention.
“Like I said, you looked lonely,” you turn onto your shoulder, budding it against the wall to solely stare at Viktor, “I wanted to find solidarity between two Zaunites.”
He shoots you a wary look at that; nobody in Piltover refers to the undercity by that name -it would sling a series of implications the council hasn’t even begun to tackle. Hearing it here, no less, strikes him unpleasantly -- are you being bold or defiant? Is this earnest support of underground independence or are you mocking the Piltover riches that fund his life’s work?
Either way, you’re foolish to declare yourselves Zaunites in the back of this room.
“Sky is also from the undercity,” Viktor jerks his chin toward her, as if you can’t spot her defined curls and moonglasses from where you are.
“I’m not interested in Sky, lovely as she is,” you shrug, “I’m interested in you. I was hoping to see the brain let loose.”
“I don’t get loose.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“So, you’ll die having never gotten ‘loose’.”
“I’ll die having not done lots of things, but I will have been part of Hextech’s creation.”
“That’s all you want to do before you die?”
“I want to give Hextech to the people, anything other than that…” he shakes his head and taps a blunt nail against the glass stem, “I will die in any case.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Dying?”
“Yourself dying.”
“It will happen eventually,” Viktor shrugs, “Probably sooner than others. Heimerdinger says the brighter sparks, they go the fastest,” he lets the sentiment sit a moment before awkwardly flipping it back unto you, “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t think you should ever die.”
“Flattering, but unlikely.”
“Then why do you work like you’ll live forever?” when the only response you get is a single thick eyebrow raise you continue, “Really, you work like a man without time, as if you could just come back into the world after locking yourself away for years. You worry only about the science behind Hextech rather than the humanity in you that wanted you to create it.”
Softly, you cup his shoulder. Regardless of how bold the gesture is he doesn’t find himself wanting you gone.
Perhaps because of the gentle furrow in your brows, your pout accentuated with reddish stains.
“Why don’t you enjoy yourself, Viktor?”
Viktor has so much he needs to do, but nothing as pressing as easing you. He holds his hand over yours, kindly massaging the flat plain across the back of your hand, “I enjoy myself plenty.”
“Alone?” your gaze flicks toward his hand with no subtly, “With only your own hands?”
“Where did that come from?” he gasps, squeezing your hand tighter in shock, eyes widening with stained cheeks.
“Nowhere, I suppose. Just curiosity,” you shrug coyly, about as innocent as your prior question wasn’t, “You have no date, after all. And I never see your arm occupied with anything besides your cane.”
“I’m content with my work.”
Unabashedly, almost sneered, you speak without grace for the first time all night, “What a sad way to live.”
“Excuse you?” Viktor scoffs, “Do you not work for the same goal?”
“I’m a person, too.”
“I’m not?”
“Not as you are,” you shake your head, eyes now downtrodden as you finish off the glass in your hand, swallowing without cringe before saying, “If you’re so dedicated to living for Hextech instead of yourself, then I’ll take your drink for you. My only plan tomorrow was to nurse a hangover anyway.”
Viktor instinctually swivels so his drink is out of reach, which is something he cannot explain. Why does he suddenly want it? Why does he suddenly care?
But, more importantly, when did he decide he should never want it- decide that he should never care?
Was it before or after clawing his way into Piltover under Heimerdinger’s wing? Was it before or after Jayce blew up an apartment? Was it before or after Jayce began leaving his side to become a political head?
Or was it everything -- slowly one thing upon the other before he realized he had a carefully alphabetized and numerically categorized library of all the reasons he shouldn’t and couldn’t abandon Hextech. Maybe it’s not advancement now, but the security of a purpose. A goal he’ll die to achieve, and at the rate he’s burning: die before achieving.
Perhaps, one night as a man rather than a scientist wouldn’t hurt?
Viktor gags the champagne in a single swing, startling you to pat his back as he hisses and coughs.
“Viktor! What’re you doing?!” you whisper with all the venom of an outraged mother.
“I’m living,” he shoulders you off and straightens out. Chin jutting with all the dignity of a man who didn’t choke down alcohol at an expensive gala.
“Is that so?” you giggle, silently expecting him to back away, “And does life have you for the whole night? Or just until the party’s over?”
Viktor looks down at his empty glass, then toward yours. Then to the lipstick marring the rim -- it’s smudged at the corner of your lip. It’s darker than the more neutral shade you swipe on before venturing into the lab. Suddenly, his belly is warming and his head is fuzzy -for once nothing but pleasant thoughts consume him. He smiles to one side and clicks your empty flutes,
“I have no plans tomorrow, either, wouldn’t you know?”
“For once.”
Waving away the bitter thought, Viktor leans just that touch closer that sends your sweet perfume up his nose. He feels like maybe he should get another drink and step a little more into your space, if you’ll let him.
“Let’s make the night of it, then?” he’s the one bravely going forward, certain you’ll trail after as he paves toward the bar, “You sounded eager to get me into the world, now what?”
“Oh, Viktor,” you coo, “Don’t ask things like that.”
“Why not?” he’s a little cocky now with some booze in his empty belly, he forgets how unashamed the new assistant is, “Second thoughts?”
“No, I’ll just tell you that I really wanted you in my bed tonight.”
You’re grinning- he’s blushing now, a little surprised and a little delighted. But you just smile that devilish way that always has him distracted.
A new assistant hadn’t been Victor’s idea, and if Jayce had bothered conferring with Viktor at all then you especially wouldn’t have been the hired candidate.
“Or did you intend to die a virgin, as well?” you lull into the shell of his ear, soft and warm lips just grazing clammy flesh.
“You’re forward.”
“Am I? Is it too much?” if not for the slightest concerned twitch in your brow, he could’ve thought maybe you were just laying another harsh tease.
“I find it incredibly attractive,” finally, finally Viktor says the terrible thing out loud. Vivid and bright and all things he is not -temptress! he declared when you two first met.
***
Viktor paused, eyes widening from the doorway and fingers tightening around his cane, “Who are you?”
“The assistant,” you smiled in a way he was sure you meant as warm and welcoming, “Viktor, right?”
How he stared at you, however, told you that maybe you’d bared teeth too sharp. So your lips shut, hands clasping and shoulders straightening. Your name but a whisper into the lab, bouncing off each wall before awkwardly cluttering to the ground. Melting in chunks into the grouts.
“I have an assistant,” he murmured, sights scattered across the area, “Where is Sky?”
“Her day off,” then you groaned, baffled by how confused such a famed brain could get over a truly simple concept, “I can show you my qualifications, if you need to be convinced?”
Your frustration seemed to snap him straight, his jaw unhinged and he flubbed for a nice way to retract himself, “No. No. I’m…” he cleared his throat and glanced away pointedly, “You’re my assistant for today, then?”
“Of course.”
“Ah, perfect,” it was not, in fact, perfect. Viktor dreaded your stay; lingering over his shoulder and invading between his eyes with your perfume. You’re cursed with curves and full lips and fluttery eyelashes.
A temptress!
***
A temptress without trying- or you are trying and you play dirty. Either way…
“I want to see more of your shamelessness, show me how much I’ve missed not living,” he means the last part as a jest, but it seems to make you happy.
…he wants you so bad it makes his gut ache.
You gnaw your bottom lip and nod, “Shall we leave now then? I can certainly make you a drink at home you’d like more anyway.”
Propriety flies out the window.
If Jayce wanted Viktor to enjoy himself, then he damn well would! And he wouldn’t bother with acknowledgments or goodbyes or gratitude, not when your hand tangles with his. Fingers locking with all the familiarity of seasoned lovers, you even add the tiniest swing though sure to not jostle his balance. Peachy streetlights cast the most flattering flushed glow upon you, stray hairs catching gold beneath the beaming bulb. Shining in stressed loops around your head, not like a halo but just… you. Graceful in all the misaligned strands and smudged makeup.
Whether you’re tethered off in a clinical coat with a clipboard perched on one hip or strapped to the finest in this little black number -something you could never pray to pull out of a dump in Zaun.
“I think…” you muse while sliding the front door open, your home smells like vanilla and the space is so precisely spotless he’s not sure you even live here, “I’ll need some help out of this dress.”
Your bedroom is worse off -or would it be better?- not a single article of clothing on the floor, no crumpled notes or mugs of shame decorating the nightstand. Eerily empty until, then, he notices the faint orange flame twinkling over his shoulder.
“Did you leave that burning while you were gone?” he’s too focused on the fire risk of it all that he doesn’t notice you’re stretching out over the bed.
“I figured I wouldn’t be out long,” you prop your head on a fist, the other hand perking onto your cocked hip, “Whether or not I’d be alone when I returned was the only mystery.”
He swivels in place, a humored so that’s why it’s so clean! dying on his lips as soon as he sees you splayed out. Stuttering back and clutching his chest as if scandalized -- as if he didn’t come here for the exact kind of modeling you’re doing. Viktor clears his throat, heat swelling up from the comfortable bubbly in his gut and all up toward his reddening forehead. Brows shooting upward.
Silken sheets caressing your bare skin. Moonlight carding through the askew curtains and layering you in a thin pale gleam. Your hair cascaded down your forearm. And that rouge smudge at the bottom corner of your lip. Tempting.
Viktor lets his cane drift back until it’s slanted against the wall, kneeling onto your bed. Hands trembling as if he’ll sink through and wake in his own sheets. But the feeling of his cold dress buttons beneath his fingertips is real enough; peeling layers from sinewy limbs feels real enough. Nails scrape wrists and hips as he removes his vest, and shirt, and long pants.
“Can I… “ he pauses, swallows, and assesses the curiosity in your eyes. Then, before finishing the question, surges forward -one hand gluing to either of your cheeks, tenderly tilting your face to press his lips to yours. Brows knotting toward the center of his face and cheeks flaming with embarrassment. His lips are incredibly soft, though, and they slot smoothly against yours like gears rolling into one fluid motion. You wonder how familiar that is to him.
Sliding up onto your knees, you tangle your fingers between his and pry his hands from your face. Squeezing him affectionately before using the leverage to lay him onto his back slowly so as to not break the kiss.
Straddling Viktor with both hands still wrapped together, at least until you slip one of his hands onto your chest and the other your thigh. He squeezes, not not affectionately just with something a little… murkier. Hips jump up toward yours -- he sighs, frustrated, and takes it out on your nipple -rolling the bud around his thumb before sucking it into his mouth. Cheeks hollowing around, tongue searing up, bright gold eyes peek over wetly.
You arch your back into his face, lifting off his lap with the encouragement of his spare hand shifting toward your ass. Something soft and thick twitches between your thighs, ripping an earnest gasp from you. Viktor snorts, you feel him smiling into your chest.
not expecting that?
You yank his hair at the base, curling a whine through his throat.
shut up!
Leaky and hot red at the tip, Viktor only thickens toward the base. Maybe just longer than your palm, but certainly fatter than you can hold in one palm. Reaching down just to rut his tip along your slit, both of you huffy messes as you drool down his cock.
Viktor sags back, glaring at you with his ruddy lips -- juicy with raw saliva.
“Enough teasing,” he grunts, trying to force you down with his grip on your hip, “You bring me here just to watch me squirm?”
“I do enjoy the sight,” you mewl softly, swirling his tip around your hole, “Don’t you?”
His head swivels in a very lumpy circle, caught between nodding and shaking before he attempts pushing you down again, “Not as much as I want to be inside you.”
You’re prepared to tease more when he abruptly snaps up while shoving your hips low. His whole face twinges at the sudden movement in his thighs but it’s soon overshadowed by the complete, all-melting mellow of having his cock sucked into velveteen walls. Head thrown back and chestnut hair splintering across the dark headboard -- he grins as you loudly gasp and scramble to grasp his shoulders for purchase.
“Ah- Vik- !” you hiccup, scratching into his shoulder blades.
He hisses, lips curled with utter bliss and eyes fluttering shut, “Feels much better.”
Now both of his hands circle your waist, coaxing your movement with firmly pressed fingers. You pray he leaves bruises.
Viktor chases your warmth every time you squelch off, the most he can manage without an uncomfortable cringe is teeny jumps focused in the pelvis but it’s more than desperate enough. Any concern he could have of you finding his display anything except arousing is tossed out the window as your pace hastens. Leisurely drags rapidly devolving to full bounces, little splatters of your wetness painting up his abdomen. And he fucking thrives on it: sticky and lewd and thick, hearing each thrust hammers him closer to the purest release he’s had in years.
He can’t even pluck grains of thought to discern when the last time he felt so good was- not when you’re canting and wailing.
On a particular grind, you could feel his dick slam into some open-wire spot inside you. White neon sparks crackling so bright your whole body snaps above Viktor while he watches starry-eyed. Bopping that spot impetuously, clinging to frayed energy if it means watching you split apart again. You moan -broken vowels and breathy vik- vi- uh, viktor! vik- vik- vvvv- and shudder, clutching him like you’ll fly off without such an iron hold. Openly tearing up inside you before his eyes are wetting too, and webs of spend sprawl into you.
Viktor greedily snatches you by the neck and wrings you forward, lips spreading until he can lick inside your mouth. Moaning shamelessly into you as he fucks the last of his orgasm out on you.
Left humming, content and pliant, you and Viktor break the sloppy kiss to play more politely. You peck the corner of his mouth, wiping the dazzling threads of spit tying you two by the mouths. Viktor blinks up at you in a haze, smiling aimlessly.
“Happy?” you unceremoniously roll off the man, grimacing as he and everything he buried slide out onto your thigh.
“Very,” he remains slick back on the headboard, moist skin skidding against wood as he slides onto the mattress.
You twist an arm over his waist, chin piking his ribs as you give the most outrageously sweet, “I’m sure you can stay the night, then?”
And as Viktor’s discovered, trying to deny your power over him is useless. Why not indulge just a little more?
“Maybe even for breakfast,” he muses.
tagging those who asked/seemed interested :3
@lpvmal + @im-just-a-simp-le-whore + @littleenglishfangirl + @fortheharbingers + @duffycrow + @zemosbunny + @urmommt + @crocwork-clockodile + @petti-fry + @sparklygreentrash + @marshy-moo
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I keep seeing the posts about male socialization and idk it makes me feel weird because I identify as transfem and I *do* believe I had male socialization. I find it easier to identify with and understand male groups and to feel involved in the while I feel less at ease understanding how women feel and think even though my personal view of myself leans more towards a feminine identity. All these posts make me doubt that I am truly "transfem" and that even if I am, that I am fundamentally transfem in a different way than most other transfems I run into. Is there any sources or writing out there that either provides a counter-perspective or at the very least points to nuance on this subject from a transfem lens? I wish I didn't feel so alone with these feelings.
Your feelings and experience do not make you any less legitimate as a transfeminine person. A lot of trans women rightfully and understandably need to counteract the notion that they're oppressive privileged males or whatever by asserting, as clearly as they can, the many ways in which their socialization was a female socialization, with all the double-standards, demanded emotional labor, sexual predation, etc that entails -- but the very need to assert these things is due to the culture's twisted misconceptions about what gender even is and how it operates.
It's not as though a young person only gets the socialization of the binary gender to which they were assigned -- they get mandatory cishet socialization, and they see what is expected of the "other" gender, and that impacts them, and the standards for that other gender also influence how they are interpreted and seen.
And so I do think, to a certain extent, that when trans people assert that we actually didn't get socialized as our assigned gender at birth, we got socialized as the correct gender, actually, we are unfortunately ceding ground to the transphobes on a couple of key points. One, we're conceeding that there is a singular binary socialization that the two genders each get, which are separate from one another and always exhibit specific features, and two, that a person's socialization as a young person is a key determinant of their gendered experience, privilege, and identity forever, no matter what happens after they are young.
And you know, both those things are totally wrong. There is no one female socialization. I've written about this before, but I wasn't raised to be feminine. I was raised the way working-class girls are raised, which is to be no-nonsense, unfrivolous, serious, sporty, and capable -- a wife and mother, but the kind that never wears a skirt or cries in front of people. And there is no singular "male" socialization either -- I cite a few trans femme people in this piece who experienced themselves as having some male privilege before they transitioned, and some more typically "male" experiences, while also quoting a number of trans women whose lives went the exact opposite way. I assert in the piece that their experiences are theirs to name, and that there's a number of different ways we might each understand and categorize them personally -- especially when we take into account how much gendered socialization is dependent upon class, race, immigration status, diasporic status, and much more.
My view is that however you think your live played out, and whoever you find community alongside, you're right. I'm about to answer a similar ask about this from a trans masc perspective, but I'm a guy who has a ton of women friends and always have. I grew up mostly with girls as my closest buddies and we did things like playing pretend and having slumber parties and doing makeovers. I could chalk this up as a "female socialization" experience I guess if I wanted to. But I also grew up with a lot of gay boys, and I am a gay man, and guess what -- a lot of us grow up with predominately female friends. I don't think I have some essential feminine quality because my friends kept insisting on putting eyeshadow on me when I was ten. The fact I was bad at sports and couldn't be the tough, no-nonsense person that my culture expected me to be was gonna affect me whether I was a boy or a girl. And my upbringing was significantly different from that of one of my very best, oldest friends, whose family owned a successful business and were able to buy her a car and a horse and shit.
