#not if people insist there's a singular answer.

[harpy-of-the-storm]

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.

[dadsbongos]

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

[drdemonprince]

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!

[deansapplepie]

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

[fyuyushia]

Meddlesome self proclaimed wing man!

: ̗̀➛Ft. Karma, Maehara, Isogai

: ̗̀➛Teenage—a time for romance! Korosensei's more than eager to support the sparks of love amongst his students. Or in which, the different ways Korosensei ensures that his students fully explore the realm of romance.

: ̗̀➛rewatched assasination classroom and I just had to write a bit for them. Hahahahhah

Karma Akabane (Island arc)

The moment Korosensei smells the whiff of romance in the air, he's quick to chase after it, eager to meddle in the business and tend to it to ensure it blooms properlv.

Smelling the scent of a budding romance between you and Karma, he quickly devises a plan that ensures you'll both be ensnared with each other by the end of the day.

The only problem is the current stage of relationship Karma and you were in-mutual hatred born out of your clashing personalities. This singular problem had made any hope of romance almost impossible to occur.

Korosensei thinks it's a shame, especially when you synchronize too well with Karma in both combat and shrewdness. The chemistry was there, the foundation laid out, and the only thing stopping love from blooming was that stubborn mindset that refused to listen to what vour heart said.

Though at first glance, it would seem that hatred existed between the two students of his. In closer inspection, tell tale signs of hidden admiration could be spotted, an unspoken need to be by each other's side despite the public display of dissonance vou pretended to have with him.

He's so obvious in the way that if he was placed in a room full of people he knew, you'd always be the one he'd greet first. Obvious in the way that whenever a crisis happens he'd always first look for you. Obvious in the way that he's always the first to notice whenever you act strange-and especially obvious in the stolen glances he takes whenever he thinks no one is looking, betraying his true feelings that he himself was not sure of.

Korosensei found Karma troublesome. The gold eyed student insisted on disliking the other's attitude, stating repeatedly how they don't mix at all -all the while ignoring the several instances that proved he did see you as someone more than just someone to hate. What a problem geniuses were.

Sitting beside your bed ridden figure, his hands trembled involuntarily. His eyes dart from you to his surroundings, it had been the first time since his classmates were faced with such danger.

For once, Karma Akabane had been scared witless by something. It was odd; while he did occasionally feel wary or cautious, scared was not a word in his vocabulary-at least it wasn't until now. Though he'd rather die than admit it, he was forced to admit that you were more than just someone he enjoyed pissing off. More than just the classmate he claimed you were to him. You were a step close to death-the fact had struck fear in Karma's heart and had forced him to acknowledge the part of him that tried so hard to push his blossoming feelings aside.

Even if he knew he should be relaxed and knew firsthand that the threat had already been erased and the poison laced in your drinks were nothing serious, still, he can't keep his heart calm knowing you're still suffering from the poison. As long as you remained this way, there was still a chance for something bad to happen, and Karma feared that. Even if it was illogical, even if it was unlikely, he couldn't help but be irrational at the moment.

"How do you feel, you feeling alright?" Karma asks, despite knowing that your unconscious figure wouldn't be able to answer.

"Hey, don't tell me you're dying from just this. Oi." He nudged your face with a finger, poking your cheek in an attempt to calm down his thrumming heart.

A part of him hoped for a reply, a snarky retort, a threat-anything. He wanted you to say something to calm down his heart that just refused to listen no matter how logically sound his assurances were.

Fortunately for him, you had answered his calls and erased every doubt that echoed inside his head.

You grumble, opening your eyes to meet his with a glare. "Ha? As if I'd die from something like this." You click your tongue at the unwelcome sight, just the worst thing to see when you're ill.

Karma flinches, snapped out of his quickly worsening thoughts. He's quick to shift his focus on you, his eyes lingering on your face that glowered at him despite your now frail disposition. He blinks once, twice, befuddled by your sudden retort.

A laugh leaves Karma's lips, you always did find a way to surprise him. "What the-so you were still conscious this whole time?"

"I couldn't sleep when there was a certain someone eager to bug this sick patient."

Karma only grinned in response, now seeming a lot more relaxed now that he's heard your voice for the first time in a while but it wasn't long until he stiffened up once more.

"...You better get healed fast, [name]." He says, his tone sounding softer than the usual.

The sudden change had caught you by surprise, you almost got a whiplash from how surprisingly fragile he seemed. Not only that, he also surprised you with the look on his face that seemed almost begging. With his jaw clenched and his brows knitted, he looked the worst you've seen him yet.

You were speechless, confused to say the least due to the turn of events. You've always believed you hated Karma and so he did in turn as well-but when faced in such a situation where worry was shown without any mask to hide it, you freeze up. And just for this moment only, your glare softened into a gentle stare.

