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yunaversalluv · 2 months ago

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⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

A café booth. A green room. A sunlit studio. A warehouse that echoes with more than sound. One girl looks through the lens. One girl looks away. Something delicate starts to take shape—tender, unspoken, impossible to name. It hums beneath each breath, coils between questions left half-asked. She said yes. That’s the only truth anyone’s ready to hold.

cw for this chapter// emotional vulnerability, slow-burn intimacy and mutual observation, subtle discussions of identity, trust, and artistic boundaries, minor references to burnout/exhaustion, strong undertones of queer longing and tension

note - this chapter was not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc

CHAPTER FIVE: SHOOT DAYS

The door of the café swung shut behind her, the bell letting out a low chime as Ellie blinked against the sudden brightness. The air smelled like cinnamon and bleach. Dina was already at a corner booth, two coffees sweating in mismatched ceramic mugs. One black. One drowned in oat milk and vanilla, crowned with foam like a small apology.

Ellie slid into the booth, her hoodie rumpled, eyes half-lidded from lack of sleep. Dina slid the sweeter drink across with a raised brow and a familiar smirk.

“You looked like shit last night,” Dina said, all teeth and affection.

Ellie snorted. “Thanks. You always know just what to say.”

“I try.” Dina sipped her own coffee, watching Ellie over the rim.

Ellie took a drink. It was perfect. She didn’t remember ever telling Dina how she liked it, but Dina always knew. That was the problem.

“You gonna be a nightmare today?”

Ellie groaned, head thunking back against the booth’s vinyl. It squeaked. “Probably.”

“Cool. I’ll tell Jesse to pack snacks and noise-canceling headphones.”

Ellie didn’t laugh. Her eyes were following a couple outside—dog leash tangled around their ankles, a chaos of movement that looked too familiar. “It’s not even the shoot, really,” she muttered. “It’s... all of it. Being seen like that.”

Dina’s expression softened, losing its edge. “You trust her, though. Right?”

Ellie didn’t answer at first. Her fingers curled around the cup. Warm. Grounding. She thought of the reader’s expression the night of the show—how the camera had lowered slow, reverent, like Ellie had offered up something private and she’d known better than to reach for it too fast.

She thought of the silence that followed. How it hadn’t felt like absence.

“I don’t know what I trust,” Ellie said finally. “But I didn’t say no.”

Dina smiled like she already knew. “That’s a start.”

The green room was chaos disguised as quiet — crushed water bottles littering the table, cords snaking across the floor like veins, a guitar case slouched in the corner. A half-eaten sandwich wilted on a paper plate beside a pile of lyric sheets, ink smudged and curling at the edges.

Ellie sat on the old vinyl couch, its seams cracked and peeling under her jeans. She tapped out a restless rhythm on her thigh, then shifted to pulling a loose string from her hoodie sleeve. Her foot bounced without rhythm. Her chest buzzed with static.

“You good?” Jesse asked, sliding in without warning. He leaned against the armrest, phone in hand but eyes sharp.

Ellie exhaled slowly. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She smirked, barely. Then the quiet settled in again.

Jesse didn’t push, but he didn’t leave either. He watched her the way people watch weather: not afraid of the storm, but keeping track of its direction.

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where her case sat unopened. She should’ve brought the guitar out, let her fingers do something besides twitch.

Instead, her thoughts looped — back to the soft hush of your voice asking if she was okay, to the way your fingers adjusted the lens like it was something precious, not mechanical. Back to how you hadn’t flinched from her. Not once.

Maybe she wanted to be seen. Just not misinterpreted.

Jesse shifted beside her. “You ever gonna tell me what’s really up?”

Ellie rubbed her jaw. “Not today.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But for the record… she’s good. Scary good. You know that, right?”

Ellie just nodded. Her mouth didn’t know what to say.

Your morning began like a ritual. Toothbrush clutched between your teeth as you paced the narrow hall of your apartment, socks slipping on the concrete floor. The space smelled faintly of darkroom chemicals and lavender. Half-painted canvases leaned in the corners. Polaroids were thumbtacked into a crooked grid above your desk.

You dressed slowly — black pants, a faded shirt, your softest flannel — clothes that wouldn’t reflect too much light. Practical. But when your hand hovered over the mirror, fixing your collar, it wasn’t for the camera. It was because you remembered Ellie’s half-smile last night, crooked and reluctant, like it hadn’t expected to exist.

You shook it off. Mostly.

The studio was spare, sunlit, and echoing. Dust motes drifted through beams of too-sharp light that bled through the blinds. You adjusted them again, not liking how clinical it looked. You wanted softness. Air. Space for honesty to breathe.

“You’re fussing again,” Jesse’s voice came from behind, amused. He leaned against a stool like he’d been waiting all morning to deliver that line.

“I’m preparing,” you said, checking your meter. “There’s a difference.”

He shrugged. “Sure. But you know she’s gonna hate this either way, right?”

You let the blinds fall back. “That’s not the point.”

Jesse tilted his head, watching you. “Then what is?”