You're not betraying anything or lessening your own transfemininity by resonating with some typically "male" experiences or for having close male connections. Lots of queer women do! Just like I have plenty in common with lots of women! We don't say that cis women aren't women because they grew up tomboys, or had a ton of brothers, and the same is true of you. Even if you don't think of your younger self as "a tomboy" or even as a girl. You don't have to ascribe to the narrative that you were always one gender and always moved through the world with that identity. To demand that all trans people do so is respectability politics -- we cannot and should not require that all people be trans in the same ways. I have written before that transition to me feels at once both pre-ordained AND a choice that I made. You can say that you lived as a boy for some years or were a boy if that feels right to you, or that you had certain privileges while also suffering from dysphoria and disconnection; it's your life and you know it best and what serves you.
I wish I had narratives from trans women writers to direct you to, but for the most part the trans women who I've heard express feelings like yours have been in the support and discussion groups I've been in, and in private conversation -- I think because the socialization experiences of trans femmes are so unfairly politicized. I hope if any trans femme people see this have anything to share or any words to say that they will!
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Imagine Daryl wants to know if you’re available
A/N: Just some small imagine I thought about today, not exactly how I imagined it would be when written, but better than nothing. Sorry for my absence, I hope I’ll return and finish my Wips. Currently working on a request for months… sorry y’all Love you guys 🩷✨
Since the world went to shit, you had joined a singular group in a quarry. Singular because there were people of all kinds what made the group ‘special’ if you could use that word. You were cordial to everyone, literally everyone, you even tried to not tell Merle to go fuck himself so many times during the day as a courtesy.
Daryl Dixon had a soft spot for you, he would never admit, but that was the truth. You were pretty and gentle to him, different than most of the camp who would look at him as if he had some disgusting contagious disease. He returned your greetings, sometimes he greeted back, sometimes he grunted… it depended on the day and the moment. He would be an hypocrite if he said he hadn’t checked everything about you, everything his eyes and observing could tell him. He had seen the ring on your finger, he wasn’t just sure if you were engaged or married, he had no idea how the whole ordeal of the ring worked.
He never asked, he knew there wasn’t going to be anything subtle about it. He would just embarrass himself and maybe scare you and lose the gentleness you offered him daily. But he wondered if you had a fiancé or husband that you lost because of the end of the world, or maybe if you were looking for someone you had lost along the way.
One day Shane caught him looking at you, and the ex-cop couldn’t just keep his mouth shut. “She’s not for you, Dixon. The girl’s taken, a widow to say the least.”
Oh, about widows Shane understood, that was what Daryl thought, and he could have thrown the remark at Shane, but to be honest he wasn’t in for it. If it was any other day, he wouldn’t let the chance to punch his face skip. “This isn’t rocket science, Walsh.”
For taking his time to tell those words to Daryl, Shane must really had interest on you. Guy was an asshole, going at it with his dead best friend’s wife and already looking for another one?
The question remained on his head for some time, until one day he came back from hunting and was already skinning the game when you approached him wanting to help. He tried to shrug it off, convince you it wasn’t a work for you, but you insisted, so he just let you to it and taught you the right way of doing it.
“What happened to yer husband?” He tried to make conversation when you had already caught the correct way to skin an animal. A kind of intrusive question, but when he realized it, it had already escaped his lips.
“What?” You were so concentrated at your new ability that you thought maybe you didn’t listen to it correctly.
“Yer husband, what happened.” He said pointing at your ring using his knife.
You giggled. “Who wants to know?”
“Me?” He answered not really sure, yes, he wanted to know, but would it make a difference on who wanted the information.
“Nothing, there’s no husband.” You smiled remembering your parents had told you it would happen, and you just didn’t listen to them as usual. “This ring is my grandma’s. I kept it after she passed, it only fits on this finger and to be honest I always liked to use rings on this finger.”
For some reason, he felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders and he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “My parents tried to alert me people would think I was married, guess that’s why I’m still single.” You played. “At least it keeps the assholes away.”
“Yeah” he agreed, not really sure if he was happy with it and if he was included in the asshole list.
“Unfortunately, it keeps the guys I’m actually interested in away too.” You elbowed him, a grin in your face as blush crept through your face as well as it crept on his.
Wanna be added to my tag list? Let me know. (Please tell me if you want to be tagged on everything or just specific series) Everything Taglist: @lilyevanstan1325 @hayley1998 @vaniniweenie @cupidelocke @avabh12 @whore4romance @dixondystopia @dixons-sunshine @bigbaldheadname @negansbestie
#daryl dixon#the walking dead#daryl x reader#the walking dead daryl#twd daryl#twd#deansapplepie#daryl fanfiction#daryl x y/n#daryl dixon x reader#the walking dead daryl dixon#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon the walking dead
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Here, Kitty, Kitty/ d.r.w
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5f907d26657d00f56ce48bb5e072ab7/addebb031dacaf2a-d9/s540x810/5e13a173d1f607c9e4e732706a026d9ef382fb08.jpg)
Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI 18+ sugar daddy danny, jealousy, sir/daddy kink, degradation kink, pet names (literally), oral sex (m!receiving), teasing, unprotected sex (p+v), cock warming, praise, begging, orgasm denial, squirting, breeding
as always please lmk if any warnings are missed!
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
The tighter money got, the slimmer your choices did, too. Two jobs could barely pay your bills, but a third wouldn’t fit into the schedule. You’d resorted to selling pictures to people you would quick add on SnapChat. That went well for about a month before the handful of men you relied on for income suddenly couldn’t afford to pay for content. Just as the stress had been alleviated, it returned. That was until you gave in fully and began looking into sugar daddy websites. At this rate you felt you had nothing left to lose, what was a little sex with a creepy old man?
Much to your liking, you found someone much better than a guy old enough to be your grandfather. This one was twenty-five with the build of a Greek god. His profile consisted of a singular photo, one you were sure couldn’t have been his own. You’d began chatting with him and it wasn’t long before he requested an in person meet up. Again, you had nothing left to lose, safety didn’t matter when there was money on the line. He requested to see you on Wednesday, to which you denied due to being scheduled at both jobs.
Danny W. : I’ll pay you what both jobs would if you see me instead
You: Tips and all?
Danny W. : I’ll make it worth your while
From there on out you’d start seeing him every Wednesday at six o’clock sharp. He insisted on picking you up every week, rolling down the street of your slum apartment in his very new black Corvette adorned with tinted windows and red rims. The sex was like no other, not to mention the amount of money he paid you simply for your time. But over the course of two months you found yourself slowly falling for your sugar daddy. He wouldn’t let you leave until you came, more so for his pride than your pleasure, and with that knowledge you’d edge yourself just to spend more time with him. Each week when he took you home, you simply passed time until it was Wednesday again.
What was supposed to be a temporary income, just enough until you got on your feet, became a long term thing simply to keep Danny in company. But you didn’t want NDA’s and Wednesday nights to be your life with him anymore. It started to seem that way from his end, too, when he started casually texting you more than on Tuesday’s to solidify plans. Thursday mornings he would text or call to make sure you were okay after the prior night’s events. Some mornings you woke up to flowers being delivered, even things you needed more so than things he wanted to see you in. It wasn’t a secret he was behind the new couch, especially since he paid to have your car fixed. You liked him taking care of you, but you wanted more from him than an allowance. You wanted to come home every night to him, to call him whenever you wanted, to love him.
While you were patiently waiting for an appropriate time to express your feelings to Danny, you knew there was no shot with him. He’s a rockstar, hence the NDA’s, why would he settle for someone like you? You’d go to pass the time at bars and clubs, shamelessly flirting with men and women for free drinks, even giving head a few times for whatever they’d give you in return. You weren’t particularly proud of it, but you weren’t ashamed either.
Wednesday rolled around again, Danny arrived an hour earlier than the set schedule you’d been following for months now. He called you while you were in the middle of curling your hair, you quickly finished the piece you were working on before answering.
“Hey, can you let me in?” His warm, sultry voice melted you.
“Yes, sir.” You waited for him to hang up, but he stayed on the other end until he heard the locks coming undone. You wrapped your fingers around the knob and slowly opened the door, Danny shoving his foot between the door and frame. He pushed his way into your house, his eyes dark and angry as if he knew something.
“You’re early… I was-”
“Why were you at the club on Saturday?” He pressed himself against you until your back was flush against the wall, his washboard abs firm against your torso. You looked up at him before looking past in attempts to ignore the question, but he wouldn’t let that slide. “Tell me the truth, kitten, or you can kiss your two grand down the drain.”
He’s never threatened to not pay you before. He always left ample opportunity to make more money by doing specific things to or for him, or vice versa, but never the chance to lose any. Deciding the money didn’t necessarily matter, you chose to toy with him. Press his buttons.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You say pointedly, batting your eyelashes at him with a pout.
“Eighteen. Wanna try again?” He managed to get closer, your lungs craving air as he applied pressure against your body with his.
“Danny, I don’t-”
“Sixteen. Tell me, did he kiss you like I do?” Closer.
“Maybe even better.” You could feel his blood boiling under his skin. He was jealous.
“Is that so?” He scoffed, pulling away entirely from you. “That mouth would be prettier with my cock in it since all you’re doing is spewing bullshit anyways.”
You watched as Danny made his way to your couch, sitting directly in the middle with his legs spread. His hands slid down the front of his body, trailing down to toy with his zipper and button without ever undoing them.
“C’mere, Kitty girl. If you put that filthy mouth of yours to good use you can go back up to eighteen.”
You nod and make your way before him, lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs. You slide your hands up either of his legs slowly until your nimble fingers make contact with his button and zipper. Carefully undoing his pants, you dipped your hands past the waistband of his briefs before exposing his length to the air.
As quick as your lips wrap around the pillowy head of his cock, Danny’s hand finds a home nestled in your hair. His free hand cupped the bottom of your jaw, guiding your tongue and lips over his shaft. Your head bobbed as you slowly fed more of Danny’s cock down your throat. When your nose was flush against the dusting of hair at the base, he held you there, only removing you when you gagged from the pure size. With his hand nestled in your hair, and tears in your eyes, he pulls you off his length. Only strings of saliva connected you to his cock. Heat grew between your legs the harder he fisted your hair, a whine escaping your lips. You really did sound like a kitten, it’s no wonder he’d bestowed such a nickname upon you. Danny tugged your hair until he brought you to your feet, bringing your lips to his. A stream of air blew from his lips, cooling the saliva that coated your mouth. Hungry for his touch, you tried leaning in to kiss him.
“Look at you begging for forgiveness like a dog. Maybe Kitty doesn’t suit you anymore.” Anyone else speaking to you this way would shatter your ego, but somehow his harsh words were still laced with lust. He tugs your head away from him before letting go of your hair, your cheeks flaming a bright red.
Danny sat up before placing his hands on the exposed skin of your thighs, walking his fingers up the expanse of your skin until he reached your hips. His fingers traced over your bones expecting a waistband of some sort had you bothered to put any on. When he’d realized there were no panties adorning your hips, he opted to press the pads of his fingers into your skin instead. A single ‘fuck’ was uttered as he rutted his hips up into nothing. You knew better than to make a comment about his desperation, but a smile still crept across your face knowing he wanted you. Danny’s face quickly grew annoyed once he caught on to the look you wore.
“Do you like pissing me off, Kitty girl?” He gritted, his grasp growing slightly tighter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“No? Maybe I need to show you.” Danny spun your body around so your back was facing him, his hands pushing your tiny dress up over your hips. He was quick to break contact again, leaving only the sensation of his fingers behind as he let go of your hips. He hummed at the sight of you, surely your slick coated thighs visible.
“Look at you already fuckin’ soaked, kitten. Want me to fuck you that bad?”
“Yes, sir.” You desperately mewled.
“Show me you deserve it then. Spread it open for daddy.”
You bent at the hips, reaching your hands back to seperate your ass cheeks, exposing your soaked cunt for him to see. His hands found your hips again as he guided you towards him until the back of your legs met his shins. Danny runs two fingers between your folds before hovering over your entrance, never giving you the pleasure of dipping them in.
“Good girl… Now sit back on it.”
You lower yourself onto his lap, fully taking his length in your aching core. Danny wraps his palms around your wrists, bringing them to your back before pinning both down with one of his hands. His free hand wrapped around you, laying flat on your stomach under the bunched up fabric of your dress. He fucked up into you quick and hard until your began to give out. At that point he pulled you down on his length, allowing you to sit on his lap. The head of his cock brushed your cervix as you swirl your hips, squeezing your knees together for friction against your clit.
“Turn around, wanna see you.” He nudged his hips up, groaning when you lifted off of him. You straddled his thighs, hovering your entrance over his leaking tip. It didn’t take long before lowering yourself, teasing him wasn’t worth whatever punishment he’d throw your way. Eager to feel his lips against yours, you leaned in again hoping he’d satisfy your craving. His lips crashed into yours like the ocean’s wave against the shoreline. Burying your hands deep in his curly, brunette locks, you tugged gently. Danny stifled a whimper, careful not to let you think he’d slip up easily.
“Feel so good, daddy.” You moaned into his neck, gently sucking on his skin enough to make him whine but not leave marks.
“Yeah? Like when I fuck your whore pussy?”
You moaned, his pace growing quicker as you grew tighter around him. He knew you were close and he was, too. The feeling washing over you was stronger than before like no other orgasm you’d felt.
“Sir, can I cum?” You needed to, and you knew what his answer would be.
“Not yet, hold on for daddy. M’so close, baby.”
The faster his hips snapped into yours, the tighter the band in your stomach became. His pace wasn’t letting up. What felt like an eternity, but was truly a few minutes, passed before his hips started to falter.
“Go ahead Kitty, you’ll clean up whatever mess you make with that mouth of yours.”
Your orgasm finally came, your senses completely overtaken by your pleasure. So much so you hadn’t noticed a newfound fluid covering Danny’s thighs. You’d squirted all over him, soaking his pants and shirt with your arousal. Danny’s release was quick to follow as he buried himself to the hilt, his warm seed spilling into your throbbing cunt.
“Thank you, sir.” You cried, your body shaking as you came down from your orgasm.
“Such a good girl, Kitty, you take me so well.”
“Fuck, Y/n…” He sighed and wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you into his chest in a hug. This was the first time he’d used your name since he met you. He’d call you Kitty and kitten so much they truly started to feel like your name, but something about the syllables of the name you’d had your whole life rolling off his tongue nearly brought you to tears. There was a sense of domestication to it all. Your real name, the kissing, him holding you.
“Yes?” You barely whispered, trying to hold back your emotions over the simple formality of your name.
“Keep fucking me this good, I’ll have to promote you.”
#greta van fleet#gvfsmut#gvf fanfic#gvf fic#gvf smut#gvf fanfiction#gvf#danny wagner fanfiction#danny wagner fic#danny wagner smut#danny fic#danny wagner#danny gvf#greta van fic#greta van smut#greta van fluff#greta van fleet fan fiction#greta van fanfic#gretavanfleet
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Food is a Love Language
Osamu x Fem! Reader
TW: None! Pure fluff
AN: Repost from my old account, don't blame me, I like to read it
You stared down at the basket. It had been placed beside your work bag, on a bench on the furthest side of the court. Inside was six neatly wrapped onigiri, each one with a different filling. Scratchy writing on the saran wrap of each rice ball told what they would contain on the inside, but other than that, there was a singular note at the bottom of the basket. It was neatly folded and smelled of the food it was packaged with. You looked at the gift and smiled, already knowing where it came from.
As the manager of a professional volleyball team, you found yourself getting close to your members and close to their family as well. You helped Hinata and his younger sister practice, Bokuto and his sisters offered for you to hang out with them often, and then there was Atsumu.
You didn’t know much about the highschool volleyball scene before becoming a manager, you barely even knew much about the professionals. You were at a bit of a disadvantage, still having to catch up on things. You didn’t know what happened in certain matches, you didn’t know what teams were considered to be better than others, you didn’t even know who on the team you were managing were rivals before becoming companions.
So when Atsumu mentioned that he had a twin brother, you nearly laughed in his face. He was a jokester afterall, and you had tragically fallen prey to just a couple of his pranks. But sure enough, he was serious. Not only was he serious, but he mentioned that his brother also used to play, but he quit to open a restaurant. All of this sounded made up, but when you asked around about it, it turned out to be real.
“Yeah! He was so cool! When he spiked the ball it would be like woosh, then bam! Ya know?” Hinata jumped eagerly as he spoke excitedly about Atsumu’s brother. You slowly nodded your head in response, you didn’t understand a word he’d said, you never did, but if you didn’t pretend to know, he would keep going.
“Atsumu's brother?" Bokuto began, scratching the back of his head, looking up at the sky as he thought on it, "He makes good food!" You expected no better answer from Bokuto. He thought with his stomach most days, even when he was playing volleyball. He did say that trusting his gut was the best thing to do in a game.
Sakusa was the last person you asked about him, Atsumu’s mysterious twin brother, “Annoying. They’re all annoying,” he sighed his answer out, his hand stuffed into his pockets. You don’t even think he’d heard the question, he always answered similarly when asked anything.
You remembered your first time meeting this twin. Atsumu insisted that you meet his brother because you’d hung out with everyone else's family members. You couldn’t turn him down, not only because he was right, but also because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Nothing was making you more curious than one of your team members having a twin. Especially a twin who was a former volleyball player. From what you’d seen, everyone was so passionate about the sport, his brother being one of those people.