"I will, don't worry so much."

You smiled softly-the first of its kind you've ever made in front of him.

"But only if you stop bugging me, that is."

Hiroto Maehara (Itona building a tank arc)

With Maehara, Korosensei finds himself struggling a lot more than he thought he would with building up the romantic sparks between vou and Maehara.

Though Korosensei was indeed meddlesome, he was times the more meddlesome between yoh two. Truth be told, the teacher didn't expect it either, but the one step forward and two steps back advancement you had going on had run his patience thin and caused him to take matters into his own hands.

Despite Maehara's good looks and Korosensei's creative date plans, he could never seem to catch you-a slippery one, the person Maehara's in love with is. I wonder if things will really progress at this rate? Was what the tentacled monster always wondered.

While Korosensei's advice and flawless setups did work like a charm in charming you at times, Maehara always found a way to reduce his hard earned affection points with his more perverse side. And while it infuriated Korosensei, he also didn't have the right to get mad when he himself had the same perverse side so he could only hope for the best to happen.

It's a struggle. Sometimes Maehara's on your good side and sometimes he's not, it's unsure how things will end up but so long as Maehara continues to have feelings for you, Korosensei's more than happy to be the wingman in this awkward situationship.

It was the worst case scenario.

When the tank that was planned to be used on, well, something was discovered by its supposed targets before the mini tank could come to fruition and bear the desired results, they were officially busted. Their dreams and hopes of peeking through the girls undergarments was now far out their reach.

Maehara dies a little on the inside when he sees you among the group of girls who had caught them in the act. Oh, he was definitely screwed.

Your soft eyes that gradually sharpened into a glare had stabbed Maehara directly in the heart. With your brows knitted together and your lips curving to a disappointed frown, you looked as though you were staring at someone lower than dirt.

"[N-name]?" He called weakly, color swiftly draining from his skin.

In response to his call, you only took a step back and tugged your skirt lower, hugging your body as you seemed to have completely lost every bit of fondness you had for him before.

"Please don't come anywhere near me, I feel unsafe."

Your words were the final nail in the coffin. Following your display of disgust, was him collapsing to the floor. He stretches his hand out towards you, hoping to reach you only to fail as you walked away from the classroom just as quickly as you entered.

"W-wait [name]... I can explain!"

...and there goes his desperate attempts to get close to you. He clenches his heart, K.O.'d already by just one sentence. He's completely lost all color, turning pale white from the sheer horror of now being ranked lower than a roach in your view.

His classmates had looked down at him with a mix of pity and amusement. Pity because they knew full well how deep in love Maehara was with you and amusement for the situation he got himself in.

"Serves you right," Takaoka remarks with a snort. "That's what you get for being a disgusting perv." She huffs, shaking his head before heading to her seat to allow him time to recover from the brutal cut off.

"I was just..." He grits his teeth, punching the floor with frustration. He wouldn't deny that it was mostly his fault for indulging in such things, but facing the consequences of his actions had proved to be harder than he thought.

Nakamura snickers, barely holding it in as she feigns to be unbothered by Maehara's current predicament.

"Hmph, maybe next time you'll think before doing something like this again." She jeers. "Ahah, you're definitely screwed. [Name] doesn't take perverts well. Say bye bye to your previous privileges, you'll most likely never get to experience it again after all. Good luck trying to woo her this time, Maehara."

She waves him farewell, following Takaoka to her seat to continue the conversation they left off earlier. Though, of course, not before poking fun at him a few more times in the typical Nakamura fashion.

Maehara sighs, dreading the thought. How would he bring himself in your good graces this time? He could only hope Korosensei would be able to help him this time around.

Yuuma Isogai (Valentines arc)

Now with Isogai, setting you up with him was easy. You got along well and he was a perfect gentleman, it didn't take much for you to start falling the same way Isogai had.

The problem with Isogai and you however, was the lack of moves made. Though it's clear that the both of you liked each other, neither had the time to think of romance as they placed their focus in academics and family.

Korosensei admires his maturity, he understands the reasoning and he appreciates the way both of you had your priorities straight. But still, Korosensei thinks it's a waste of youth to only focus on studies and work. Being a teen is rare, and if one spent all of it focusing on the future and taking care of others, then time would pass by and before even realizing it, you've run out of time to enjoy the things you should've had during such delicate years. Korosensei's well aware that teenage years in particular were important in a person's growth, oftentimes, what you did during middle school would paint who you'd be in the near future and so, Korosensei wanted to ensure that he spent this year's indulging in things normal teens often got caught up in.