You could’ve said: That the point was intimacy. That the point was catching something no one else was allowed to see. That Ellie Williams made your camera feel like a confession booth.

Instead, you said, “I don’t know yet. But it matters.”

Jesse’s voice softened. “Just don’t burn yourself up trying to save her from something she never asked to be saved from.”

When Ellie arrived, the air shifted.

You didn’t hear the door open as much as you felt it. Something in your chest stuttered. She stepped into the space like she was trespassing — gaze sweeping the setup, then landing on you.

Her hair was still damp from the shower. She looked exhausted. Beautiful. Guarded in a way that made your throat go tight.

Your hands twitched toward your camera instinctively—then dropped back.

“Hey,” you said, quiet.

She nodded once. “Hey.”

The first click of the shutter was tentative, like stepping into cold water. Ellie sat stiffly on the stool, back too straight, shoulders knotted with resistance. You circled slowly, respectfully. Gave her space. You adjusted your lens in small, deliberate movements, your breath the only sound besides the low hum of morning traffic outside.

The shots were quiet. Her hands tangled in her lap. The scuff of her boot heel. A single thread frayed at the cuff of her jeans. You didn’t ask her to pose. You didn’t ask her to perform.

“You okay?” you asked eventually, voice barely above the shutter.

Ellie looked up, then down again. “Don’t ask me that unless you want an essay.”

You smiled. “I might.”

That cracked something. A breath released she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

You didn’t shoot constantly. Sometimes you just looked. Waited. The air between you filled with something tender and weightless.

During a break, you handed her a bottle of water. She took it without looking, but her fingers brushed yours.

“You ever hate it?” Ellie asked. “Looking at people like this. Knowing they’ll never see themselves the way you do?”

You blinked. Surprised. “I think… that’s the point. That I get to hold that for them.”

She nodded slowly. “But who holds it for you?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

Later, she slid down to the floor, long legs stretched in front of her, back against the bare wall. You sat across from her, camera resting in your lap this time, unused. The light hit her face sideways, catching the green of her eyes and the faint bruise-colored shadows beneath them.

She looked at you then, steady.

“Thanks,” she said. “For not making this feel like a trap.”

You looked up. “It never was.”

The next shoot’s in a warehouse downtown — half-rusted scaffolding, exposed brick, light slanting in through frosted windows like something pulled from an old film.

Ellie shows up in her usual armor: a too-big flannel layered over a band tee, jeans that hang off her hips like they’re trying not to touch her, boots scuffed to hell. Her guitar case thuds against her leg with every step. Jesse’s already there, sitting on a flight case and sipping a gas station coffee.

He doesn’t greet her with words — just raises a brow, smirks.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You’re annoying,” she replies.

Still, she drops her case next to him, sits. The place smells like dust and dry wood. Everything feels too exposed. She’s regretting saying yes already — regretting that stupid, sharp pang in her gut when she saw the reader’s name on the commission email.

“She’s good,” Jesse says after a beat. “The photographer.”

“I know,” Ellie mutters.

He studies her for a second too long. “So what are you gonna be today? Rockstar Ellie or real Ellie?”

Ellie doesn’t answer. She plucks at a fray in her jeans until the silence feels full enough to push him off it. “What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means,” Jesse says. “And so does she.”

You set up in near-silence. The light’s perfect — golden, diffused, like someone laid a soft cloth over the sun. You move equipment with practiced hands, adjust angles, tape down cords.

But your stomach’s fluttering. Not nerves exactly — not professional ones, anyway.

It’s Ellie. The way she entered the space like she was trying not to take up room. The way her eyes flickered across the lens, then away. She’s quieter today. Less smirk, more stillness.

You angle your camera at her midsection — not her face, not yet. She's tuning her guitar, fingers gentle on the strings like she’s coaxing them awake. It’s such an unguarded moment. You don’t even click. You just watch.

There it is. That thing again.

You begin seeing past her performance.

She makes her stand in front of a brick wall speckled with paint chips and half-torn wheatpastes. Dina’s around too, talking with someone from the magazine team off to the side. There’s music playing — something soft and indie and a little too on-the-nose — and Ellie’s already sweating under the lights.

The lens is on her, and she wants to move. Wants to do something. Anything. But the reader doesn't say much.

“Just… be there,” she finally says. “Don’t pose. Let me find it.”

Ellie’s not sure if she’s ever been found before.

You’ve shot bands before. Hundreds. People love to perform. Love to be seen. But Ellie’s different. She wears discomfort like a second skin — fidgets when you linger too long, adjusts her stance in ways that aren’t meant to be flattering.

You crouch lower, refocus on her hands.

She exhales, eyes away from you.

Click.

The sound feels intimate. Too intimate.

You lower the camera. “You okay?”

She nods, but doesn’t meet your gaze. “Yeah. Just— It’s weird. Being watched like this.”

You don’t press. Instead, you say something true. “You’re easier to photograph when you forget I’m here.”

She laughs, quiet and surprised. “Yeah, well. That might take a minute.”