The entire time you walked to his restaurant, Atsumu complained about his brother. He said that he was lazy, rude, ignorant, and a bunch of other unkind things. If anyone would’ve heard what he was saying, they would’ve thought that he was talking about someone he was planning to fight. But you saw through it. The entire time Atsumu raged on and on, you could see a glimmer of excitement in his eyes and a little smile on his lips. He was happy to see his brother, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
The first thing you noticed about the building was that it was modest. A little smaller than the average building, but it still looked pretty lively. Onigiri Miya was plastered on a large sign above the door, and the smell of freshly cooked rice was already leaking onto the street. You felt your stomach rumble, Atsumu had offered to buy for you, the only thing he saw being good about his brother was his cooking after all.
A part of you still didn’t believe he was genuinely real, the twin, at least, not until Atsumu held the door open for you and you stepped inside. The sound of light, jazz music was playing over the speakers, giving the entire sitting area a calm vibe. And the smell, you couldn’t get the complete smell from outside, but now that you were in, it was all hitting you. Grilled fish, eggs, pickled vegetables, and seaweed. Amidst the idle chatter of the place, the smell was the thing you noticed the most.
Then you saw him, the spitting image of his brother. He looked exactly like him, you would’ve believed it was Atsumu standing behind the counter in a wig if not for the fact that he was standing right beside you. His hair was a light gray, a little longer than his brothers, you could see his black roots starting to grow in. That was practically the only difference, their face, body, even their smile was similar.
“‘Samu!” Atsumu shouted to his brother from across the restaurant. He finally turned to look at the both of you, his smile dropping when he laid eyes on the blond boy.
Atsumu didn’t even seem to mind the almost harsh reaction, rather he pulled a chair up for you at the bar, right in front of him. Right in front of the twin that you barely believed existed. You were still a bit dumbfounded, but there he was in the flesh.
“Why are you here,” he groaned. Their voices were a bit different, this ‘Samu sounded a bit more monotone. Or maybe he was just that angry.
“Introducing you to my manager!” he practically cheered, “This is my brother, Osamu.”
For the first time since you entered, he finally laid eyes on you. His face immediately softened when he looked at you, you supposed that that look was reserved for his brother.
His hands were planted firmly on his hips, the black waist apron he wore was dusted and dirty from a day's work. The gray shirt that he wore looked practically sculpted to his body. There was a little onigiri embroidered on the breast pocket of his shirt, your eyes were drawn to it. Even though they said he quit years ago, his arms were still large and firm.
“What he said,” he spoke a bit more kindly towards you, even bending over a little so that he was at your eye level where you sat, “I own this place. Nice to meet you, Ms. Manager.”
“Y-you too,” you managed to stumble out, before his focus turned back to his brother.
“Now are you actually going to buy something or are you just here to take up space that can be used by paying customers,”
“I’m buying, I’m buying,” he groaned, picking up a menu and showing it to you.
It was a fairly short menu. Only having different types of onigiri, some soups, teas, and a couple of alcoholic drinks. You let Atsumu order for you, saying you didn’t know what to get and that you trusted his judgment. Osamu snatcehd the menu from his brother’s hands when he was done ordering. He glanced at you a few times while he and Atsumu talked. You could feel his eyes on him and even met his gaze a couple of times, the two of you locking eyes for brief moments before he tried to turn his attention back to the conversation.
“You’d better pay for it this time,” he disappeared into the kitchen after he said that, leaving you with a chance to think about it. Think about everything.
“I thought you were lying,” you spoke in awe.
“Why would I lie about something like that?” he asked defensively.
“Because you’re you,”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The two of you playfully argue back and forth. The casual conversation being what helped you both past the time. The atmosphere inside the restaurant was a calm one. The tea that you were served was even more calming. It had a sweet, earthy taste that only made you think of him. Of Osamu. The mysterious twin that you’d finally gotten the chance to meet, but were still so curious about.
“Here,” he said, sitting a plate of rice balls down in front of you, “Piping hot.”
You looked up at him again. There was a gentle smirk on his face. Atsumu had only ordered you two a piece, but there were three on your plate. The blond boy was too busy digging into his own food to notice, but you did. The way Osamu calmly gestured for you to eat up told you that much.
The first bite was incredible. The second was even better as you finally got a taste of the filling inside. It was long before you found yourself looking like Atsumu, stuffing your face full and trying to enjoy every bite.
“Like it?” he asked, the question was for you. You found yourself not able to answer. Your cheeks were completely full, you only nodded enthusiastically. It was the only thing you could do in order to not look like a complete slob. “I can tell.” This time, he reached across the bar and rubbed his thumb across your cheeks, brushing grains of rice away.
You could feel your face growing hot from just that one touch, but you didn’t pull away. Swallowing down the food, you rested your elbows on the bar, getting closer to him.
There was a tension between the two of you, you could feel it, even if you barely talked. As he tried to work and handle orders, he was still looking at you. Giving you half smiles, small waves, he’d walk up to you and ask you how the meal was. You’d long since finished at that point, only drinking the tea that he insisted on refilling for you. Almost as if he didn’t want you to leave.
The only time you were able to breathe, was when he went into the kitchen. Your mind was still filled with him when he was gone, but it was easy to not be a flustered mess without him in your line of sight. You could tell Atsumu was beginning to notice, the vibes between the two of you were hard for even the most oblivious person to miss.
“Don’t tell me-” he began, eyes wide and mouth agape.
“What?” you pretended not to know what he was talking about, but he wasn’t buying it.
“My brother? Him? Really?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Osamu answered before you had the chance to, sitting an alcoholic drink down at your side, “On the house.”
You looked him up and down, silently thanking him. The drink was sweet, you could barely taste the liquor in it. Atsumu eyed you as you drank it, his face was a mixture of emotions. Anger, Sadness, maybe a little bit of disgust, but you didn’t care.
“Gross! You never give me free drinks, ‘Samu! You never give me free anything!” he complained. The restaurant was practically empty now as it was closer to closing, so he was allowed to be his normal loud self.
Osamu practically ignored the boy, wiping down the counters around you, his hand brushing up your arm a few times, “You don’t have to pay this time, consider that your free something.” The words were meant for Atsumu, but he was looking at you. You supposed that meant that the free meal was for you as well.
“Thanks,” you answered, finishing off the last of your drink. The sweet taste still lingered in your mouth, beckoning you to ask for more.
He took notice of this, picking up the glass that now only held ice, “Want another?”
Before you even had the chance to answer, or even to tease him for trying to get you drunk, your arm was grabbed by his brother. A now fuming Atsumu was pulling you off of the barstool. It was a playful anger, you could tell, but even you knew that he was getting jealous. Not because you were flirting with his brother, but because you were getting special treatment.
“No more drinks for her! We have work tomorrow!” He shouted, pulling you out the door. You waved a solemn goodbye to Osamu, watching as he didn’t stop smirking, even after you left out the door.
Almost all the lights inside the building were off, but you could still see Osamu’s form through the window. His broad shoulders slumped just a little bit, but he continued to wipe down the counters. You didn’t feel sad though, you knew you would see him again. He was the twin brother of one of your team members after all.
Practice the next day felt the same as normal. You guided the boys through their stretches and helped them with their drills before going into your office. Sitting your clipboard down, you noticed something on your desk by your mouse. A neatly wrapped onigiri, still a bit warm to the touch.
Even though it was wrapped to keep it fresh, you could tell by the shape of it where it came from. One bite of it and that familiar flavor was filling your mouth. That familiar flavor and thoughts of him. Osamu Miya. You wanted to see him again, but you knew practice would run late. Another big game was coming up and when that happened, the team acted like all they knew how to do was play volleyball.
Rice balls began to pop up all over for you after that, in places that you were sure to see them. On your desk, in your bag, on the bench you always sat on when you watched the boy’s practice matches. You knew Atsumu was the one hiding them, having got them from his brother before practice each day. You knew before he even told you, walking up, his lips in a deep frown.
“Couldn’t think of a place to hide this one,” he groaned, practically forcing this rice ball into your hands. You couldn’t help, but laugh in his face. For someone who didn’t want to be doing this, he sure was enthusiastic about hiding them.
That’s what brought you back to this basket. This had been the most you were given in one day, which was a surprise because there was no easy Atsumu could hide something like this on his person. You were the only person with the keys to the gym.
You sat down on the bench beside the basket, carefully picking up the note and reading the few words that were scribbled on it. It was simple, lacking formalities and having his same god awful handwriting. Only containing one sentence that somehow made your heart beat out of your chest.
Won’t you come see me again?
-Osamu
#haikyuu#haikyu#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x you#haikyuu osamu#miya osamu#osamu x reader#haikyuu osamu x reader
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So I really like body horror, and I thought it was a shame that Pressure can't go more in depth about the whole turning an innocent man into a killer fish thing, so i thought this would be funny.
In all seriousness, the first few chapters are light but im going to go into gross detail about how Sebastian's magical girl fish transformation happened and it's not pretty.
This is going to be focused on Sebastian's time in Urbanshade and explore a lot of his character angst 👍
Growing Pains
Chapter One: Entering Jaws
“...I'm here on account of a company called Urbanshade. Ever heard of it?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“Good, you're not supposed to...”
Sebastian was falsely convicted for a crime he didn't commit. Backed into a corner and faced with a pending execution, he's offered a way out.
This first chapter is real light for the most part but just in case, this chapter has mentions of: One singular corpse, prisoner mistreatment, isolation, very light injury mentions towards the end. The next chapters are only going to get worse so proceed with caution.
Nine people were murdered, all in a similar style. Their names were grouped together, unfamiliar faces smiling in photos they had taken before their ultimate demise.
It was a horrible tragedy, really. The news had surprised him, as the neighborhood Sebastian lived in was relatively safe. He had been born and raised in the area. This sort of thing was unheard of.
He sent his regards to the families, he truly did.
He just didn't understand why he had to be held accountable for it.
Sebastian didn't know them. He had nothing to do with them. When he was sat down in the interrogation room with their faces staring at him from files they had slapped down on the table, he was left speechless and confused. He tried his best to answer their questions. He had never been involved with the police before. He had never been in legal trouble before. Their accusatory questions and dehumanizing stares nearly made him question if he had killed nine people and somehow forgot about it. But he still stayed as strong as he possibly could be. He insisted over and over, “I didn’t do it.”
But his explanations fell on deaf ears. He was in the area, he didn't have a solid alibi, and his family didn't have enough money for a good lawyer.
Sebastian would admit it, it looked bad— but it wasn't him.
Time stopped when he received the death penalty. Months’ worth of paperwork and planning all meant to try and get him back home to his normal life were thrown away in an instant. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, the decision had been made, and he was powerless against it. His family, his career, his future— it all meant nothing to them, not when they were convinced he was a murderer. The situation was so ridiculous, so unbelievable, he found himself still in denial some days.
He wasn’t due for his execution for at least another fifteen years, he had been told. It took a long while for these things to get finalized. It tormented him. Rather than just putting him out of his misery, they were hanging the reaper over his head. He spent every night going to bed, in his dark cell, thinking about the fact that this is what his future looked like for the rest of his life- the life they let him have. His best moments were managing to stay calm under the harsh treatment he faced from the guards, his worst were in those late nights where he had nothing to distract himself from this harsh reality. His eyes would be crusted with dry tears. The red puff from crying battled the weighted eye bags in which one wanted to be more painfully obvious. He would be dead before he’d ever get the chance to hit 40, a fact that didn’t sit right with him. He used to think of those years as something so far into the future that it was out of his reach, but now it felt so close. Too close.
He was never one to think too heavily about what his future looked like. He knew what he wanted, but he was open to anything as long as he was happy. Maybe he’d continue pursuing engineering and get a good career out of it, maybe not. Maybe he’d continue playing the guitar and writing songs he’d never have the courage to share, maybe not. He knew that’s what he wanted currently, but how was he to say if that would be the case 10 or 20 years from now. At least he wouldn’t ever have to worry about that, he thought bitterly. Now he knew for a fact that he was going to be a dead man.
The sins of a crime he didn’t commit weighed heavily on him every day. Despite not being the one to spill it, the blood stained much more than just his reputation. He wore cuffs every second of the day. In the exercise yard, in the shower, it didn’t matter. Not unless he was in his cell, not that he left it often. He wasn’t allowed out of the claustrophobic thing unless he was showering or exercising.
Or if his mother was visiting him. He tried his best to stay positive for her. She always looked one second from breaking. She flashed him that same wavering smile. He had gotten familiar with it over the years, especially after his dad’s death. Despite his protests, she never stopped masking her troubles behind a positive attitude. Before, he took comfort in knowing he could at least help her out financially to take some of the stress off of her shoulders. He felt so helpless now sitting across from her, unable to do anything with glass separating them.
She’d give him updates on how his siblings were doing. She’d tell him about how Callum was getting interested in computer science, which was ironic considering he claimed he wanted to get into more “exciting jobs” like acting when he was younger.. She’d happily rave about Mira’s promotion at work. She handled the aquatic life at a nearby zoo. He used to tease her for being an animal nerd, but he never stopped her from sharing her knowledge on strange and obscure fish.
His mother always made sure to let him know that they were waiting for him. She never lost hope that Sebastian would be let go.
“They’ll realize this is all one huge mistake. Everyone knows you’d never commit such crimes.”
She visited him frequently. His sister did sometimes too, though she could never quite look him in the eyes. His mom always insisted that Mira didn’t think he was guilty, but Sebastian never believed it. How could he when she had that disapproving frown on her face the whole time.
Callum never visited. Too busy focusing on his schoolwork, he was told. He appreciated his mom’s efforts of shielding his feelings, but sometimes he wished she would just be honest with him.
His days cycled the same. Eat, work out, shower, eat, sleep, eat, see his mom, shower, eat. But one day, there was a change that interrupted his daily admiration of the cold stonewall time. He had a visitor, an unexpected one. He was hoping it was his mom visiting at a strange time, or his brother finally choosing to see him. Imagine his disappointment when he found a man in a clad suit sitting at the table instead.
The man's hair was comically slicked back, and there was not a single crease on his suit to be found. He flashed Sebastian a bright smile as he was cuffed to the table, like he was catching up with an old friend rather than talking to a death row inmate.
“Sebastian Solace, I've heard so much about you.” He adjusted his papers. Sebastian caught sight of a printed-out news article about his arrest. The man winked. “All bad things, unfortunately, but don't you worry. I like to keep an open mind. You seem like a good kid, intelligent too,” he chuckled, “I mean…nine people, in such a short amount of time? That must have taken a lot of planning to pull off. I see a lot of sickos here, but this one certainly takes the cake.” When Sebastian only stared at him, the man put up his hands in defense. “But hey, I get it, mistakes happen.”
Sebastian swallowed in an attempt to combat his dry throat, “I didn't do it.”
He laughed, “I've heard that one before, but that's neither here nor there. Whether you're actually the culprit means nothing to me. All I care about is what’s written on paper, and as long as it reads that you’re guilty, you're looking at the electric chair. Not for a long while, of course, but you will eventually. I bet that’s just eating you up inside, isn’t it?”
Sebastian clenched his fists.
“I'll take that as a yes. That's unfortunate, you know, you're still so young.” The man leaned forward as he carefully studied Sebastian's face. He couldn't bring himself to look at him. He was trapped in a never-ending loop of shame and anger, neither quite winning.
Shame because Sebastian was at his absolute lowest. Shame because of his helplessness. Shame because of how his name has been smeared beyond recognition. It swallowed him whole. Its gentle waves lulled him into a false sense of security, slowly dissolving any argument against his predicament.
Oh, but anger, it stuck around like a pestilence. Its flames reignited every time shame tried to drip too close. It refused to quiet down.
You're innocent, it reminded. This is unfair, it insisted. You need to do something.
Sebastian let his head hang, his cuffs coming into view. The chilled metal caused his arms to shiver slightly, and goosebumps to peppered his arms. Or maybe it was because of the man's scrutinizing gaze, Sebastian wasn't sure.
When the man found whatever he was looking for, he sat back, “Lucky you, you have another chance.”
Sebastian brought his attention back to the man in front of him, wondering what kind of sick joke he was trying to set up.
“…what?”
“You seem skeptical. There's no tricks here, friend. I'm Jackson Barlowe, and I'm here on account of a company called Urbanshade. Ever heard of it?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“Good, you're not supposed to,” he winked, “we handle a lot of boring legal and monetary issues, nothing you’d care for. But they’re interested in you.” Barlowe slid a packet across the table. The cover had some sort of strange eye logo taking up the center space.
Urbanshade: For the better of the Modern World.
“They’re interested…in me?”
“Well don’t let it get to your head there, pal, they just need more volunteers. That’s all this is, really, volunteer work. But, it does have one key perc I think you’ll enjoy. You’ll get out of death row.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened. Hope glimmered in his heart for a moment, but it was shortly lived as he reminded himself that there had to be a catch. This was too good to be true. There’s no way a company would be able to keep him alive as long as he did simple volunteer work.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, that’s the whole deal.”
“There’s always a catch.”
Barlowe chuckled and turned his head. He looked like he was mentally debating something, “I never said the volunteer work would be fun. You’re going to be expected to do whatever they say at the drop of a hats’ notice. And you’ll still be a prisoner. Cells, cuffs, limited privileges, the whole package. I’m not exactly handing you a paradise here, but it ain’t death, and that’s more than what you got now.”
“What’s the volunteer work?”
“Ah, minor stuff mostly. You’ll have to answer questions for research, test a few equipment pieces, that sort of thing.”
Sebastian tried to hold back his skepticism, he was in no position to bargain after all, but he was never quite good at holding his tongue. “What happens when they don’t need me anymore? For…volunteer work, I mean. Will I ever be able to go home?”