Korosensei treads carefully when it comes to lighting the sparks of romance between you and Isogai. If he came off too strong, then it'd only push you away from the other, but if he came off too weak then nothing was bound to happen. He treads a delicate balance of both, ensuring that Isogai grows more in touch with his romantic feelings while also not pressuring him to confess right away. He wanted his students to take their time. Even if he longed for drama between the class, he didn't want it to happen against the will of his students

After school, being the last of the students to head home due to certain duties, Isogai and you walked down the stairs with Korosensei waving you farewell just a few steps away.

The silence blanketed the two students softly, a cozy atmosphere being set. No words were exchanged, only the sounds of your shoes hitting the rocky stairs.

The silence continued until Isogai noticed the lack of footsteps. He halts his steps, a curious look in his eyes when he turns and finds you standing still. Tilting his head, he turns around to approach you, confused about your sudden pause. His eyes darts to yours, and when he sees that you seemed to be staring at something else, he follows the direction of your gaze, his brows stitched together until he sees the landscape.

His eyes widened, his breath stolen by the sight.

"The view here is pretty." You comment, finally breaking the delicate silence that once blanketed the both of you.

He nods, finding himself appreciating the landscape with you. Has the mountain always looked this pretty? He hums, holding the sling of his bag tightly. Shifting his focus from the sky to you, he'd planned to convince you to head home already before it grew dark but without realizing it, he found himself stunned speechless.

Maybe it was the sun that seemed to have cast its graces upon you, maybe it was the awe struck look in your eyes, maybe it was the spirit of valentines, maybe it was his own eyes playing tricks on him, but at that moment, you looked truly beautiful. From the sun kissed skin to your parted lips, from your freely flowing hair to your eyes that sparkled with wonder, you were nothing but mesmerizing in that moment. At that moment, Isogai couldn't bring himself to break the silence, nor break the attraction that sparked as he watched your side profile from beside you.

'Ethereal' was the only word he could describe a beauty like you in this very second.

You're not sure when, but after you managed to move on from the breathtaking landscape, your eyes naturally darted towards him. Seeing his eyes that were already set on you, you flinched—but nevertheless, didn't look away.

Seconds passed, time ticked by and still you remained frozen from where you stood. Your heart raced, begging you to make a move—get swept up by the moment and do something irrational—it begged you. Following the currents of your heart, you swallowed your pride and forsaken rationality.

"Isogai, I—"

"nuhuhuhu, things are getting interesting"

You flinch, your eyes swiftly searching for the oddity that hid beneath layers of nature. Catching sight of a familiar yellow monster, your eyes sharpen into a glare—your prior commitment to confessing all but forgotten once you found out you weren't alone at that moment.

"Ah! Korosensei, you were spying on us?" You asked, pushing Isogai aside to approach the flustered teacher of yours.

"What?! How did you—" he pauses, his expression shifting to that of a panicked one. "Don't tell me, did I say it out loud?!"

"You sure did, you peeping tom."

Your glare was nothing short of welcoming, and just like second nature, you took out a knife specifically made for your teacher and began attacking him with successive slashes.

Isogai, befuddled by the swift course of events, stood still from where he stood, unsure whether he should stop you or leave you be.

A bead of sweat dropped, an exasperated smile tugging up his lips whilst he breaths out a sigh.

Calming down after a moment to himself, the smile drops on his face and only then did he feel how hard his heart was thumping. He looks down and with slow movements, held a hand to his chest, feeling it ramming against his ribcage.

Just earlier, you were definitely about to...

The thought of it alone caused his cheeks to redden, palms turning sweaty the more he thought about what could've happened had a certain nosy teacher kept himself well hidden.

'crap.'

He squeezes his chest, finally realizing the fluttering that always happened inside his stomach whenever you were around.

'I'm inlove, aren't I?'

[moonlightisdancing]

Here, Kitty, Kitty/ d.r.w

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.”

[what-even-is-thiss]

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.

[butwhatifidothis]

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

[daryltwdixon]

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!!!

[anam-mana]

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.

[deceptive-daydreams]

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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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiemunson95 @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel

[ilikekidsshows]

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???????

---

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.

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 ✦

– 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 ⇾

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. 

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.” 

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

[presumenothing]

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.)

[imagineteamfreewill]

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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[saintsenara]

Hiya! What do you think of the idea that Jily and Romione are meant to be parallels? I personally don't quite agree, but what's your take?

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

and the short answer is that i am definitely not convinced...

i presume that the idea that jily and romione are meant to be deliberate parallels hangs on a couple of things. the first of these are a series of superficial similarities, which i think we can dismiss fairly easily:

that each pairing is made up of a pureblood man and a muggleborn woman; that one person in each pairing is ginger; that both pairings fancied each other the moment they met, but didn't act on that attraction until their seventh years; and that both pairings seem to communicate primarily by bickering.

none of these hit for me - not least because, individually, none of james, ron, lily, or hermione are particularly alike.