There’s a break. Jesse’s chatting with the assistant about lighting. Ellie’s perched on a crate near a dusty window. Sunlight pools around her like it missed her.

She pulls out her phone. Almost texts Joel. Doesn’t.

He wouldn’t get it — not this feeling. Not this pressure. The eyes. Joel always kept things off the grid. Old school. “If they want your story, they better buy your damn record,” he used to say.

But Ellie’s not just a voice anymore. She’s a product. A message. An icon with a photo spread and a brand deal and an inbox full of shit she doesn’t answer.

And right now, across the room, she’s also a girl being watched by someone who sees her more clearly than anyone ever has.

And it’s terrifying.

You scroll through the early shots on your screen while Ellie sips from a water bottle across the room. She’s looking at something on her phone, brows pulled. Not for the camera. Not for you.

Click.

You catch it before you think to ask.

Later, when she sees the photo — maybe — you’ll offer to delete it. But for now, you keep it.

You don’t post it.

You just… keep it.

You shoot until the light shifts — until the warehouse is all shadows and softness and the adrenaline wears off.

Ellie’s quieter when she packs up.

You walk her out. She hesitates at the door.

“Hey,” she says, almost too soft. “Thanks. For not making me into something.”

You meet her gaze. “You already are something.”

She huffs a laugh, nose scrunching just slightly. “Still kinda sounds like a line.”

You grin. “Maybe. But it’s also true.”

She walks away with her guitar on her back, flannel fluttering in the breeze.

And you watch, already wondering what version of her you'll see tomorrow — and which one she’ll let you keep.

The apartment’s quiet. You didn’t even bother turning the light on when you came in.

You toe your boots off by the door, toss your bag onto the couch, and drop your camera gear more carefully on the dining table. The air smells like last week’s coffee and city rain — a scent that always makes you feel more you somehow. Still. Rooted.

You shrug off your jacket and tug your hoodie sleeves over your palms like you used to in high school. It’s late. You're tired. But your fingers are already itching.

So you sit down.

Open the laptop.

And start importing the day.

The photos come in fast, thumbnails populating your screen with quiet flickers: Ellie tuning her guitar. Ellie with her head turned. Ellie mid-laugh at something Jesse said. A blur of movement. A shadow across her throat. Her hands, tense on her knee.

You scroll slowly. Click one open. Then another.

And then you stop.

It’s one from that moment — when she’d looked down, water bottle cradled between her palms like she was trying to stay grounded. The room had been loud. The light shifting. She hadn’t known you were watching.

You hadn’t meant to shoot it.

But you had.

In the photo, Ellie is unmade — not raw in the usual, flattering way, but vulnerable in a way that looks almost too private to hold. Her shoulders sloped, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her mouth parted, not in mid-sentence, but like she was catching her breath between one thought and the next.

You lean in.

It’s not beautiful.

Not exactly.

But it’s real.

Your stomach flips.

Because it feels like something you weren’t supposed to see. Not just a shot. Not just a moment. A truth. Her truth, almost. Except it isn’t yours. And it shouldn’t be.

You sit back in your chair, palms against your thighs, the burn of the screen lingering behind your eyes.

You know the rules. You know the ethics.

Shoot with intention. Respect your subject. Be human first, artist second.

And yet…

You don’t delete it.

You make tea. It’s instinct more than need. Something to do with your hands while your head catches up.

You lean against the counter and stare at the ceiling. The hum of the kettle vibrates through your ribs.

When you were younger — just starting out — you used to think photography was about control. About catching the moment before it ran away. Keeping something, anything, from fading.

But you’re older now. You know better.

Sometimes a photo is a gift. A breath that lets you in. And sometimes it’s a theft — even if the shutter was soft and the subject didn’t flinch.

You think about Ellie’s face.

Not the public one. Not even the flirty, wry one she shows you sometimes when she’s feeling brave. The other one. The one she doesn’t know she’s making.

You sip the tea. It’s bitter. You don’t add honey.

Later, you’re in bed, laptop balanced on your knees.

You go through more of the shoot. The ones she did pose for. The smirks, the glances, the long-legged slouch she leans into when she wants to look like she doesn’t care.

They’re good. Objectively. Some might even be great.

But none of them make your chest ache the way that one unguarded photo does.

You close the screen.

Lie back.

And stare at the ceiling like it might give you an answer.

What are you even doing here?

You don’t want to be one more person who takes without asking.

But you also can’t look away.

The glow of the screen is the only light in your apartment, flickering softly in the dark as you sit hunched over your desk, eyes tired but focused. You haven’t been able to stop looking at the photos you took of Ellie. Not since the shoot, not since you reviewed the initial set. There’s something about them that makes you want to keep coming back — something you can’t quite name, but it tugs at you each time you open the folder.

You swipe through them slowly, your fingers moving with purpose, but at the same time, you don’t want to rush. There’s a strange reverence in the air tonight, like you’re afraid of missing something in the quiet. The apartment is still, save for the hum of your laptop. A soft autumn breeze ruffles the curtains, but you’re lost in the images.