Barlowe took in a deep breath and stroked his trimmed beard. He thought for a long while before responding, “Anything is possible. Urbanshade is pretty flexible with these things, if you can imagine. You behave well and you’ll see your family again. That is what this is about, yeah? You miss your folks?”
He almost laughed, “Is that even a question?”
“What a family man. Well then, Sebastian, at the risk of losing my job,” Barlowe leaned in close and whispered, “Urbanshade has been known to pardon some lucky souls before. Play your cards right and that could be you. You’ll be happy to know that they work fast too. They might not need you for long. In just a year or two, you could be walking out of there a free man.”
Sebastian internally battled with himself. On one hand, the man’s words were unnervingly vague. Barlowe never guaranteed anything, this whole deal was a big game of luck and chance for Sebastian. But what other choice did he have? He couldn’t continue to waste his life here, waiting to succumb to death. He hated going to sleep on his cold and hard bed in his cramped cell. He hated spending most of his day thinking about what he could’ve been doing had he not been caught up in this mess.
But more than any of that, he hated not only being able to see his family for a limited time through glass. He missed helping his mother cook. He missed annoying Mira while she was trying to study or playing video games with Callum. He missed seeing them happy- genuinely happy. He hated the fake smile his mom put up to make him feel better. He hated the look of shame across Mira donned. And strangely enough, he hated that he hadn’t even gotten to see a disgraced look upon Callum’s face. He didn’t care if it was a glare, bottling up all of the world’s hatred and wrath, he wanted to be given the chance to see him at least.
“You can always decline the offer and bite the bullet now, if you prefer those chances, of course. Maybe death row is more comfy than I’m giving it credit for.”
Right, “offer”, Sebastian thought bitterly. “Offer” implied that there was a choice, like he had any room to say no. It was pretty obvious what he wanted to do— what he had to do. Not only for himself, but for his family.
The man slid a pen over as Sebastian flipped through the packet. It was full of a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo. The information was decorated in fancy language Sebastian wasn’t familiar with. His grip on the paper tightened, creasing the sides. It wasn't a matter of deciding, but rather finding the will to pick up the pen and sign his name on the dotted line, that made the process so difficult. He felt his pride wilt away with every draw of the line, and he couldn't keep his eyes open when he went to dot the “i”. Hope resided in his chest. He had gone this far, he could keep going.
He’d make it home, and his mother would understand, she always did. From the time that he broke her favorite flowerpot, to the moment he was arrested.
“You're a good boy, Sebastian. The rest of the world may have forgotten that, but don't let yourself, for even a moment, doubt it.”
Barlowe collected the papers and pen, “You made the right choice, Solace.”
He certainly hoped he did.
Barlowe wasn’t lying when he said Urbanshade worked quickly. The moment Sebastian had finished his meeting, he was transported to the back of a truck. A bag was placed over his head for the whole drive. For privacy reasons, he was told.
The drive was long and difficult. His cuffs would dig into his skin every time the truck took a turn and set him off balance. The bag smelt like it had been sitting in a basement its whole life, and it was incredibly itchy. Some of the loose ends would get tangled in his outgrown hair from time to time. He wasn't alone either, there were armed men in there with him. He knew that because he could hear them adjust their hold on their guns periodically.
He tried his hardest to keep a steady breath, fighting against the dizziness that consumed his system. He couldn’t help but be on edge. The knowledge that several guards were surrounding him, ready to aim if he stepped out of line, had his tied down limbs shaking. He tried to focus on the cold sweat dripping down his forehead to keep from spiraling down into a panic.
When the truck finally stopped, he was blindly dragged out. Sebastian couldn't make out where he was. The air stunk of fish and salt. The sound of water splashing echoed throughout. By the time he was finally freed from the bag, he was already being shoved inside of what he assumed was a submarine.
He wasn't the only one there. There were other prisoners, all heavily strapped down. There wasn't a single part of their bodies that wasn't tied down, and bags were placed over their heads. The top half was made of mesh, allowing them to state at Sebastian silently. The bottom half was a white plastic, what purpose it served, he wasn't sure. Some of them had “high risk prisoner” stamped on their suit in red ink.
“High risk?” Sebastian mumbled to himself.
A guard, dressed from head to toe in sleek black body armor, gripped him by the shoulder.
“I wouldn't stress about it, just try to keep your space and you'll be fine.” He laughed as he shoved Sebastian into an empty seat, and began to fasten the restraints.
They were needlessly tight, the one wrapping around his stomach left little room for air. Sebastian's breaths were shallow, his abdomen trying its best to fight against the strap. His breaths only became more shaky once the guard went to place a white bag over his head.
“Don't take it personal, kid. We have to do this to all of you regardless of behavior. Protocol and all.” His words went in one ear and out the other as the bag was placed over his head.
Sebastian could only focus on the pounding sound of his heartbeat as the guards exited the submarine.
Sebastian was in Urbanshade’s Hadal Site, he learned quickly. Submerged deep into the murky waters, away from civilization and contact.
The air always felt thick and moist. The place reeked of the strong scent of cleaning chemicals and sanitation, and the rooms were towering. They swallowed you whole in big open spaces. It was a nice change from the tiny rooms he was squished into before, but the vast rooms held so much room for possibility, like anything could be waiting in the corners. It was unnerving.
“You’re next, Solace.”
Sebastian was shoved forward by an armed guard. He stepped in front of the height chart and held up his card detailing his name and assigned ID number.
“Smile.” The photographer snapped a picture, the blinding flash burning his eyes. “Off you go now, low-rank.”
Sebastian stepped off the black mat and handed in his board. A new uniform was placed into his hands as a replacement. Guards led him down a long hallway. They idly chatted amongst themselves, as though Sebastian weren’t there.
“Did you hear that Jeff got moved over to the N.O.S.T security division?”
“You’re kidding! That’s one hell of a promotion. Those guys always get to retire early. Heard the pay is incredible.”
“It doesn’t sound all that worth it to me. They barely ever come back to get paid in the first place.”
“Eh, yeah but they get to see all of the cool stuff. The fish get boring after a while.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s been reports of something real dangerous and big floating around the drills. The thing eats bullets, some of the survivors say. I wouldn’t be surprised if they start sending in low-ranks to handle it.”
“Hah, hear that, low-rank? You might have to swim with the fishies soon.” The man knocked his shoulder into Sebastian’s. The men laughed. He could only keep walking, wondering to himself if they were trying to scare him or if there was seriously something horrifying in the waters that consumed them.
Eventually, they stopped at a locked door. One of the guards scanned something on their wrist, causing the sturdy machinery to whirr and open up his new cell.
It was much bigger than he expected, at least in comparison to what he had before. It was well lit and cleaned, not a speck of dirt in sight. In the corner was a curtain concealing a toilet. How kind of them to give him privacy.
“There ya go, pal. Get changed ASAP, that new jumpsuit is what prevents you from being shot on sight.”
Sebastian turned to the guard with wide eyes, hoping to find any signs that it was a joke made in poor taste. His only response was a shove into his cell and the door sliding shut. He stood there for a solid minute, desperately trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. He was miles away from home, stuck in a place whose location was kept a secret from him. This wasn’t ideal, but he could make this work. It wasn’t permanent anyway. If he did as they asked, Sebastian had a chance at being let go, and that was more than he had before.
He looked down at the neatly folded uniform in his hands. Stitched onto the chest of the dark blue fabric was “LR-P.” He squinted as he noticed an inverted pentagram printed onto the suit. That was…strange.
He decided not to read too much into it as he changed.
Sebastian was kept surprisingly busy. Every day he was called in to complete a task or a test, and without any explanation of what it was for, he would be sent back to his cell. It was all strange. One day he’d be requested to donate blood, the next he was taste testing candy canes.
One particular instance easily won as the strangest questionnaire he had to participate in. He was sat down and shown a picture of a skinned and headless corpse. You would have thought it would have made him sick, but it only filled him with desperation instead. He felt the strange need to provide it with furs so she could stay warm.
He was asked to identify the corpse, and found himself stating, with no hesitation, “That’s my wife.”
“Have you ever been married, Mr. Solace?”
“Never exactly got the chance. Being arrested for murder really kills your chances.”
“And yet this is…?”
“My wife.”
He hadn’t realized how strange the situation was until he was sent back to his cell. From the murmurs he picked up on his way out, everyone recognized the corpse as their wife.
Sebastian never cared for ghosts or the paranormal. He wasn’t a huge believer in them like his sister was, but it was hard to ignore the glaring red flags present. The inverted pentagrams stamped everywhere, the corpse that makes you think of it as your wife, the strange fish situation the guards brought up when he first got there. And the list didn’t end there.
Guards were posted everywhere, heavy duty guns in hand at all times. At random, sirens or alarms would sound, and swarms of guards would rush out in a single file line. Some came back, a lot of them didn't. If he strained his ears, he could hear faint cries throughout the day.
He was constantly being watched. There were security cameras at every corner. As if that wasn't enough, there were men and women in lab coats who regularly circled through the cells, silently watching. Sometimes they’d take another prisoner with them. What they were looking for, Sebastian wasn't sure, but he still felt unease settle within his stomach everytime their eyes lingered on him. It all made him wonder what Urbanshade was even trying to achieve.
Despite the constant state of unease, he was doing relatively well. His tasks were simple and to the point.
Well, they were simple in concept. Having to carry around heavy boxes wasn’t fun. Sebastian grunted as he set down a heavy package beside a fellow prisoner. He was sat at some table with a prototype of what looked to be some sort of flashlight.
A beeping collar settled around the disgruntled man’s neck. He had a cigarette between his lips and the top half of his jumpsuit was left neglected to hang at his hips. He grunted out a quick, “Thanks.”
Sebastian’s eyes drifted down to the printed “Doug - MR-P” tag on his shirt. The man followed the movement.
“You new here?”
Sebastian shrugged, “Got here about a week ago.”
Doug shook his head, “Yeah, I can tell. Word of advice? Play nice and you’ll do fine, boy. Do yourself a favor and work up to medium rank. The work gets grueling but the benefits are worth it.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigs. He offered the box to him. Sebastian shook his head.
“Thanks, but I don’t smoke.” He had tried it once back in high school when a friend offered it. He coughed it up immediately and faced the wrath of his sister when he got home and she smelled the nicotine on him. She had promised not to snitch as long as he never picked up another cigarette again.
The man laughed, “Hah, just give it some time. Once you’ve seen what I have, you’ll do anything to ease the edge.”
Sebastian swallowed, seeing an opportunity now that the guards weren’t breathing down his back. “What does this place even do? I’ve done everything from reviewing lollipops to identifying corpses and I can’t get my mind around what all of this is for.”
The man blew out a trail of smoke, “See, that’s your first mistake. You’re askin’ questions. Don’t do that. Less you know, the better. Trust me.”
That did little to reassure him, but he didn’t get a chance to push further. He was rushed off to try different ice cream flavors.
Weeks flew by with the same routine. Weeks of not speaking to his family weighed heavy on him. He never got a chance to tell his mom about the “offer.” If he had known Urbanshade would whisk him away so quickly, he would've asked to take some time to think about it. It would be some time before he’d be able to see them again, it’s not like they could swim down to see him. He wondered what they were told, if they even knew where he was. He hoped they wouldn’t be upset with him for leaving without warning.
They’d do fine without him, he reminded himself. They were all strong enough to keep going without him there, they always were. And once Urbanshade was done with him, he’d see them again. He’d finally be able to hug his mom again, to know that she’s really there, and that all of this was behind them. It would take some work, but he’d do whatever necessary to earn back Mira and Callum’s respect. He’d prove to them that he was never the heartless murderer the jury deemed him to be. And they’d be together again, safe, happy, and home.
He just needed to figure out how he could work his way to getting pardoned.
Sebastian awoke one night to his cell door sliding open.
“Hey, what prisoner rank are you?”
A pool of light crawled through the doorway, a silhouette of a man being the only thing to shield him from going blind. He sat up slowly, sleep yet to have released him from its clutches quite yet.
“Huh?”
“This is the low-ranking section, yes? Am I lost again?” A man dressed in a long white lab coat stood before him. The glare in his safety goggles made it difficult to make out his eyes, but his rosy nose and lips stood out. He looked flushed and sweaty. One glance at his tag read that the man was named Dr. Truman, part of the bioparanormal team.
Bioparanormal? What did that mean?
Sebastian cleared his throat, “Uh…yeah, I’m low-rank...sir.”
The man nodded. “Perfect, perfect, that's perfect!” He adjusted his goggles to scratch at his eye before placing them back down. He awkwardly fidgeted with his hands for a moment, pacing in his spot as if he forgot that Sebastian was there. When he finally looked back up at him, he made a face as though he remembered what he was doing, “Come with me!”
It was funny how he said it as though it were a suggestion. Like his hands weren't cuffed in front of him, like guards hadn’t rushed him out of his room using the tips of their barrels to push him forward. Rather, it was said like he was a fellow coworker the man was excited to show off his latest findings to. He envied how excited the man was able to be at what felt to be an ungodly time. It was difficult to tell the time when you were plunged underwater, but he could feel it in his heavy eyelids.
They led Sebastian to an area of the blacksite that he hadn't seen before. The rooms were much larger. The doors were huge, made to not only fit crowds of people through, but giant trucks loaded with cargo as well. Workers travelled through the rooms. He heard the familiar faint cries he occasionally picked up on while completing his jobs. They were much louder now, the low growls shaking the floor. It all nearly made his heart stop. Just what were they keeping here?
As they walked, Truman occasionally turned to look back at him. His expression was difficult to read. His face changed rapidly, never satisfied. Eventually he clapped his hands together, “So! It's Solace, right? Am I right?” He looked back at him, an eager smile present on his face.
Sebastian hesitated. His name tag was clipped to his jumpsuit, wasn't it? He decided not to answer as he found nothing nice to say in his tired and grumpy state, and he needed to keep a clean record. Comply to get pardoned, he reminded himself. He settled for a nod.
“That’s a nice name. Never heard that one. You’re pretty lucky, some people out there get the short end of the stick when it comes to last names.”
“...Yeah, sure.” Sebastian blinked away the haze that clouded his vision. Truman was extremely talkative, more so than any of the other workers here. Maybe he could get answers. “Hey uh, out of curiosity, is it really possible to get pardoned down here?”
“Oh, someone’s not enjoying their time down here,” He had the audacity to laugh, “that’s only for the prisoners who sign up for more…special tasks, to put it lightly. But cheer up, I’m sure you’ll get that opportunity some time! What we’re doing today won’t qualify for that, unfortunately for you.”
Great.
Truman perked up, “You look nervous, is this your first time?”
“First time doing…what?”
“Oh, you know! Helping out the bioparanormal division- well, not technically. I explained to the big man so many times that I specialize in paranormal beings, but he still insisted on giving me assignments dealing with non-paranormal entities. So even though you’re helping a bioparanormal specialist, you’re not helping the division, but that’s neither here nor there!”
It took Sebastian a solid minute to digest all of what Truman said. “I'm sorry, entities?”
“Oh, so it is your first time! I better not spoil anything in that case.”
Truman stayed quiet after that, leaving Sebastian to openly gape on his own. Entities? Is that what Urbanshade was about? Studying monsters?
What had he gotten himself into?
Eventually, Dr. Truman led them inside a huge room. Sebastian was pushed inside, the door closing behind him. It was pitch black, save for the little light coming through the giant window. Empty waters sat on the other side of the glass.
Truman’s voice came over the intercom, “My apologies, we have to keep everything dark. This entity’s eyes are pretty sensitive!”
Sorry, he was in a room with one? Sebastian’s breathing became shaky. He was going to die, wasn’t he?
“Now, Solace, your job is going to be very, very simple,” Truman continued, “Am entity is going to come in front of the glass. I’m going to observe how you react to it, and if you survive, then you get to go back to your cell. Easy, right?”
A beat passed by.
Truman didn’t add anything else.
He was serious?
“Alright, get ready!”
Sebastian heard the sound of a heavy gate being lifted. He couldn’t see anything in the window, not for a long while.
But eventually, a subtle green glow emerged from the deep waters.
“Sebastian?”
Sebastian froze in place, goosebumps trailing his skin.
“Mom…?” It sounded like her. Exactly like her. But she couldn’t be down here. No.
“Mijo, what are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be home.” Her voice, her words, her tone, her her her her.
This was wrong. All of his senses were screaming that at him. His eyes burning from dryness, his ears ringing, his skin crawling, it all came together to tell him that this was wrong.
And yet he couldn’t look away. Not when the alluring green light grew closer and closer.
“This is all a misunderstanding, Seb. Everyone knows it. They’ll let you come home now that they know.”
Home, that’s all he wanted right now. He wanted to go home.
“They’ll let you go, I know they will. All you have to do is look into my eyes.”
He had been trying so hard to remain strong for his family, for himself. He was tired of it. He just wanted to go home now. Home. All he had to do was look. Then he would be home.
“Look into my eyes.”
Bright green eyes bored holes into his own. It stung staring at them, but it felt so freeing. So comforting. He was going home.
“Good, good, just keep looking into my eyes.”
Her voice was sweet, sickeningly so. It was…wrong. Wrong his senses reminded him, wrong. This wasn’t right. He felt something wet above his upper lip. He looked down as he gently wiped it. Blood.
“Look back up at me, Sebastian. You want to go home, don’t you?”