[and i certainly think that it's tedious to suggest that two female characters must be broadly similar in terms of personality and serve parallel narrative roles simply because they're both muggleborn...]

the second piece of evidence for the two couples being intentional parallels is, however, slightly more persuasive. on paper, at least...

this is, of course, that idea that ron and hermione act like harry's "surrogate parents".

i do see why this is so widespread among the fandom [ron weasley, domestic god, my beloved], but it's a reading of the text which, i'll be honest, brings out the contrarian in me...

harry's character archetype is primarily the "everyman hero" - a hero who is perfectly, averagely normal in terms of talent, intellect, and appearance - who defeats a villain who is abnormal and exceptional. this is - obviously - one of the most common archetypes in the history of human storytelling, because it enables the people who read or hear those stories to see themselves in the protagonist, to root for them, to comfort themselves with the idea that evil people must be so unusual in terms of appearance or behaviour that they can be easily spotted, and to believe that ordinary people can triumph over evil.

but, nonetheless, harry is also required - like all heroes - to be special, and to be set apart from [and, indeed, above] all other characters in the series in terms of importance by virtue of this specialness.

[not least because the main hero-figure he resembles - especially in deathly hallows... is christ.]

in harry's case, his much-vaunted ability to love fulfils this requirement.

and we can see this narrative purpose affecting many of his relationships within the canon text - above all, in the way that he primarily views all the other characters with whom he interacts either as people he needs to keep safe from voldemort or people he needs to keep others safe from.

ginny is the primary victim of this tendency, especially at the end of half-blood prince, but ron and hermione experience it too - albeit in slightly more subtle ways...

for example, everything they ever know about harry's mission is at harry's own discretion - he notably doesn't trust them with several key aspects of it [above all, that he's a horcrux and that he's going to walk into the forest to die] within the canon narrative, and he generally holds the view that their interpretation of events is partial and wrong because they lack the special knowledge that he has as the series' singular hero [in particular, how he says several times in deathly hallows that neither of them understand voldemort as well as he does, and that's why they're so convinced that he'd have hidden a horcrux in the orphanage].

similarly, he insists throughout the series that following him - and following is the operative word - is dangerous to them. he never considers that being associated with them puts him in danger - because his narrative purpose is to be more important than they are in voldemort's hierarchy of interest.

[and, indeed, it's always really striking to me that deathly hallows heavily implies that voldemort doesn't have a clue who either of them are...]

ron and hermione certainly demonstrate many traits which can be associated with parent-child relationships - they are extremely loyal; they are [especially ron] extremely caring, including in domestic and pseudo-domestic ways. ron also provides harry with his greatest longing - the experience of a loving family - in a way which, superficially at least, mirrors james providing the same for sirius after he runs away from home.

but harry is - before the pre-epilogue end of deathly hallows - still set apart from the weasleys by virtue of his narrative specialness. we can see this throughout the series - in chamber of secrets, just after harry is astonished that everyone in the burrow likes him, his vastly different financial circumstances make him feel like there is a division between the weasleys and himself; in order of the phoenix, he initially aligns himself with the group who aren't family when visiting arthur in hospital, and is only brought into the family group at molly's insistence; he leaves ron's bedside in half-blood prince to make room for family visitors; he is adjacent to the family grief over both george's injury and fred's death in deathly hallows.

similarly, while james and sirius' relationship is set-up in canon as essentially fraternal, the same cannot be said of harry and ron. ron is narratively lesser than harry - he isn't as academically successful, or as good at quidditch, or as instantly recognisable, or as aspirational to get to know - and he is very aware of this, which is why his jealousy plays such a major role in the series.

[although it's worth saying, on a more positive note, that his and harry's relationship is genuinely close, mutually fulfilling, and nowhere near as codependent as james and sirius'...]

and so the apparently parental traits which ron and hermione display for harry actually reveal a power-dynamic which is very different from a pseudo-parent-child one - in which we would expect the parent-figures to consider their care for the child-figure to be their responsibility. instead, the dynamic is a [benevolent] master-servant [or, to return to the christ allegory, master-disciple] one - in which ron and hermione fill the role of harry's faithful retainers, who care for him, serve him, and follow him because it is their duty.

this doesn't mean that ron and hermione aren't more important to harry than other characters [ron - in particular - is harry's saint peter, the most important of the apostles, who doubts], but it does mean that they're subordinate to him within the narrative's hierarchy of power.

and this - obviously - is not the dynamic which existed between harry, james, and lily prior to his parents' deaths...