There’s one in particular — Ellie, mid-laugh. Her face is caught in a fleeting second, the kind that could be overlooked if you weren’t paying attention. Her eyes squinting against the light, her mouth open in a soundless laugh that never quite reaches her eyes. It’s the kind of thing that should feel trivial, but in that split-second, there’s something raw there. You can almost hear it — the exhaustion, the years spent wearing a mask. And yet, there’s a tenderness, too. Something beneath the performance. Something real.

You lean back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. The image sticks with you longer than you expect. It's the details that make it so intimate: the way her skin catches the light, the faint flush of her cheeks, the tension in her shoulders that no one sees when she’s on stage. You almost want to apologize to her for capturing it — for seeing her this way, without the gloss and the shine. But there’s beauty in it. It’s fragile and fleeting, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her like this before.

You move to the next photo, and it’s quieter, more contemplative. Ellie, tuning her guitar after the show, lost in the process. Her fingers gentle on the strings, her brow furrowed in concentration. The light is dim, the backstage area a blur of shadows, but the image holds. It’s a stillness, a brief moment of peace in the chaos of her world. This isn’t for anyone else. Not for the fans, not for the cameras, not for the magazine. It’s just her, alone with her instrument, finding her place again.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It’s more than a photograph now. It’s a whisper, a promise of something beyond the surface. You can almost feel it in the room with you — the unspoken understanding between the two of you. This is what it feels like to truly see someone. To witness them when they don’t know they’re being watched. And it’s both terrifying and beautiful.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, jolting you out of your thoughts. You glance at it, fingers hovering over the screen.

It’s a text from Ellie.

You hesitate for a moment. She hasn’t texted you in a while — not after the shoot, not since those quick exchanges that felt like they meant something but were never fully defined. There’s a part of you that wants to pretend you didn’t see it. Wants to ignore it, keep the distance. But the pull is too strong, too insistent.

You swipe the message open.

Ellie: You still up?

The words feel like a soft invitation, simple but heavy. You almost laugh at yourself for the way your heart picks up at just those three words. It's ridiculous, really. It’s just a text. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? There’s something in the way she speaks to you — something unspoken that’s always there, hanging between the lines.

You type back quickly, fingers unsure.

You: Always. What's up?

Ellie doesn’t reply right away. You stare at the screen, tapping your finger on the edge of your desk, waiting for something, anything. There’s a weird sort of anticipation in the silence. A restless kind of energy that keeps you glued to the phone.

And then, finally, another message pops up.

Ellie: Just thinking about the shoot... and, well, everything. It’s hard to explain.

You lean back in your chair, the weight of her words settling over you. She’s been thinking about it, too. About you. About her. The boundaries, the tension. You don’t know how you know, but you can feel it in your bones.

You want to respond. To say something, anything. But what do you say? How do you say what you’ve been thinking — about her, about this strange pull that’s been growing between you? The truth is, you don’t know what any of it means yet. You’ve been avoiding it, avoiding her, avoiding the way your heart seems to leap every time she speaks.

But you can’t avoid it forever.

You: I know what you mean.

You stare at the screen after you send it, watching the dots pop up and disappear, waiting for her response. You don’t know why, but a part of you feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like she’s seeing something in you that you haven’t even figured out yet.

Her reply comes quickly.

Ellie: I don’t know if I want to talk about it. Or if I’m ready. But I keep thinking about what you saw when you took those photos. The ones I don’t want anyone else to see.

Your heart skips a beat. The weight of those words — “the ones I don’t want anyone else to see.” She’s trusting you with something unspoken. Something private. You can almost hear the hesitation in her voice, the vulnerability she’s offering.

You feel it, too. That quiet understanding.

You: You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready. But I’m here. Whenever you are.

There’s a pause, and then her message comes through, softer this time.

Ellie: I’m glad it was you behind the lens. I don’t know how else to say it, but... it’s different. I feel different.

Your fingers hover over the phone, unsure of how to respond. You want to say something, something that will make her understand just how much this means to you. How much she means to you.

But instead, you settle on something simple. Something honest.

You: I’m glad, too.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer, your chest tight with a mixture of emotions. You want to tell her everything. But for now, this — this quiet exchange — is enough.

For now.

#⋆.˚ ★— focus pull #ellie williams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams #lesbian #reader insert #slow burn #lgbtq

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elevenenthusiast · 13 days ago

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Stranger Things Characters and What I Think Their Occupation Would Be in the Future

NANCY – DETECTIVE / INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST

Nancy didn’t just stumble into journalism she demanded to be taken seriously. Even when people mocked her at the Hawkins Post, she kept chasing the truth. She was the first to connect the lab to Barb’s disappearance, the first to dig into the rats and fertilizer in Season 3, the first to realize Vecna’s victims shared a pattern. From there, she’s been putting pieces together when no one else would. That kind of persistence doesn’t stop. She’d follow missing persons, expose government coverups, and take on cases that terrify everyone else. After watching Hawkins turn into a warzone and no one reporting the truth she has to keep going.