Sebastian’s head hurt now that he was looking away. How he had missed such a splitting headache like this before, he was unsure. He looked back up, and this time, it wasn’t the alluring green eyes that caught his attention first, but rather, the giant shark that it belonged to.
You could’ve stacked twenty men and it still wouldn’t have been enough to reach even half of its length. Its grey skin had rips and tears in it, with bright emerald eyes peeking out of every nook and cranny. Fishing hooks and spears decorated its fins, and layers of dead and shredded skin hung off of the beast like it was a thin robe.
“Look into my eyes, Sebastian. Don’t you want to see your family again?” The voice was loud and ear splitting. It tried so hard to sound familiar, and if he let himself give in, it would have. But he couldn’t let himself fall under its spell again.
Sebastian turned his back to the beast, trying his best to steady his shaking hands. It was as though his skull was getting ripped open, allowing the contents to spill all over the twisting floor that shook beneath him. The once smooth design of it now swirled into shapes and colors until it dissolved into nothingness.
“Look at me, Sebastian. You’re letting them down, you know? All you have to do is look into my eyes and you’re refusing?”
Sebastian began slowly walking back towards the door. The room swayed in protest, his head naturally trying to swivel back to face the monster behind him. He fought it off with each trembling step.
“You had no issues signing your life over to Urbanshade. You had no issues moving miles away and burying yourself hundreds of feet underwater. It was so easy to leave them behind, can’t you do them this one favor to make up for it?”
That wasn’t true, it wasn’t true, he couldn’t listen.
“Look. Into. My. Eyes. You’ll never see them again if you don’t! Look at me!” It chanted it.
Look at me.
Look at me.
Look at me.
Sebastian heard the distant sound of the door opening. He heard footsteps. He felt someone grabbing his arms and forcing him forward.
You’ll never see them again, Sebastian. Never.
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What do you think gay men are attracted to in men that they can’t be attracted to in women?
It can’t be anything about femininity or masculinity obviously. That’s both sexist, and cultural so can’t be what drives men-only attraction.
It can’t be anything about stated identity because someone could lie just as easily as they could tell the truth in such a statement, and it makes no sense because homosexuality and heterosexuality exists in other species with no stated identities. It’s not like other animals without gender are all pan.
Saying idk it’s the vibes or some indescribable trait men have that women can’t but “I can’t explain” is a nonanswer.
Soooooooo what is it? Or do you think any sexuality but bi/pan is just cultural performance or an identity rather than an inborn orientation?
- [ ]
There’s whole subsets of philosophy and science dedicated to this sort of thing, dude. If you’re looking for one particular answer that applies universally to all gay men or all of one orientation or gender etc that’s not useful and if you insist upon getting that one particular answer you come across as dangerously ignorant.
Asking what it is that makes someone gay is a bit like asking “What’s an American?” or “What’s a country?”
At first they seem like straightforward questions but once you dig even a bit below the surface you’ll find that everyone and every place and every situation has a different answer. Is the EU a country? Is India? Is Idaho? Why? Why is a Mexican an American in Spanish but not in English? Spanish speakers will be insulted if you say they’re not American but Canadians will be insulted if you say they are. And Americans as in persons and from the United States of America aren’t as clear cut a group as that quick little definition I gave you would suggest. Why would someone living in the US for over a decade not consider themselves an American? Why would someone who just moved here insist they are American? Is it citizenship that makes you American? The continent you live on? How do you draw lines between continents? At what point do you identify more with your adopted country than the one you were born in?
Being gay is similarly complicated. What makes you gay? Your gender? Your attraction? Who you’d prefer to marry? Who you’d prefer to have sex with? Is gay a political position? Does it mean you’re happy? Is it a girl’s name? A surname? Is it only for men? Is it also for women? Is it a slur? Is it a reclaimed slur? Is it just a word? Where are you in time? What language are you speaking? Are you personally more attracted to genitals or hands or smells or the whole package? Can you sometimes fall for someone not typically your type? Is it a personality thing? How much of your attraction is influenced by your genetics, the balance of hormones in your parent’s womb, your society, your upbringing, your friends?
The only available answer is a non-answer because sexual orientation isn’t an arithmetic question. There’s no A+B=C that can be applied universally to all people who identify with a certain term. Any more than one singular definition can be given to a country, a gender, a continent. There’s some things that just don’t have one solid iron clad definition and anyone attempting to give them one typically has an agenda.
Anon, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and hope that you’re not here attempting to cause trouble and that you’re genuinely curious. But if you’re here attempting to set up bait, please reconsider how you think about definitions and queer identities and identity more broadly.
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I LOVED To Be a Creature, and it genuinely creeped me out to see the things Edelgard and Hubert said to Byleth (though it's the same as the game, stripped out of its voice acting and background music, the dialogue is so much more horrifying). Really makes me wonder if Edelgard's love for Byleth is genuine in any way. Do you think there's any real love there or is it just obsession?
Thank you!!! I had a feeling that placing Edelgard and Hubert's words in a context that isn't meant to make them look flattering would really let their casual racism shine, and I'm glad it's seeming like that is in fact the impression people are getting lol. SO sorry for the late answer btw 😭😭😭
As for whether Edelgard's love is genuine... I got opinions lmao.
got a bit long lmao under the cut it goes
If Edelgard felt the way she does for Byleth on exclusively SS and CF, I could maybe see how this is a "genuine" love (insofar as a love steeped in "I may hate your race but you're special and Not Like The Other Ones because I think you're special to me" can, uh, ever be genuine, in any case). But because Edelgard still feels as strongly towards Byleth on AM and VW where she quite literally never talks to them directly in any meaningful way, it becomes waaaaay more like she's just weirdly obsessed with this person who saved her one singular time ever five years ago from an attack Edelgard set up. It makes the "love" way more forced and contrived and obviously trying to squeeze tears out of the player for standing up against the cute girly trying to murder them. Or, alternatively, it makes Edelgard come off as manipulative, saying that she just wanted to walk with Byleth and it makes her so sad to HAVE to fight Byleth because BYLETH wouldn't stand by HER - and she's saying this on AM/VW to a person she's talked to in conversation a cumulative, what? Hour? Two? Maybe a few days, being nice? Over the course of, being as absolutely generous as physically possible and not counting the five years Byleth was missing... two fucking years? She's shitting herself over fighting this stranger she doesn't fucking know? Yeah, sure buddy, whatever you say - you see what I mean?
And honestly even outside of those two routes, I think it's more that she sees Byleth as being hers rather than actually liking them for who they are. A body to stand next to her and tell her how right she is and comfort her - who doesn't have the background of "I was literally raised to think this is my only purpose in life" muddying the sincerity of the brown-nosing - who also happens to also act as The Perfect Fighter and The Perfect Strategist to actively help her get what she wants. That view of Byleth being a tool doesn't really go away unless they marry her, seen by how they quite literally get nothing for all they've done for Edelgard should they go unmarried to a noble (guess they just weren't meritable enough once their use to her was done).
As well as how much more Edelgard doesn't like Byleth disagreeing with her or otherwise going against her flow than pretty much anyone else in the game - you lose supports points if you don't think the Black Eagle Strike Force name she made is good, she quickly denies the notion that Byleth isn't detached from others/emotions and insists they are just like she is, she gives them the same callous and thoughtless words she was apparently given once in her life while they are in the midst of mourning their recently murdered father so that they get over it already and get back to being useful to her (directly saying she will only reach out her hand when it's time for HER to move forward, not when BYLETH heals from WATCHING THEIR DAD DIE IN THEIR FUCKING ARMS MAYBE A WEEK AGO). She never treats Byleth kindly unless they do everything she wants, which like. Isn't love???? At all????
There's just this... weirdly possessive air Edelgard has around Byleth that always threw me off, especially with how easily she admits to have been willing to kill them so far into CF and how readily she cuts ties with them the second the fighting's done (which is particular because how just how clingy she was to Byleth everywhere else - you know during all that time Byleth had a use to her). Incorporating that into being an intentional part of her character is certainly interesting, but not in a way that's flattering to the idea of Edelgard genuinely being in love with Byleth lmao.
Personally tho, even disregarding almost everything else, the simple explanation is that I don't think you can really sit there and say you love someone while openly hating part of their racial heritage. Wild thought, I know lmao
#ask#anon#anti edelgard#just to be safe#like. maybe if this ship was allowed to be seen as the clearly toxic ship it is i MIGHT could see it as a sort of twisted#''you're only good because *I* like you'' fucked up kinda deal#where the possessive and controlling shit baked into the relationship was embraced or even just like. acknowledged?? at all??#and where Edelgard ''doesn't care'' for Byleth's mixed-race status in her love for her...#...because she *already* dehumanized them as *being* hers regardless of Byleth's race. like they ALREADY aren't really a person to her#which is why their mixed-race status is just an annoying bug to her and not a deal-breaker (to downplay it SEVERELY but you get the idea)#but uh like it's not like at all lmao#there's no way in hell my ass is gonna be convinced Edelgard ''I hate Nabateans and want to obliterate all of them'' von Hresvelg#would ever actually genuinely love Byleth ''is literally part Nabatean'' Eisner WITHOUT getting over her hatred of Nabateans#and oops guess what she never does 🤷♀️#and yeah her ''facing you i grow weak'' and ''i just wanted to walk with you'' schtick on AM and VW looks shallow as helllllll dude#like bitch do NOT play with me you do not and frankly CAN not give a shit about this person sincerely#LITERALLY they have almost never spoken to each other. she could've just as well said this to fucking Raphael and have it mean just as much
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The Promise of Us: Epilogue
Daryl
His hands work methodically, scraping into the dry earth, Daryl's fingers steady and focused on the task before him. He digs with a singular purpose, the repetitive motion calming his swirling thoughts, almost meditative. The dirt is rough and cracked, and each handful he lifts reminds him how little remains in this world that can be counted on. His mind churns with so much: Tyreese, Beth, the promises he couldn’t keep, the faces of everyone he’s lost—and the faces of those he’s trying to protect.
As he digs, Beth’s face surfaces, unbidden, her small, determined smile from those days they’d spent together after the prison fell. Her voice lingers in his memory, that stubborn hope she’d held onto despite everything, her soft laughter in the quiet evenings, her voice drifting through the darkness as she sang just to keep herself sane. He remembers the way she looked at him, so steady, so full of a faith he hadn’t known was possible anymore. Those late nights by the fire when she’d insisted there was still something worth fighting for, when she’d told him that people could still surprise him.
But beneath all the memories is a gnawing guilt—sharp and relentless. He can’t shake it, can’t forgive himself for whatever it was he felt with Beth, that sliver of attachment he’d allowed. He’d let her get too close, let her fill a hollow place inside him when he thought he’d lost Y/N for good. That feeling, the depth of it, still confuses him. Beth had been a light when he’d felt like he was sinking, the only thing keeping him from giving in to the weight of everything, and for that, he carries the burden of guilt, unsure if it’s something he deserves to feel or if it makes him weak.
Beth’s gone now, just like the others, but the guilt clings to him—relentless, unyielding. He couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe, and now it feels like everything she’d given him, every ounce of faith she’d tried to instill, is slipping through his fingers with the dry soil he holds. He feels unworthy of the faith she’d placed in him, the hope she’d brought back into his life, and it festers, heavy and unresolved.
He barely hears the soft footsteps behind him until they’re close. He doesn’t look up, but he knows it’s Y/N by the way the air shifts around him, by the quiet familiarity of her presence. She stops beside him as he pulls an earthworm from the soil, and without thinking, he plops it into his mouth, the faint taste of earth gliding down his throat.
“That’s kinda gross,” she teases softly, a gentle warmth in her voice, though he hears the strain beneath it. “But a meal’s a meal, right?”
He doesn’t answer, his throat tight, the memories and emotions swirling in his head too heavy to push down. The weight of it all presses hard against his chest, and he feels her watching him, waiting, her gaze filled with concern and a patience he knows he doesn’t deserve. She sighs quietly, her understanding like a steady pulse beside him, and then she lowers herself to sit next to him, her presence a quiet anchor.
“We’ve been goin’ 40 miles,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “Haven’t seen a sign of water since…” She trails off, sharing the frustration of the barren land, the weight of their aimless search.
Her hand finds his, and he feels her fingers wrap around the speckles of dirt coating his hands, grounding him in a way that his digging couldn’t. Her touch is gentle but firm, a steady reminder that he doesn’t have to hold all this alone. He keeps his gaze on the ground, feeling the quiet burn of grief in his chest, and when he doesn’t respond, she reaches up, her fingers brushing his chin, guiding his eyes to hers with gentle insistence.
He meets her eyes, and for a moment, it’s like everything in him comes undone. There’s no judgment in her gaze, no pity, only understanding—an acceptance of the darkness he carries and a promise that she’s here, no matter how heavy it gets. He studies her face, her tired but beautiful eyes softened with compassion, her brow knitting together as she looks at him in that familiar way—searching him the way he often finds himself searching her. It’s always been more than just a look between them; it’s a silent connection, unbreakable and constant, a thread that’s held through every storm they’ve faced together.
“It’s okay to feel it,” she murmurs, her voice soft and sure. “To feel everything. It doesn’t make you weak, Daryl. None of it does.”
He swallows, his throat tight, and he wants to tell her everything—that he failed Beth, that he didn’t keep his unspoken promise to her, that he’s scared he’ll fail Y/N too. It doesn’t make sense, he doesn’t have the words for it, but he can’t shake the feeling that it was wrong to let Beth in so much, wrong to feel anything like that. Like somehow, by clinging to Beth, he was betraying Y/N, even if she’d been gone, even if he’d believed he’d never see her again.
The guilt twists in him, coiling tighter as he looks at her, afraid she’ll somehow see it all in his face. She deserves better than that, his wife, deserves someone who isn’t weighed down by things they can’t understand. He wants to tell her this, to get it all out in the open, but the words stay tangled, caught in everything he can’t let go of. His chest tightens, frustration and regret pressing in as he realizes just how much he’s holding back.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she says, her knuckles grazing his cheekbone as her gaze stays steady on his, unwavering. “I’m right here. I always will be.”
Her words settle over him, a soft balm against the jagged edges inside him, and he finds himself nodding, barely, the faintest hint of relief beginning to surface beneath the weight of his guilt.
Finally, he pushes himself to his feet, reaching a hand out to help her up, the warmth of her hand in his reminding him that, for now, it’s enough just to keep moving. They stand there a moment, looking at each other, a quiet understanding passing between them. It’s not a resolution, not a fix, but it’s a start. It’s enough.
Together, they turn, heading back toward the others, the world still heavy, but with her by his side, he feels, for the first time in a long while, that he might have the strength to face it.
The end :)
thank you guys for reading this entire thing! Can't believe it's nearly double the length of The Ruins of Us, but you guys were so kind in keeping up w me <3
I have so many plans for part III, so stick around :)
thank you again for all your love and support!!!
#the promise of us#daryl dixon#the walking dead#twd daryl#daryl#the walking dead daryl#daryl x reader#daryl twd#daryl fanfiction
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I’m gonna be honest guys, I don’t think Leander is or will develop into a Yandere.
Do I think he is a monster and there’s something very dark and disturbing about him as a person. Yes. All the clues point in that direction. But I don’t think he has any interest in limiting the freedom of the MC in the ways yandere’s usually do.
For one, the first thing Leander does after learning about our curse is send us out into the city by ourselves literally encouraging us to “explore” in his words. And if you say that went badly for you later his response is not to suggest you should have stayed, but rather to suggest he go with you next time.
He hates and is disgusted by what is being done to Vere. And is equally disgusted by the idea of people being bound to a group mind instead of being allowed to live individually by their own singular will, in the case of discussing the Seaspring. Which, along with the fact that Leander is described as “rebellious” by Red Spring Studio, suggests that he values individuality and freedom for others, as well as for himself.
And to top it all off, Leander in his last seen with the MC, when asked if he’s recruiting them into the Bloodhounds, answers “not yet.” Because, he want’s the MC to find and choose their own path first. Which indicates that clearly the high value he puts on free will extends to the MC.
The only thing that really indicates towards him being a yandere would be that he has a jealous streak, as indicated by both his quiz results and his insisting HE be the one to get you a drink instead of Ais. But there are plenty of jealous character in the world that aren’t yanderes. There are even characters who are EXTREMELY jealous but don’t ever hit yandere territory. So I don’t find his jealousy to be red flag to a yandere nature as much as I find it to be a red flag about his personality.
I think what makes Leander a monster is probably much more nuanced, because thus far, the hints that he may not be who he presents himself as to us are themselves very nuanced.
Or, it could be worse than that, as my theory is that he is both a monster AND exactly who he presents himself as. He is a man who would crush a skull, AND the man who would hold your hand to soothe you because he knows you’re starved for touch. He is a man capable of unspeakable cruelty, AND untold amounts of kindness. He is a monster, AND he is just human. And sometimes humans are monstrous.
To me, that’s what Leander appears to be, and I find that both deeply compelling and horrifying.
Anyways, he’s my fav and I love him.
#leander touchstarved#touchstarved#leander#touchstarved game#red spring studio#red spring studios#visual novel#otome#english otome#otome game#meta#theory#spoilers#long post#txt post
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Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |
Smoke Signals
Chapter Two - Dainty
W/C: 4.6K
Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader
You need a job, The Bourbon needs a server. The math is there but the owner won't acknowledge it. How will you win over such a crabby man that only sees you as a gnat forcing its way into his space?
A/N: The response I received on the first part fic was so unexpected but I'm so glad everyone liked it!! I can't wait to get deeper into this story
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I’m sorry for running out so fast yesterday.