JONATHAN – DOCUMENTARY PHOTOGRAPHER / PHOTOJOURNALIST

From the start, Jonathan used his camera to make sense of the world. He captured emotion, isolation, and humanity not posed or perfect, but real. In Season 1, his photos helped expose the truth about Barb and the lab. In Season 4, he feels aimless, but he’s always been grounded by observing people, not performing for them. After seeing firsthand what fear and loss look like through Will, through Nancy, through the trauma of the Upside Down he’d turn his lens on the kinds of people the world forgets. Shelters. Survivors. Youth without voices. His work wouldn’t just document pain it would see it. And in doing so, help others see too.

WILL – ARTIST

Will has always spoken through images, not words. From the moment he was taken, the world stopped listening to him but he never stopped creating. In Season 4, we see the depth of that his painting for Mike isn’t just art, it’s a confession, a prayer, a self-portrait disguised in dragons and knights. That’s how he processes the world through color, metaphor, feeling. He paints what he can’t say out loud.

As he grows up, art becomes more than therapy it becomes truth. His work is layered with emotion, nostalgia, queerness, loss, and hope. It’s not just fantasy anymore it’s raw, honest, aching. His paintings end up in galleries and museums. Quiet observers see his work and feel understood, like someone finally said the thing they’ve been carrying. One of his most famous pieces? A painting of a boy standing in sunlight, staring at another boy with wonder in his eyes. The world doesn’t know it’s Mike. But he does.

(Imagine this is Mike looking at the painting in a gallery)

MIKE – AUTHOR / STORYTELLER

Mike has always been the one spinning the tale. From the basement table in Season 1 to leading entire D&D campaigns, he’s the Dungeon Master for a reason he builds worlds. But as he gets older, life becomes harder to narrate. Season 4 shows a Mike who struggles to express how he feels especially to the people he loves. He’s emotional, but guarded. He wants to say the right thing and never knows how.

Writing becomes his outlet. It’s where he doesn’t get interrupted. He writes fantasy, because it’s always been about more than dragons and quests it’s about survival, identity, and love. His stories are full of magic, yes, but also about connection. He writes characters who find each other in the dark. And though he doesn’t always realize it, he’s writing about Will. About himself. About the boy in the painting who always believed in him.

He starts off scribbling short stories no one reads. Then books. Then full epics. Somewhere down the line, a fan finds Will’s painting and pairs it with a quote from one of Mike’s books. “He looked at him like he was the sun, and for once, he didn’t look away.” No names. But everyone knows.

EL – SCULPTOR OR INSTALLATION ARTIST

El never had a childhood. She was raised in silence and surveillance, with only small moments of joy one of those moments including arts and crafts. Art gave her a voice when language didn’t. And after everything after Brenner, the lab, the loss of Hopper, and nearly dying in the Upside Down she’d need a way to heal. Sculpture would give her control. Her hands would create what her mind struggled to hold grief, memory, power, transformation. Maybe she works with salvaged materials. Maybe her installations are about memory and light. But in the end, she builds instead of destroys quietly, beautifully. Because she finally can.

LUCAS – PRO BASKETBALL PLAYER

Basketball wasn’t just a hobby for Lucas it was a lifeline. In Season 4, he wasn’t trying to ditch his friends he was trying to find a place where he could be seen. After years of being the sidekick, the nerd, the overlooked one, basketball gave him a way to feel proud, strong, chosen.

But when it mattered, he chose his people. He stood up to Jason, fought for Max, and proved that being an athlete didn’t mean selling out who he was. He trained, he pushed, and he earned it. He goes pro not because it’s easy, but because he worked for it. Because he had something to prove to the world, and to himself. And every time he steps onto that court, it’s not just about the game it’s about survival, loyalty, and becoming more than what Hawkins tried to make him.

MAX – LAWYER OR THERAPIST

Max was always observant, always hiding behind sarcasm and deflection. But she felt everything. She saw her mom suffer. She endured Billy’s abuse. She blamed herself for his death. And then Vecna targeted her because she was hurting, and tried to carry it alone. In Season 4, she confronted her grief head-on. She ran toward it. And she survived barely. That kind of trauma doesn’t fade, but it transforms. Max would grow into someone who fights for the ones no one listens to. As a therapist, she’d sit with kids who are angry and scared and make them feel seen. As a lawyer, she’d take down abusers, systems, and silence. Either way, she becomes the person she needed sharp, empathetic, and unrelenting.

DUSTIN – SCIENTIST OR ENGINEER (ROBOTICS / ASTROPHYSICS)

Dustin’s brain never stops. From building radios to decoding Russian transmissions to explaining alternate dimensions, he’s always been ahead of the curve. But he’s also the heart curious, generous, enthusiastic. He’s the one who brought everyone together and made science fun. He’d grow into a brilliant, slightly chaotic scientist maybe working with robotics, maybe studying wormholes but he’d also make it his mission to teach. He opens a lab that feels like the best parts of a comic shop and a classroom, where kids like him feel seen and celebrated. He builds tech and builds people too.