No. Too forward.
I think we got off on the wrong foot, by we I mean me.
No, not sincere enough.
I just wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly—
“Excuse me, dear?”
Your train of thought was dissolved within seconds as you turned your focus to the older gentleman that had called for your attention. A hum in place of an answer as your brows raised expectantly but ever so friendly awaited his follow up question.
“Can I just squeeze past you to grab that jar of peaches?” He asks, wrinkles around his eyes upturned in perfect harmony with his smile.
“Of course. Yes!” Panicked, you rush to the other side of the aisle, the older man waving you off, insisting that it was ‘quite alright’ while he reached for his beloved peaches.
You’d been bouncing back and forth, up and down between several opening statements to provide Donnie, a sour taste left in your own mouth at the way you left her hanging the day before when she was merely being kind to you. It was something you couldn’t stop, the anxiety eating away at your flesh like bacteria from the fact that you could’ve caused someone to be less than satisfied with their interaction with you, as if you were some kind of service. People pleasing was a disease.
Sometimes the affected party was blind to its symptoms, oblivious to the way their illness consumed them. And that’s why you found yourself purchasing a single pack of gum, eyes large and sorrowful before you were even next in line. Various ways to get the point across were mentally rehearsed and the closer you got to the register, the more you focused on one singular sentence, clinging onto the desire to not stutter or mess it up.
“Hey you’re back!” Donnie greets. “Thought for sure we’d scare you off by now.”
With a wince, you hand her your pathetic excuse of a conversation starter, a pack of spearmint gum with your trembling hand. If she notices she doesn’t bring attention to it, instead she gracefully takes the pack and rings you up.
“N-no, no. I don’t scare that easily.” You try to convince yourself more than her.
You note that the shop is nearly empty once again just after a handful of customers had done their shopping and went on with their day. A few patrons still linger, carefully picking out each item from their weekly grocery list; however, you wouldn’t know they were there if not for the squeak of their carts every few feet as they inched forward.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Donnie respectfully hands back the gum in exchange for your cash. A crinkled five that had seen better days.
For a moment you debate fleeing once again, nerves tingling and breathing becoming shallow before internally reprimanding yourself. You can cry all you damn well please in private but right now you need to stand up to the little voice in your head. “Yeah. Um, I just–I wanted to say I’m sorry for running out so suddenly like that.” It didn’t come out as smooth as you’d planned but you’re hoping it came across as sincere enough. If you could at least look forward to a friendly face at the supermarket every week, well it would be a win.
“Honey, I don’t get offended easily and it seemed like you had places to be.” She waves a dismissive hand in the air at your apology, not unkindly, more so letting you know you didn’t need to be so formal with her. And yet you couldn’t help yourself, an unwanted backstory spilling from your lips almost like second nature. Excuses plucked from the top of your brain.
“I didn’t–I didn’t mean to leave and just not introduce myself. I just got caught up, with moving and all–”
“You don’t owe me an explanation. Just your name and we’ll call it good.” A genuine smile stretches across her face, contagious enough that your lips tug upward as well as you offer your name, a proper introduction this time.
Your shoulders relax ever so slightly, not fully letting your guard down but no longer feeling the need to tense every muscle in your body. It’s then that you realize that this is the only grocery store that you ever found visually appealing, with its darker toned walls and red checkered floors, the lighting not being so fluorescent and in your face, a bit dim even. Which for some may be a flaw but for you it was perfect. You don’t feel so exposed and couldn't be perceived so clearly, the ideal cocktail of a situation for someone so socially anxious.
“I, um, I saw your sign.” You gesture to the letters reading ‘help wanted’ posted against the window. If you could land a decent job then maybe living wouldn’t feel so terrifying. Then again, several things would come into factor other than just your means of income.
Donnie’s expression turns empathetic and you can feel your breath hitch in anticipation for a brutal rejection. To be told that you had it all wrong, that you were too unprofessional and too meek and that your help was most definitely not wanted here, that you shouldn’t have even stepped foot in this town to begin with. The five stages of grief practically take over in mourning over the loss of a potential job.
“I’m real sorry but we already filled the position. Tom was supposed to take that down around two weeks ago.” She sounds irritated at the mention of what you assumed to be her coworker. “Can’t rely on anyone.” She sighs, striding over to the window and pulling the sign from its temporary home only to abandon it behind the shelf that displayed several boxes of cigarettes.
“Oh I’m–”
Before you can even begin to apologize for something completely out of your control, Donnie’s eyes light up at something, or rather, someone behind you.
“Hey, Ed! Isn’t The Bourbon hiring?”
All she receives in return is silence and when you dare to peek over your shoulder behind you, you briefly meet the eyes of the neighbor you had the displeasure of running into twice the day before. Today he fronts with a black leather jacket and the same black jeans with rips in the knees. The only thing noticeably different is the chain now dangling at his side and the band shirt you’re unable to read, the letters obscured from your view. Oh, and a few chunky rings decorating his hand that should make him look tacky as hell but somehow they pull the look together.
“I dunno, who’s asking?” He counters, brow raised as he glances at you once more. You’d barely even spoken a few words to the guy and he was acting as if you committed the most heinous act against him.
“Ed.” Donnie warns.
“Don, she wouldn’t last a day.”
You were beginning to think that this so-called ‘Ed’ was going to turn into an issue…fast. Who was he to judge a stranger who he knew absolutely nothing about. His audacity startled you and while you should step in and defend yourself, you can’t bring yourself to do it, tongue tied in every literal sense, words caught in the back of your throat like they were physical refrigerator magnets lodged in place.
“You don’t know that!” She grins at him, a grin that silently says ‘watch it’. “Honey, you got any work experience?” Attention shifting to you, you felt as if you were burdening two people who had everything figured out in their quaint little lives, guilt plaguing your mind at the fact that you’d shaken things up between what seemed to be good friends or maybe even just well acquainted individuals.
“I–uh–yes. Yes, I’ve worked at the–at the library and-and–”
“The library?” Ed questions. You didn’t dare answer, knowing very well he wasn’t seeking a response. “What good would that do me in a bar?”
“Well I–”
“Think The Bourbon’s too rowdy for someone like you.” He continues, only fueling your inner rage as well as pricking the embarrassment that held a permanent home within you, your cheeks flushing hot and palms becoming clammy.
“I’ve also worked at a diner. Back home.” Somehow you find a voice, one that isn’t shaky and timid but rather more calm and collected regardless of the absolute fear that pounded in your heart.
Both Donnie and Ed stare, seconds passing that only feel like lightyears. Ed still seems bored beyond comprehension, opening and shutting his wallet as he narrows his big brown eyes. You aren’t sure what to do next, if you should make a dramatic exit once again or continue proving yourself to some stranger who had no business even making you do such a thing in the first place.
“A diner.”
He says it like a statement rather than a question, as if to mock and discredit you.
Tears are not an option, tears are not an option.
“See she’s got experience!” Donnie attempts to mend the situation, acting as an unofficial moderator.
“Don, no offense but I came here to buy the usual, not recruit.” Some cash is slapped onto the counter, his patience clearly wearing thin by the way he begs with his eyes. Donnie’s tolerance appears to be at a dangerously low level based on the glare she forces upon him. You were beyond unprepared to witness a standoff in the middle of the supermarket at 5:00 PM on a Wednesday.
“Thought you were desperate for a server.”
There’s some bite behind her words, focus never wavering, the two seeming to have a telepathic conversation right before your eyes until Ed breaks the stillness in the air.
“Not in the slightest. Can I have my shit now?”
Donnie’s sigh lets you know Ed has won and in the process, drained her energy. Reluctantly, she snatches the cash from the counter and opens the register before grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the shelf behind her and handing them to him along with his change, an unfriendly exchange. It doesn’t seem to bother him as he clutches the cash and the pack in his hand, not even sparing you another glance on his way out.
Clearing your throat, you pull Donnie’s attention away from the insufferable man now making his way down the cobblestone sidewalk outside. “It’s okay. I’m sure other places are hiring.”
She rolls her eyes and you know it’s not meant for you but you can’t shake the paranoia that screams that she might be fed up with you as well. “Don’t mind Eddie. He acts like a hardass but he’ll come around.”
So his name is Eddie. You only nod in response, unsure of where to steer the conversation from here.
“He’s like a scary dog. He’ll roll over for the right people. So if he doesn’t take to you, don’t take it personally.” She advises.
“Yeah.” You whisper.
You were so going to take it personally.
–
As it turns out, no one in Knife’s Edge was hiring, not a single soul seeking a random girl from out of town who urgently needed a job. Not that you could blame them, they had it all figured out. Many of the shops were owned by families thus being run by said families and not requiring the additional expense that would come with hiring another person. And those that did seem to hire outside of their family had already filled in every necessary position.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. This is what you get for uprooting your life and sticking it somewhere it probably didn’t belong.
And now you were moping along the cobblestone, trying to figure out how to pay the bills, working out how much of your savings you could survive off of until you’d run out. Then The Bourbon came into view. Almost like it wanted you to see it, the beaming red lights spelling out its name specifically for you to see. Mainly because it was the only place you knew to be hiring despite what Ed–or–Eddie–whatever his name was, had said in his unpleasant remarks from earlier. It seemed to be your only shot at employment.
The bar had a few neon signs flashing in the window, one being the very obvious ‘open’ sign and then of course one that read ‘happy hour’ with a margarita. The rest appeared to be different beers they might have on tap. It didn’t look like anything fancy but didn’t seem like a hole in the wall either. The exterior was paneled in wood just like almost every other building in the area, giving it a cabin feel without actually being a cabin.
Dread settled in the pit of your stomach from just staring at the place so if you were going to act, it needed to be now, before said dread morphed into pure panic. This was going to determine your foreseeable future, if you couldn’t land this job then you might as well toss yourself right back down that mountain with no money and no plan, right back to square one.
The door was heavy, built out of metal and a bell ringing just above, notifying any staff and patrons of your presence which you could do without but you had to push yourself. If they were staring, your gaze was glued to the ground and you didn’t notice, too occupied in rehearsing an improvised script in your head. Some kind of rock or metal song blasted through the bar and you weren’t sure if it was overstimulating or comforting. Your initial thought was that for being in a small town, they would be inclined to play country music so it only relieved you that your possible future workplace wouldn’t be subjecting you to the unbearable twang you just couldn’t seem to stand. You’d endure it when all was said and done but it was appreciated that it was one less nuisance in your life.
It was a standard bar, the atmosphere mellow with dull lighting and a haziness smelling of tobacco swirling throughout the room. What immediately drew you in was the obvious game of bingo, suddenly shifting what was a designated spot for happy hour and a cheap therapy session with the bartender into a retirement home full of seniors. A man that looked to be in his fifties sat on a stool on the tiny stage in the corner, calling out numbers, which elicited a few victory yells from those who had obviously been having better luck.
However odd the scene may be, several senior citizens occupying the tables of a bar at happy hour, business still seemed to be booming considering that it was a weekday. Aside from the group of elderly yet energetic individuals, there were also what looked to be the regulars perched on their assigned stools at the actual bar. They paid no mind to the intense game happening behind them, sipping away at their beers and mixed drinks leisurely.
A vacant seat called to you, two more on each side guaranteeing that you could sit comfortably without awkwardly scooting in next to someone and disturbing their possible winding down time, no doubt trying to blow off some steam after work. That’s why people came to bars, right? It was lost on you, this wasn’t your scene and if you’re truthful, you’re not even sure you should be here begging for a job in the first place. That Ed guy clearly didn’t take a liking to you and though you didn’t exactly have any knowledge on his role within The Bourbon, he seemed like he had a say in the day to day operations just based on the tiny snippets of information you picked up on. Hopefully someone with the same level of authority would be working now and actually respect you as a person enough to at least give you a chance.
Playing it cool—as cool as one could be with constant nagging thoughts and shot nerves, you decide to plant yourself down on the stool, the worn leather material partially squeaking in protest as you wiggle into a comfortable enough position, setting your bag in your lap and clutching it in paranoia. A glance from the left to the right and back to the left lets you know that no one seems to mind your presence though you still close in on yourself regardless, taking up the least amount of space possible.
The bartender, a man maybe in his early twenties who had short dark hair seems preoccupied as he shakes a drink while balancing a conversation with another man at the end of the bar, the two laughing every other sentence like old friends. And so you wait. Never intentionally draw attention to yourself and never disturb anyone else’s night until you find it polite to chime in when the bartender doesn’t seem as busy. Even then, he doesn’t hear your small ‘excuse me’ every time he rushes by onto his next task.
A sad little ghost settled among lively customers, you don’t seek pity, only a glance your way so that you could get this over with and either face rejection or anxiously resume the job search. Though no one seems to bother looking your way, you can’t help the heat traveling to your cheeks in pure humiliation, the fact that you’re the only thing out of place weighing heavily on your mind. More celebratory howls and yells sound from behind you, the room erupting into laughter shortly after from a joke you didn’t care to understand. Even a few select chuckles are heard from the men scattered along the bar.
“Do you just not listen?”
A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts, forcing you to peek up from where your focus remained on the bartop, where moments before you’d seemed entranced by the surface. In reality you were running in circles in your head, hoping to make sense of your current situation. Through your lashes you saw him. Ed. Or Eddie. You didn’t put much effort into feeling too bad for not remembering his actual name, especially when he’d never even had the decency to ask for yours. His leather jacket was absent from his torso, now only showing off a plain black t-shirt that also allowed you a view of various tattoos scattered along his arms. You were first drawn to the faded bats on his forearm before becoming puzzled by what seemed to be some kind of a doodle on his inner bicep, not a very good one at that. And then you remembered he’d asked you a question.
“I’m not allowed to have a drink?” You ask innocently. Genuine innocence. No sarcasm. You weren’t brave enough for that.
“Only if you’re not here to also beg for a job.” He grumbles. A man a few stools over gestures down for another round and in response, Eddie nods coolly. With a certain kind of smoothness, he pulls a new glass out before slamming it down on the counter. “If you are, the answer is still no.” The way he quickly pours liquor into the shaker seems so effortless, measurements probably burned into his brain that allow for more efficiency on busy nights.
“Can I at least speak to someone in charge?” You do your best to keep your voice steady and unwavering in the presence of someone with infinitely more confidence than you, his eye contact never breaking.
“You’re lookin’ at him, doll.”
His voice drips with his signature condescending tone, the corner of his mouth pulled up slightly in a smirk. One that tells you that you’ve hit a dead end.
“You—oh.” Like an idiot, you swallowed any words that bubbled in your throat, unable to find it within yourself to at least come up with a snarky comeback.
“We’re not hiring.”
“That-that’s not what Donnie said.” Lousy. The argument just seemed to fall from your tongue involuntarily, not much thought put behind it before coming to fruition. It would only give him more ammo.
His eyes further surveyed you, meticulously analyzing your every move, every twitch of every muscle in your face. An unwanted spotlight shining on you, revealing every flaw in your approach to the current conversation. You wanted a job and he wanted nothing to do with you, your last statement only sealing your fate, only giving him more reason to deny your advances.
“Donnie doesn’t work here does she?” Without expression, he begins expertly shaking his concoction, forearms flexing with the movement. He was a character, some kind of figment of your imagination. He had to be. You’d never encountered someone so standoffish, so ill-tempered, especially toward someone he’d never even met before, already passing judgment on you based on seconds of interaction.
Ignoring his rhetorical question, which came off as more of a deterrent than anything, you pursue a fair conversation, a deserving interview at the very least. “Listen, I’m a really hard worker and—“
“And a fast learner right?”
The interruption was unwelcomed though you gave no indication that it was, face set in a straight expression as you processed his uncivil personality. You couldn’t even find it in you to convey shock, your brain malfunctioning upon his words, outdoing himself with every sentence he uttered.
“Well, yes.”
“Of course. And you can multitask too I bet?”
This wasn’t the interview you were hoping for, this was downright degrading.
“If you would just let me talk.” You plead, fingers digging into the wood of the bartop.
“Listen, kid.” The liquid he had been shaking for quite some time is poured into the glass, an amber colored liquor filled to the brim.
Kid?
If you had the guts you would degrade him right back. But you were you and you could only sit and take each hit to your fragile mental state with as much grace as possible. And soon after the tears would come. Not yet, though. Not just yet.
“You look like you’re about to cry and you haven’t even been hired. What makes you think you can handle a full house on a Friday night?” The drink is topped off with an orange twist and a black cherry before he slides it to its awaiting consumer, not a drop spilling over the edge of the glass, clearly a perfected craft that he was proud of.
When he’s met with silence you gather that he thinks he’s won just by the smug look on his face, barely there but still evident nonetheless. That little voice inside your head screams at you to keep pushing, keep bugging him until he has to give in. Even if by pure annoyance. And although you can feel yourself trembling in terror, something urges you to just gulp down the fear and prod at the arrogant man just beyond the bar.
“I work well under pressure, I’m very organized, I’ll clean on my down time…” You begin to list off your abilities and if he wanted to stop listening, the way he glared at you wasn’t convincing you that he was going to.
This time his response is delayed rather than the other way around, suddenly at a loss for words as his large eyes take in your sudden change in demeanor. Your slight assertiveness takes him by surprise, you can tell from his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. It’s all a front for you to at least get one foot in the door but as they say, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’.
“No.” He answers suddenly, sternly. His disinterest is obvious when he pulls out a rag and starts wiping down the counter, no longer letting his gaze fall on you but instead, the droplets he works vigorously to clean up.
If he wants a fight, then a fight he shall receive.
“I’m a team player, I’m super reliable, my time is flexible, if you need me in a pinch consider it done–”
“Do you understand social cues?”
Ouch. If you had an inflated ego it would’ve surely been destroyed by now but you were already working with close to nothing.
“Yes.” You reply, not a trace of sarcasm, only an honest answer.
“So I think by now you’d understand. We. Are. Not. Hiring.” Each word is enunciated and slathered thickly with bitterness, topped with the intention to send you running like a dog with its tail tucked in between its legs.
What he doesn’t know is that your soft spoken voice and bashful exterior isn’t all there is to you and that deep down, if you wanted something, you were stubborn and able to manipulate the situation should it be required in the most dire of situations. Whether it would work on him seeing as he was also just as stubborn, if not more, you weren’t sure yet.
“Are you turning me away because I’m a woman?”
The pure horror in his eyes almost makes you chuckle because now you know you have the upper hand and had anyone overheard, they would probably question their beloved local bartender’s work ethic.
“I mean–not that I’m accusing you…” You were definitely accusing. “I just don’t see any other women working and–”
It doesn’t have the effect you’re hoping for as he leans toward you, forearms resting on the bar, his eyes returning back to their spiteful nature while he taps his clunky rings against the surface in thought.
“I’m turning you away because you don’t belong in a place like this. Things can get rough and you’re…too dainty.” His voice is much more hushed than before but his expression remains serious, without a trace of that stupid smirk.
Dainty? Dainty. Noted.
“What–you don’t think a woman can handle–”
“It’s not about you being a woman.” He seethes. “It’s about the fact that you are dainty. Polite. Shy. I can’t have that when I’ve got a few drunks refusing to leave at 2:00 AM.”
“I know when to hold my own. Especially if it's for a job.” You attempt to convince him.
“What, so you’re just gonna respectfully tell them to leave, then what? These guys get out of hand, I can’t be babysitting you, I’ve got a business to run.” He reasons, straightening his posture, conversation already forgotten as he starts to turn away before you speak up again.
“At least let me prove you wrong before you dismiss me.” You quietly demand, hands clasped in front of you. “Think I can handle a group of senior citizens.” You motion to the intense bingo game still going strong behind you.
With a roll of his eyes, he seems to ponder his thoughts, bouncing them around in his head. An exasperated sigh escapes his parted lips while a hand drags down his tired face.
“One night. A trial. If you can handle it, fine. You’ve got a job.” He finally declares. “But if I have to stop what I’m doing to babysit you or you so much as–”
“I’ll find another job. Promise.” You nod persuasively, a glimmer in your eyes that he doesn’t miss but quickly ignores.
“Good. Tomorrow night. Eight. And just this one time you can park in the back lot.”
He tries to dismiss himself again but your next question forces him to linger a little bit longer. He was patient, you’d give him that.
“Wait–what, what’s the dress code?” You ask sheepishly, a contrast to the business woman you’d molded into just seconds before.
He does a once over, as if to judge your fashion choices but what he ends the conversation with only leads you to think that he favors one word way too much.
“Casual. Nothing too dainty.”
~end~
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#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson fic#eddie x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson x fem reader#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson angst#eddie munson series#eddie munson au#bartender!eddie#bartender!eddie munson#grumpy!eddie#grumpy!eddie munson
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I could never understand when people said "don't blame the character, blame the writers/writing" in a discussion/analysis about character behavior like... we're discussing about a character in a story, why would I bring the writers to the table?? I mean yeah there's some odd writing choice sometimes but still, why? Like whenever I said Marinette is super self centered and a combat pragmatic, it's always answered with "blame the writing" like???????
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It’s a way to shift in universe blame onto an out of universe cause in order to make the character blameless. The reason the argument has become so prevalent in the Miraculous fandom is that there are no other excuses left. There's no way to justify Marinette's behavior in universe because, if we knew someone like Marinette in real life, we would have cut her off from our lives long ago. Real people would not react to someone acting like Marinette the way Alya and Adrien react to her; with infinite acceptance and patience.
While I do think it is important to acknowledge the artificiality of fictional characters, out of universe observation is not the best approach in every case where we disagree with a character’s behavior, mostly because every single fictional character ever written exists only because someone wrote them a certain way, regardless of how badly or well written they are. Using only the "the writers made her this way" approach treats Marinette as, once again, the victim, instead of the one treating the people around her poorly. It takes sympathy away from the characters affected by Marinette and gives it to Marinette instead, like the show doesn't do this enough when it ignores Marinette's victims to focus on things that make Marinette upsette.
Criticism of Marinette does bring up her writing a lot too, though. Like, I will criticize Marinette more harshly over her keeping Adrien out of the loop than Nathalie, Félix or Kagami specifically because the writers insist in interviews and on social media that her doing that was justified. It's a criticism of a writing decision while criticizing the character, because these two things can't be separated because the writers are constantly defending said writing decisions and behavior.
Marinette’s personality flaws aren't a writing mistake, they don't exist just because they writers are that bad at writing a likable main character. Marinette being selfish or self-centered is not a singular writing decision. It doesn't happen only once, so it can't be explained away with a “the writers just didn't know what they were doing in that one scene” that the stans are trying to push as an explanation. It's a consistent pattern of behavior that has been a part of the character’s makeup since the beginning. That's in-character behavior for her. The writers just used to have her realize when she was being like that and have her make up for her more inconsiderate actions.
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✦ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 ✦
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– KINKTOBER DAY 4: APHRODISIACS
grand admiral thrawn x reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words
summary: grand admiral thrawn has a unconventional way of convincing neighbouring planets to pledge allegiance to the empire.
cw: f!princess!reader, aphrodisiacs/sex pollen vibes so dub-con, fingering, cum eating, political mind games.
⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 5: CLOTHES ON ⇾
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Perhaps others in your position would consider you a coward. The rebel alliance had pushed a revolutionary manifesto that had bled into the heart of each Empire-subjugated civilian in the galaxy, many taking up arms against the gigantic fleet of storm-trooper manned ships.
However, lacking a large military and without weaponry or manpower, your small planet lay at the mercy of the Empire leviathan. The decorative crown placed atop your head was just that— embellishment. The significance of your birthright was as vexing to Grand Admiral Thrawn as a speck of dust on his pristine white uniform. A simple brush of his palm enough to toss any resistance aside.
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The hologram Thrawn sent you upon arrival to your galaxy was intended as an olive branch, one you gratefully received. A promise of clemency on the condition that you attend a dinner upon the Chimaera warship.
“Princess,” Thrawn muses as he walks you towards the vast dining table, his own body language almost regal as he directs you to your seat, “I hope you don’t mind that I took liberty with the selection of delicacies I provided.”
You had no quarrel; it was like a feast mosaic. Gorgeous, vibrant pomegranates split down the middle to expose the glistening seeds, strawberries doused in dark chocolate and shucked oysters fanned out on a plate of salt.
“I am grateful for anything you provide, Grand Admiral,” you answer him politely as he pulls out a chair for you. You sit with a small smile, attempting to appease the man that balanced your planet’s fate on the end of his trigger finger. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Thrawn’s lips pull up in a smirk, the silky timbre of his voice dripping like molasses off the edge of your spine, warming something deep in your abdomen that makes you blush.
Without ceremony, he settled in his seat across the table. Those crimson eyes pass over your frame with a gaze so heavy it’s as though you feel it dance across your skin, leaving flames in its wake.
“I recommend the oysters, your highness,” he addresses you respectfully with your title. “Freshly farmed a few hours ago.”
Upon his insistence, you began to feast. A polite silence falls between you, Thrawn’s eyes set on you as he watches you relish the flavour of the delicate oysters. He looks pleased.
You cannot deny the warmth that creeps across your skin the longer he looks at you. Thrawn's presence makes you almost dizzy, but the fear that had prickled at the base of your neck when you had been informed of his arrival had been replaced with something far more titillating.
“I must offer you my appreciation for your willingness to collaborate with the Empire, your highness, Thrawn praises you while you take a moment to sip the red wine you had been offered upon arrival. “I think you will find that I serve at your pleasure.”
“So it would seem,” you smile weakly, glancing across the table top. Pomegranate, oysters, wine. Your mind felt numb, slow to connect the thread that ran through each item— a singular quality they all shared.
“I wish to assure you of my commitment to ensuring you and your people are appropriately cared for,” Thrawn continues, elegantly standing from his seat at the head of the table and approaching where you sat like a Groundlion; a creature you knew belonged to the Chiss star system. “That our relationship continues to develop organically.”
The air around you vibrates as he approaches, your heart lurching. You had not failed to note the double meaning and slight innuendo to his comments. Flush paints your cheeks when you feel the slick wetness between your thighs, unable to look the Chiss in the eyes as he stands before you.
The Grand Admiral’s azure palm takes hold of your chin gently, tilting your head back and forcing you to look him in the eye. He’s poised, ice cold and stoic while he watches you burn up. “Don’t you agree?”
Pomegranate, wine, oysters. Pomegranate. Wine. Oysters.
Thrawn’s fingertips glide down your throat, tracing the dip of your sternum down down beneath your naval, leaving a devastating trail of arousal in the wake of his feather-light touch.
Pomegranate. Red Wine. Oysters.
Aphrodisiacs.
“Ah—“ you gasp the moment the word comes to mind, Thrawn’s fingertip brushing the curve of your sex and finding against your swollen, throbbing clit through the layers of fabric. Your eyes roll back, knuckles bleaching as he steadily and oh so easily works his hand beneath your skirts. Each motion is fluid, as easy as breathing.
“Apologies, your highness,” Thrawn spoke, his timbre even and mind-bendingly steady in comparison to your broken breaths of ecstasy. His fingers work through your folds, spreading your pussy lips and collecting your slick across his cerulean fingerprints. “I didn’t quite catch your reply.”
There’s a vague cruelty to his tone, enjoying your suffering. His eyes are glued to your expression, watching it crumple with desperation as he removes his touch from your sex raising his slick-drenched fingers to his lips and relishing in the taste when he presses the digits to his tongue.
Your chest heaves, utterly undignified with your thighs still spread in the hopes he’ll touch you again, trembling with need. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s eyes slip closed with a quiet hum of appreciation, removing his fingers from his tongue.
“Exquisite,” he husks, eyes dropping to you once more.
“Please—“ you beg him, far beyond the political ramifications and the threat of being labelled a co-conspirator.
“A princess should not beg,” he scolds you with an even tone, his hand easily working itself between your thighs once again, immediately finding your swollen clit and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s tortuous, your body practically folding in on itself at the devastating arousal that causes slick to leak down your thighs. “She should command her subject. Demand their service.”
You cannot even muster a plea of mercy, rocking your hips forward to grind your clit against his knuckles. He appears to savour the way pleasure contorts your expression, your brows knitting together and jaw falling slack as you chase the high that had so suddenly threatened to burst through you like a blaster charge.
“It would appear that we are destined to have a successful working relationship, your highness,” Thrawn muses, the flat expression on his face doing little to hide the gleeful glint in his eye at just how easy it was to reduce you to a trembling wreck. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
You have no time to answer, no chance to even suck air into your lungs before your vision goes white. Pure hot plasma bursts through your abdomen, running hot and thick like the magma on Mustafar. Sobbed wails of Thrawn’s name, sans his title pour from your lips as you grasp desperately at his wrist, drawing crimson blood from his cobalt wrist when you dig your nails in.
Over the roar of the blood in your ears, rapid heart pounding in your ears as Thrawn continuous to torture your clit through the orgasm that threatens to obliterate you, you hear a twinge in the Grand admiral’s voice. Smug.
“So it would seem.”
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star wars/kinktober taglist:
@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog1 @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @saradika @mylifeisactuallyamess
@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh
#꒰꒰ ‧₊˚ my works ˚₊· ꒱꒱#꒰ ‧₊˚ thrawn ˚₊· ꒱#grand admiral thrawn#thrawn#mitth'raw'nuruodo#grand admiral thrawn x reader#grand admiral thrawn x you#grand admiral thrawn x y/n#thrawn x reader#thrawn x you#thrawn x y/n#thrawn imagines#thrawn smut#star wars smut#star wars fanfiction#ahsoka series#ashoka show#thrawn headcanon#thrawn trilogy#thrawn alliances#thrawn fanfiction#thrawn fic#star wars fic#star wars fanfic#lars mikkelsen#lars mikkelsen x reader#lars mikkelsen smut#ashoka
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post-aa2 brainrot, etc // on ao3
The lines of the closure paperwork have liquefied to dance merry chaos across the page; Miles can only attribute the next moment to such, should he be pressed upon it in any court of law. "I stand by my words, you know."
Wright has been sitting motionlessly silent on his office couch for what feels like an eternity of hours now, not that Miles can blame him. It's a minor miracle that the man can still scrape together enough cognitive resources to squint in his vague direction with a furrowed brow.
"Saving lives," Miles says in answer to the unvoiced question. "An admirable goal, but hardly a tenable one. You should have taken up firefighting instead if you desired heroics."
The thought of Wright shouting objections at a house fire from atop a firetruck comes as sudden as it is hilarious to his exhaustion-addled mind. Miles blinks away the mental image and turns back to tackling the next section – fortunately or otherwise, a year away has not erased enough memory to hinder him from completing it on autopilot, if only the words would just hold still for more than three darned seconds.
Wright's response comes then, belated and uncharacteristic: a halting half-mumble. "It's not arrogance, or anything. I don't think."
Taking the accidental bait left out on the latter half of that would be too easy, true as it would be. Wright is hardly an intellectual slouch, much as his usual behaviour leaves Miles occasionally loath to admit it, but his true brilliance lies in reacting; it is how he has gotten as far as he has against opponents far worse.
(And worse then only in magnitude, not the precise devastation of the recent days. Miles has been conscientiously avoiding unbidden thoughts of the likenesses between his office and Lana Skye's, both left like untouched scenes in absence of their former occupants, but that has hardly been necessary over the witnessing of Wright falling apart in slow motion. If – when he gets his hands on de Killer, it will assuredly not be a pretty sight.)
The temptation to rub at his eyes is increasingly strong, tempered only by certainty at the uselessness of it. "Semantics. The reasoning hardly matters, only the outcome."
Though it is doubtlessly true, that he cannot imagine an accusation of hubris against Wright, of all people. Sheer belief, on the other hand, or bloody-minded stubbornness… perhaps therein lies the reason why Miles had to walk away from court to find an answer that Wright could only have found within it.
And lucky for them all, that he had. Miles has not fully shaken off the chill of hearing his own letter thrown back at him during that very last recess earlier, nor the cold surety that it would be far more permanent a departure than his had proven to be.
Wright huffs in something approaching amusement. "Objection."
The prosection briefly considers balling up the paperwork and tossing it at the defence. Miles settles for the light duvet still neatly folded in the last drawer of his desk; slightly musty from disuse, yes, but serving well enough the purpose of covering up that singular annoyance of a face.
"Overruled," he intones over the satisfyingly indignant yelp. "And you have already saved someone, should you insist on such lofty goals."
Phoenix emerges with his hair resembling a hamster habitat even more than usual. "Whazzat?"
"Nothing," Miles says, flatly, instead of me, you fool. "Get some rest, I'll wake you when I'm done for the day."
("Hypocrite," Phoenix yawns in response, but any smugness is rendered moot by the way he goes out like a light promptly after.)
#ace attorney#aa2#aa fic#miles edgeworth#phoenix wright#wrightworth#narumitsu#fanfiction#mine#long post#this is the longest thing i've written all year don't @ me
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An Imagined Life
Title: An Imagined Life
Pairing: Author!Dean x Interior Decorator!Reader
Word Count: 4.3k
Warnings: Fluff
Summary: Y/N and Dean have been best friends since childhood, and though they’re both adults with busy lives, they still manage to keep up their weekly traditions.
A/N: Wow! It's been SO long since I posted on here. Hey everyone! This kinda came out of nowhere, but nonetheless, it was fun to write. Thank you to everyone who supports me here, on Patreon, and on ao3. Thank you for reading, and enjoy! Dividers are by @firefly-graphics
There’s no response when you knock on Dean’s front door, and you smile to yourself as you crouch down to pull the spare key out from behind the loose siding at the base of the house. He’s never quite gotten around to finding a new place to put it, even after his dad found the hiding spot and trashed the place while the two of you were out of town, but it really doesn’t matter anyway. Very few people actually know who Dean is. You’re fairly certain most of his neighbors think that he’s a hermit, rather than a bestselling author.
Once you’ve wrangled the door open, you set the key on his entryway table and shift the plate of hot pancakes so you can carry it with both hands.
“Dean!” you call, peering up the stairs. There are no lights on in the hallway. His living room’s a mess, and you have to step over several piles of books as you cross through to get to the kitchen. “Dean, I brought pancakes!”
He still doesn’t answer and you sigh, shedding your jacket and tossing it on the island before heading back through the living room and up the stairs to his room. He’s probably still in bed. There’s no doubt that he’d been up late writing again, considering the various pages spread across the couch cushions. His laptop sits nearby, too.
The couch is his second favorite place to write—with the back porch being his first—despite the fact that in the beginning, he’d been adamant against your choice in seating. The two of you had argued about it for over an hour. He hadn’t liked the legs. You’d insisted that he’d needed it, and in the end, he’d relented. After all, he’d hired you to decorate his new house, and he trusted you to do a good job. Even though you’d played pranks on him ever since you were little, you wouldn’t dream of screwing up a client’s house, even if it was Dean.