ROBIN – INVESTIGATIVE PODCASTER

By Season 5, we know Robin’s working at WSQK radio with Steve which honestly feels like the beginning of exactly where she’s meant to be. She’s always been quick, sharp, and a little chaotic, with a brain that doesn’t slow down. She’s the type who asks the uncomfortable questions and actually wants the real answer.

After Hawkins, she turns that instinct into something more starting an investigative podcast that begins local but quickly gains traction. She covers strange disappearances, small-town corruption, and stories no one else is telling. Her voice is fast, dry, and compelling part journalist, part storyteller.

Robin uses her platform to spotlight marginalized voices, uncover systemic failures, and take apart everything that doesn’t make sense just like she’s always done. She’s not interested in being the face of anything, but somehow ends up one of the most respected names in underground journalism. It’s the natural evolution of who she’s been from the start a girl who won’t shut up when the world tells her to.

STEVE – COP OR FIREFIGHTER

Steve’s growth was never about becoming cool it was about becoming brave. He started as the selfish guy who bailed when things got hard, but after Season 1, he never stopped showing up. He took a bat to a demogorgon. He drove headfirst into danger to protect kids who weren’t even his responsibility. He’s scared and insecure but puts himself between others and harm anyway. By the end, it’s clear he cares about his town. Becoming a firefighter or even a cop under Hopper’s mentorship would give him a way to protect people in a world without monsters but with real danger still everywhere. It’s not about power. It’s about purpose.

(I had a board for Steve too but Tumblr hit me with the image limit unfortunately)

#stranger things #will byers #mike wheeler #byler #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #jancy #eleven #eleven hopper #jane hopper #max mayfield #lucas sinclair #lumax #dustin henderson #elmax #robin buckley #steve harrington

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mintedwitcher · 1 month ago

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Maybe I should come off anon to have an actual conversation because I think what you said the whole them not committing to the effects of the Kim arc makes a lot of sense. Character assassination may have been a strong term for me to use but I think I meant it more in the terms of the fact that they kinda threw Kim there and did nothing with Eddie's character about it. Like okay yes, Chris goes away but that's it. And while that is the worst thing that can happen to a parent beyond their child actually dying, the show let's it fall flat. We get a bit of kinda depressed Eddie and the whole find joy priest thing, but for a plot point that could have been so interesting they fumbled it to the point of why even have it? Again I love the concept of the character Eddie Diaz. I have all these things I wish they did but they won't. Like the whole PTSD thing, that's a life long struggle and it's brought up once. They introduced the man by having him remove a grenade from a person outside of a war zone?!! HE WAS SHOT! AND THEY DID NOTHING!!! Sure we can write away he was expecting the grenade to go off he was prepared for it, even the helicopter when they introduced Taylor Kelly (who i also love, kinda wish they kept her around because Buck needs a friend who will tell him when his support system is being shitty and it's okay to be angry with the people he cares about and I feel like her and Tommy would have great bitch out sessions), dont even get me started on the whole fight ring thing. There was zero build up to that besides him punching one guy who definitely deserved it.

And I've lost the plot again. What you said about how they could have handled the Kim situation would have made great TV. And from a writers perspective I can understand why she was a good plot device but from a viewers it fell so flat and was disappointed.

Let me add another random topic. I feel like I would be so much more behind Buck and Tommy if they gave us even one scene with Tommy apologizing to Hen and Chim. As an audience we can assume since they reached out to him for help they must have made up at some point, and I understand the whole internalized homophobia and trying to fit in at the good old boys club had a heavy hand in what Tommy was like in the Hen and Chimney Begins episodes, but I just want one apology about how even if we dont see him activity participating in the whole old 118 being shitty to new people especially POCs, queer, and women how he acted was wrong, he'd probably actually move up to one of my favorite characters. Because god to I love how Lou plays that man, he sometimes does these small gestures or expressions that just scream he's a bitchy gay and it's so fun and at odds of what we usually see of gay men on TV because the man is built and very masculine and usually we only get twinks being the fun bitchy gays not the guy who is ex military and flies helicopters into hurricanes and plays pick up basketball with his buddies.

Sorry it seems your ask box has become my sounding board for my wayward 911 thought.

don't be sorry, I enjoy discussing this show. that being said, I'm gonna be as nice in my disagreements as possible right now.

This is going to get very long, and the first part of this is going to be entirely character meta/analysis, I'm ignoring every outside influence (writers/directors/etc) for the Eddie portion. The more technical side of things will come back into play when I get into your comments about Tommy. I'm going to try and touch on all of the things you mentioned in your ask, so buckle in. I'm gonna put this under a cut because it is obscenely long.

Eddie's PTSD is an undercurrent leading almost all of his character decisions.

He didn't have a visceral reaction to the grenade in the moment, because he was under pressure. He had to stay calm in that moment, triggers be damned. He had no other option. If he had panicked, if he had reacted negatively in any way, it would've made the entire situation - in which he had not one but two people relying on his expertise - so much worse. We don't know how he reacted after the fact, when he was alone, because we don't see it. It's also very possible that grenades simply don't trigger him.

The helicopter, as well. It's very possible that it's not a trigger for him, OR that he's already compartmentalised that particular trauma. It could be context dependent - Taylor Kelly's helicopter went down, yes, however, Eddie wasn't involved in the crash, only the rescue, so he might have been able to separate that from his personal trauma. Same as the grenade; he had civilians (non-military) relying on him to remain calm, to use his expertise effectively. Compartmentalisation is an incredibly important skill, and Eddie seems - at least at first - to have a very good grasp of it.

However, there are only so many traumas a person can take before the cracks begin to show.

There was, actually, a lot of lead-up to Eddie joining that fight club. Shannon, and all the baggage she represented. The insecurity of his relationship with her, the resentment he still held for her leaving, the hope of reconciliation, the pain of having that hope crushed three-fold: first, she wasn't pregnant, second, she wanted a divorce, third, she died in front of him. That is a LOT to handle in a VERY short amount of time. In canon, all of those events take place in under 24 hours. It's hit after hit after hit. This is where his decline starts.

Then, his best friend is crushed by a ladder truck, and Eddie has to watch from the sidelines, unable to help. That would have been a triggering event for him, too, calling back to his last ride with the Army. Buck was pinned, in the "line of fire" as it were, and Eddie was unable to help. There was nothing he could do until the bomber was contained and the threat eliminated. Again, we don't know how he reacted to it once he was alone, because we didn't get to see that, but we can imagine how traumatic that must have been.

Then, the tsunami. Even though he was unaware of Chris and Buck's involvement for most of the day, he still had to spend hours performing search and rescue. He likely came across dozens of corpses over the course of that day, which - no matter how well-adjusted you are - would leave an emotional bruise. And then, of course, at the end of that exhausting, emotionally draining day, Eddie finds Buck. And he finds out that both Buck and Chris were on the pier when the tsunami hit. And he realises that Chris isn't with Buck now. There is a moment there, where Eddie truly believes that his son is dead. Words cannot express clearly enough just how much agony Eddie would have experienced in that moment, especially so soon after Shannon's death. And then the emotional whiplash of having Chris turn up, alive... honestly it's a miracle that Eddie didn't fully break down right then and there.

But you see, all of this trauma compounded on top of each other. Shannon, Buck, Chris, every single hit that Eddie has taken since joining the 118, all of it has built on top of each other, and he's never taken the necessary steps to counter it. He knows he has PTSD, but he doesn't go to therapy for it. So all of this has been building up on him for over a year, without an outlet or healthy coping mechanisms in place to help carry that burden.

That was the build up. The guy in the parking lot was just the first piece of the dam breaking free.

Then Lena introduced him to her hobby: street fighting. She used it to blow off steam, to have fun. She had no way of knowing just how close to breaking Eddie really was, so she wasn't expecting him to latch onto it the way he did. But Eddie took what could have been a healthy hobby - if paired with extensive therapy - and turned it into a necessity. More cracks in the dam, to continue the metaphor; more leaks springing free, with no way to plug it back up. Then the money came into play, and Eddie got hooked. He could fight, and get paid well for it? He could use this to provide for his son? Sold. Another crack.

Until he nearly killed a man during a match, and he had to step back and realise, finally, that the dam was breaking and he was in the tidal path.

But even then, he had to be mandated by his employer to seek help. Because Eddie had been raised with the mentality that men did not need therapy, that therapy was 'admitting weakness' - he was raised steeped in toxic masculinity, and that has shaped every single decision he has made regarding his own life. His stint in therapy is short-lived - only so long as the mandated sessions continue - and then he leaves and never looks back. The dam is patched, he claims, even if it's just with duct tape and chewing gum.

Eddie doesn't effectively deal with his trauma, and so it continues to build up. He's just gotten better at ignoring it, shoving it aside, focusing on the better parts of his life - in this case, his son, his job, his best friend, and his new girlfriend, Ana.

Then the pandemic happens. Even more trauma to add to the list. He has an immunocompromised son, so he can't even be inside his own house for a good few months; he stays with Buck instead, until it's safe for him to return home. His son is struggling with the isolation of the pandemic, not being able or allowed to see his friends, or his caregivers, or his own family, because of the risk factor. Eddie, losing himself in the 'better' parts of life, decides to be spontaneous and Bold, and tries to introduce another person into Chris's life without taking his son's own trauma and insecurities into account.

He's operating on the stance that, well, any day could be his last. He could lose Chris in a freak accident, or he could die on the job, or he could screw up so badly that his parents come and take Chris from him. So he throws caution - and good sense - to the wind. This is common for people like Eddie. He's survived terrible traumas, he's finally happy, and so that happiness must be shared, because it could all disappear in the blink of an eye if he doesn't grab it with both hands.

And he very nearly does lose it all when the well collapses on him.