You and Dean have been best friends since kindergarten. During your very first week of school, he’d stood up for you when another kid had tried to take your beloved coloring book during a rainy day recess. The two of you have been like velcro ever since. You’d gone to all the same schools, even for college, and you’d both moved across the country to pursue your dreams after graduation. He’d moved into a modest fixer upper on the outskirts of the city and you’d moved into an apartment nearby the studio where you’d started your career, but the commute hasn’t stopped either of you from continuing your tradition of Sunday morning breakfasts, or in this case, Sunday afternoon breakfasts.
Knocking on his bedroom door, you carefully push it open and poke your head into the room. Sure enough, Dean is sprawled out across his bed, the blankets covering one bare leg and his upper half. The only thing visible at the top of the comforter is a tuft of brown hair. Smiling to yourself, you open the door the rest of the way and cross the room to open the curtains. You slide the plate of pancakes onto the only clear spot on his dresser as you pass.
“Rise and shine!” you cheer, and Dean answers you with a singular, sleepy grunt. Chuckling, you leap onto his bed, making him bounce on the mattress. He groans again and pulls the covers closer around him from the inside.
“Come on, Dean! I brought pancakes this week!”
Silence answers you, and just as you’re opening your mouth to try and coerce him for the third time, Dean grumbles,
“Remind me to hide the spare key.”
You grin and yank his pillow out from under his head, then lean down so you can speak directly into his ear. “You and I both know you’ll never do that.”
He groans again, and you briefly wonder how he ever managed to start a career when his vocabulary is so limited in the morning. When you tell him as much, Dean reaches his hands out from under the blankets, pulls his pillow from your grasp, and flips the blankets off his head before shoving the pillow back under him where it belongs. He turns onto his back and rests his head back on the pillow as he squints up at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting to the midday sun streaming in through the tall bedroom windows.
“Did you really have to open the curtains?” he asks as he rubs his eyes with the back of one hand. His voice is thick from sleep, making it gravelly and just a little deeper than normal. It makes you smile. You love Dean in the morning, even if he is a grump.
“Probably not,” you reply. Flopping down beside him, you stare up at the ceiling fan in silence, letting him wake up the rest of the way on his own. You’ve done your job spectacularly.
Finally, Dean sighs heavily and sits up, letting the blankets slide halfway onto the floor as he shifts his legs over the side of the bed. You turn onto your side and prop your head up with one elbow, watching him. He’d gone to bed in just his black boxers again, leaving his back exposed to you. The sunlight turns his skin golden.
He’s been out in the sun, you think. His freckles stand out more than usual, and as he stretches, your mind wanders. The two of you have never dated, which is strange. You enjoy spending time with him, and it’s not like you think he was ugly. In reality, Dean is one of the most attractive people you know. He could convince you to do anything if he smiled while he asked. If he asked you to date him, you’d say yes. Hell, if he asked you to marry him, you’d say yes.
“You just gonna stare at me or are we gonna eat?” Dean asks, and you grin, pushing away your thoughts as you quickly try to make up for your long silence.
“Eating sounds good, but I can’t say I’m opposed to staring at your back for the rest of the day. It’s a nice back,” you tease.
“Shut up.” Dean turns and grabs his pillow, tossing it at your head.
You laugh and move your hand from where it’s supporting your head, effectively blocking the hit. Dean smiles down at you, despite his initial grumpiness after being jarred awake, and you grin even wider when his expression softens.
"You have a good week?" he asks, and you nod.
"You? Looks like you got a lot of writing done."
Dean nods slightly and stands, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. You force yourself to look away.
Why am I suddenly thinking about dating Dean?
Silently, you scold yourself and sit up on the other side of the mattress. Your back is to him, which gives you a moment to compose yourself. It’s too early for crazy thoughts about going out with your best friend. That’s more of a 3:00 AM thought.
You don’t want to mess with a good thing, you remind yourself. It’s the reason you avidly avoid the topic of dating when anyone brings it up, especially at holidays. For the longest time, your mom and Mary Winchester have been conspiring to get the two of you together. Back when you were younger, you fielded their questions with ease by telling them that you only thought of Dean as a friend and that you were more focused on your career, but you can practically picture their expressions if they ever heard your private thoughts about Dean’s back. These thoughts will have to be something you take to your grave.
You clear your throat and get up, grabbing the plate and rounding the end of the bed. “Ready?” you ask.
Dean grabs a t-shirt from the laundry basket on top of his dresser, then pulls it over his head. He glances at himself in the mirror before running a hand through his hair and heading out into the hallway. You follow him down the stairs and to the kitchen, plate in hand.
He starts pulling down plates, cups, and silverware for the two of you while you stick the plate in the microwave.
“There’s syrup in the fridge,” he tells you, pointing just behind you. “Can you get the creamer, too?”
You hum in acknowledgement and turn around to do just that, and he starts the coffee maker. Dean knows exactly how you like your coffee. The thought that he does makes you smile as you hunt through the contents of his fridge.
“So what’s the plan for today?” he asks.
Glancing over your shoulder, you grab the syrup from the door before closing it and taking a few steps to the island so you can dump the bottle of creamer there, too. You settle on one of the bar stools and watch him from the side as he makes your coffee. Last year, you’d convinced him to buy a fancier coffee maker, and though he’d been reluctant to change and get rid of the faithful machine that had helped him through his first bestseller, Dean eventually agreed that the newer model was better. Plus, it meant that he could make you some truly great breakfast drinks, not just plain coffee with creamer like he normally has.
“Besides pancakes? I have to run to IKEA and look at some decor options for a client. Do you want to come with?”
His nose crinkles enough that you can see it from your seat. “Shopping?”
You lean forward over the island, propping your chin on your hand as you give him the biggest puppy eyes you can muster. “Please, Dean?” you whine. “Please spend time with your oldest, prettiest, and most talented friend so I don’t perish of loneliness before I can settle down like a good, upstanding citizen. I need someone with me to ward off all the suitors that might harass me while I do my weekly throw pillow shopping.”
Dean snorts. “You’re insane.”
“Am I?” You drop your hand down and push yourself up on the counter, just enough that your reach is long enough to reach the cup of coffee he’s brought over for you. You pull it closer and lift it to your nose so you can breathe in the rich aroma, then take a sip. As predicted, it’s perfect. With a sigh, you plop back onto the stool.
“Yes, you are,” he laughs.
The microwave beeps and Dean abandons his mug to get the pancakes, and you busy yourself by arranging your plate and silverware in front of you. You don’t have to ask Dean to heap your portion onto your plate. He does it automatically, piling pancakes in front of you until you give him a satisfied nod. As he plates his own food, you start dishing up your toppings.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get out of the house a little today,” Dean says after the two of you have had a chance to tuck into your food.
You look up at him, eyebrows raised in surprise and a loaded fork held halfway to your mouth. “Really? You actually want to go shopping with me?”
He shrugs and takes another bite.
“Okay, then I’m going to finish these pancakes so we can get going before you change your mind,” you tell him, and you start to shovel your food into your mouth more earnestly. He smiles a little before doing the same.
After you and Dean clean up from your late breakfast, you pile into the Impala. He has to stop for gas, so you spend that time searching through your inspiration photos and the screenshots of items you’d looked at on the website. It’s nice to not have to drive, and it gives you a better chance to focus your thoughts on what the most important items will be. As much as he loathes shopping, Dean likes to wander, which means you can’t get distracted from what you really need for the houses, rather than what you’ve walked past four times.
“All good?” you ask, glancing up from your phone when he climbs back into the driver’s seat. Dean hums in agreement and turns the key in the ignition again, then cranks the music as he pulls out of the gas station. You laugh a little when he punches the accelerator once you’re on an open stretch of highway, and you lock your phone, leaning back in your seat.
It’s a nice enough day that you can have the windows down. The wind in your face reminds you of the long road trips you’d taken together in college, and the drive you’d made to move from college to your current home. Those are some of your happiest adult memories with Dean. Some of the moments you replay over and over again in your head each night are from those trips.
“So what exactly are we getting here?” Dean asks as he turns into the massive store lot. “Throw pillows? Vases with fake grass? Giant, framed, sepia-toned pictures of cows?”
You roll your eyes at the design cliches he always teases you about. “A couch and a coffee table,” you shoot back. “Although, you seem to know a lot about those cow pictures. Have you been researching one for your own house?”
He sends you a scathing look, but it’s quickly replaced by a small smile when you laugh at his reaction.
Climbing out of the car, you pull out your phone again. “I haven’t picked out a coffee table, but the couch…” You scroll through the pictures until you find the one you want, then hold it out for him to see. “Here, this is what I’m looking for. I just hope they have it here—they don’t ship this one and I don’t want to drive four hours to the next IKEA.”
Dean glances over at the Impala, and his smile is gone. “That’s not going to fit, Y/N. If I’d known you were getting furniture—”
“I’m just reserving it.” You shake your head. “I’ll have one of the interns pick it up tomorrow morning.”
He nods back and his shoulders relax slightly as you head into the store. Thankfully, it’s less crowded than you’d anticipated, which lets you keep a lazy pace as you walk. You’re not quite wandering, but you’re not worried about people trying to get past whenever you and Dean stop to look at one of the room displays.
“This one’s nice,” Dean says. He nods at a metal coffee table in one of the fake living rooms.
You crinkle your nose, feeling a little bad that you can’t agree. “It’s okay. Not quite what I’m looking for, though. It’s not really the vibe of the family.”
“Yeah?” He glances over at you as you hum and pick a pillow to inspect the design closer. “What’s the vibe?”
You set the pillow back in the giant metal basket and think about it for a second. “They’re more natural, like a… spa commercial. Lots of light natural woods, white linens, birdsong in the background, that kinda thing.” You gesture vaguely with one hand.
“Ah, so the daughter’s name is Serenity and the mother does weekly yoga with the other women from the neighborhood,” Dean replies.
“Exactly.”
“Dad’s probably a workaholic, and he goes along with whatever the mom wants because he knows it’ll keep her off his back. He doesn’t mind all the organic stuff, but he’s not above getting McDonald’s for lunch. He pays with cash, though, because his wife keeps careful track of their money,” Dean continues.
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re really fleshing this one out, aren’t you?”
He shrugs with a little satisfied smile, then pushes the cart forward to the next display room.
“Okay, so what about this one?” you ask. You wave your hand toward the half-dining room, half-living room display that’s been set up. It’s clearly meant to mimic a small apartment, because almost everything doubles as storage. The decor reminds you of your own apartment when you’d first moved out of college. You’d been broke after the cross-country move, and most of your things had been leftover from your dorm. You didn’t get “real” furniture until almost two years later. Dean had offered to help pay for the basics, but you’d turned him down. He’d already had his hands full with fixer-upper he’d bought with the advance from his first book.
Dean considers the faux apartment, letting his eyes sweep over each item with care before he finally answers, “They just moved cross-country. He’s planning on proposing to her, but he doesn’t have a ring yet because they spent all their money on the new apartment. It’s barely big enough for them, let alone the stuff they have from college and from their parents’ basements, but she loves it anyway. She likes to decorate with things she finds at thrift stores and the flea market, and he’s secretly been saving every penny he can to buy her the ring he thinks she deserves. If everything goes his way, he’s hoping to ask her next summer, and he’s going to string up the living room with lights because she always mentions how much she misses the fields of fireflies from where they grew up together.”
You smile to yourself, imagining the couple as Dean weaves his story around you. The aisles in this area of the store are empty, and his voice draws you into the picture he’s creating on a whim. It’s warm and homey, and it reminds you a little of your own life, just enough that you can imagine it clearly.
“I like that,” you finally say, after several moments have gone by. “What about that one?” You point a little farther down the aisle.
“The kitchen?” Dean asks. You nod in response. “Well, our couple’s gotten older, but he still hasn’t proposed. They still live together, and they’ve got a better place now that they both have better jobs, but every time he sees a ring or thinks it’s the right time to pop the question, he starts second-guessing himself. So, since they have a backyard now, he gets her a dog, instead.”
“What kind of dog?”
He looks over at you. “What kind of dog do you want it to be?”
You nudge him with your elbow, smiling. “Come on, Dean. You know me. I’m always gonna answer that they need a golden retriever. Every cheesy romance novel and movie has a golden retriever.”
He laughs a little and looks back at the empty kitchen. “A golden retriever it is, then. He’s a rescue, so he’s already three, but she spends every extra minute she has training him. She’s worked hard to make their house a home, you know, so she has to make sure to keep his muddy paws off the couch.”
“Of course,” you agree.
Dean pushes the cart forward again, and the two of you walk a little further, passing by countless closets, more living rooms, a plant display, and another kitchen. Finally, you reach a children’s bedroom, and you pause just for a moment. It’s long enough that Dean notices, however, so he stops and looks over at you.
“Did you find something you like?” he asks. “I didn’t see that couch you wanted earlier when we passed through the sofa section.”
Something about the first story Dean had come up with today stuck with you, and as you peer at the display, you can’t help but picture yourself crouching down beside the ladybug-themed bed. You imagine yourself brushing hair back off a child’s forehead, and you chuckle at the idea of a golden retriever who would hop up by the kid’s feet though it’s too big for the bed.
“What about this?” you ask, quietly, almost so quiet that the music covers it up.
Dean’s silence for a second. “We have a kid now, and he’s everything we’ve ever dreamed.”
You don’t fail to notice that Dean’s changed his story—it’s no longer “them” and “the couple”. It’s we. He keeps his eyes focused on the bed as he talks, but you look over at him. His eyes are a little glossy, and his expression is far away as he continues,
“We still live in the same house, and I’ve got a ring stashed away in a box of rough edits. You haven’t found it yet, but every time I go out, I’m worried that you’ll try to tidy up my office and find it.”
You swallow thickly and stare at him, wide-eyed. Careful not to disturb him too much, you move your hand a little. Your fingers bump against his, and Dean lets you maneuver his hand so it’s wrapped around yours, but he still doesn’t look away from the display bedroom. People are walking past you. Their voices and the music playing overhead feel far away, like they’re in a totally different universe. You’re so focused on Dean that you can’t see, feel, or hear anything outside of your little bubble.
“You’ve totally taken over everything,” Dean continues, chuckling. His lips turn up in a smile. He speaks without hesitation, and with enough passion in every word that you know he means everything he says. This isn’t just pretending anymore.
“The house is amazing, and you’ve gotten into gardening. Everything you touch seems to thrive, including me. I’ve got two more books on the bestsellers list, and it’s enough money that I don’t have to worry about how we’re going to make it. I know that we’ll be okay, no matter what happens. Your business is doing great, too. You stepped back since Robert was born, but you’ve got a partner and enough employees and interns that you can relax.
“You’re up here, right now,” he says. He lifts your joined hands to point towards the bed. “Tucking Robert in.”
“I am?” you prompt.
He nods. “When you’re back downstairs, I’m going to propose.”
“How are you going to ask me?” you murmur, almost afraid to ask.
Dean looks away from the display. His eyes meet yours, and you inhale sharply when he reaches behind himself to push the cart further away. He sinks to one knee and takes your other hand as you gape down at him.
“Dean…”
“I have loved you since the moment I saw you, Y/N,” he says.
You can sense people watching you, and to your left you can see someone holding up their phone to take a picture or to record you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him. Tears are welling up, making your vision blurry, and you blink them away. They roll down your cheeks. In any other circumstance, you’d be embarrassed to cry in public, but it’s Dean. He chases all your fears away, and his hands in yours pull you into a moment you never thought you’d see.
“I have thought about proposing to you since we moved here,” Dean continues. “I think about it every day. Every morning, I wake up, Y/N, and I wonder why I haven’t asked you yet. Sometimes it feels like if I go another minute without being engaged to you, I’ll die. I don’t even have a ring; I haven’t been able to find the perfect one, but I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of our lives together. I want to reach our goals and make new dreams together. I know this is sudden, and it’s a lot, and you can say no—I know that you weren’t expecting this—but I can’t let another day go by without asking.”
You’re at a loss for words. He’s right— you weren’t expecting this. You and Dean aren’t even dating, but the idea of spending your life with him doesn’t feel wrong or far-fetched. It feels perfect. You may be blindsided, but you’re not afraid of admitting when something is right.
Dean rubs his thumb over the side of your hand, and it draws you back down to him. “So what do you say, sweetheart? Will you marry me?”
After a second, you find yourself nodding. You throw yourself down into Dean’s arms. “Yes,” you say into his ear. You sniffle and press your face into his shoulder, and though your voice is muffled by his shirt, you know he’ll understand. “Yes, Dean. I love you so much.”
There’s scattered applause from all around you. Slowly, you sniffle and pull away, wiping your eyes with a smile and a laugh. Dean helps you stand again, and you brush the dust off your knees as shoppers crowd in to congratulate you. You nod along and thank them, a little embarrassed at all the attention, but soon you’re following Dean out of the store. An employee stops you at the door to give you a gift card from management, which you pocket in a daze.
Neither one of you has bought anything, and you’ve totally forgotten to reserve the couch and coffee table you’d come for, but Dean leads you out to the Impala anyway. Then, once you’re away from prying eyes and the warmth of the sun is on your skin, he kisses you. His hands find your hips as he presses you back against the passenger side door, and you wrap your arms around his neck. Dean’s kiss is sweet and slow, and you know that it’s going to be something you remember for the rest of your life.
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