Eddie is happier, but he's no less traumatised. He still hasn't addressed his past, his grief, his fears, and those are all still building in the background. But he's determined not to care about them.

Which is why the shooting is so jarring.

He was helping, he was doing his job, he was saving someone, and he got shot on home soil. This is another major triggering event, far more similar to his last ride with the Army than anything else he's faced so far. Those "patched" cracks start leaking again.

Again, much of the recovery is glossed over, but that doesn't mean that the trauma isn't still affecting him. As mentioned above, he's gotten very good at ignoring his own trauma.

This is compounded, again, when he and Buck are taken hostage. And again, when he finally talks to Chris. His own son saying that he doesn't want him to die is another crack. Eddie quitting his job is another crack. Eddie losing his sense of self in Dispatch is another crack.

Eddie learning the fates of his former Army teammates is the TNT that brings the dam down completely.

Eddie has been carrying years of guilt and grief and pain and trauma, compounded endlessly and ever-growing behind his nice little wall of denial, but now he has no choice but to face it. Drown in it.

He breaks, properly, for the first time. His PTSD is unmanaged and unmanageable, his trauma is far heavier than he expected it to be, and he's been so busy pretending that he's fine, that he hasn't noticed the detonator in his hands the entire time.

He finally, finally, realises that he needs to seek help on his own terms. He can't be mandated into it, he can't be dragged, he has to take that step on his own, and it's one of the hardest things he's ever had to do, but he does it anyway. Because he knows he can't keep carrying all of that weight forever alone. He needs help, so he finally goes to seek it out.

All of this is an extremely long winded way of saying: the show does, has done, and continues to carry Eddie's PTSD, even if it's not explicitly mentioned on screen all of the time. It doesn't need to be. It's an omnipresent shadow looming over him at all times. Sometimes it's lighter, sometimes it isn't, but it's always there.

Which actually, helpfully, leads me to my next point: Tommy.

An on-screen apology is entirely unnecessary. It's been made clear already through character interactions (as far back as season two) that Tommy has mended his fences with both Hen and Chimney. If you want to see something like that depicted on screen, you'll have to rely on fanfic, because this is not that kind of show. We don't need to be shown every time a relationship is changed or repaired. We're also never shown Chimney apologising to Buck for punching him, does that mean that their relationship wasn't repaired? No, obviously not, they're in a good place now, and it's clear that what happened between them is water under the bridge. The exact same can be said here.

Tommy also wasn't nearly as bad as the fandom makes him seem. He makes two offhanded, poorly thought-out comments in both Hen Begins and Chimney Begins, but by the time Bobby Begins Again happens, he's already on friendly terms with them both. They go out drinking together, they make bets together, Hen and Chim organised a going-away party for him when he transferred stations. It's very clearly presented to us that Tommy has changed his behaviour in the time between Hen Begins and Bobby Begins Again. So why do we need to see him apologise? Through context clues and on-screen interactions, we can see that they're on good terms. Is that not enough? Would Hen or Chimney willingly remain friendly with someone who still exhibits bigoted behaviours? Should we not at the very least, trust these two incredibly intuitive characters to be able to make a judgement call regarding Tommy?

I'm not saying any of this to be rude to you, nonnie, but I do want you to consider carefully why you think it matters more to see Tommy apologise - and what level of apology you would "accept" - rather than to believe what the characters have shown us, which is that Tommy changed, made amends, and is on good terms with almost all of the original 118. Hen likes him, Chimney likes him (enough to keep his number even a decade after Tommy left the 118, by the way), Bobby likes him. Eddie and Tommy click almost immediately when they met. So, with all of that to be considered - and knowing Tommy's own recounting of that time, where he openly admits that he was a worse person under Gerrard as the 118's captain - what do you genuinely expect an on-screen apology to provide?

If you do want to come off anon, I do have my DMs open. If you'd rather continue like this, that's fine by me as well. I only ask that you consider everything I've said here. I'm sorry this got SO long, but Eddie's trauma is a very long topic, and I only covered seasons 2-5.

(This response has taken me an hour to write, so please, please, consider it carefully. I've been as neutral as possible despite my opinions on Eddie and Tommy, respectively, and there's a lot to cover in all of that. Sorry this got so absurdly long, but I'm looking forward to continuing this conversation, in any format you choose.)

#911 abc #911 meta #eddie diaz meta #this is EXTREMELY long and took an hour to write #bucktommy #eddie diaz critical #technically #mostly just for blacklisting reasons though #asks #anon #long post #tommy kinard

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babyangelsky · 1 year ago

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I know we're all still sweating over the first half of this episode (or I am at least) but since I'm feeling chatty today, I really wanna talk about Mut and Tongrak's conversation at the restaurant and how much I loved it. There are so many little moments that deserve appreciation and recognition.

This is the first one. When the auntie comes over to sing Mut's praises, he doesn't look at her or at Tongrak, he just ducks his head. From what she says, we can gather that this isn't the first time he's brushed off compliments so it isn't that he's not used to praise. I think there's a little more to it.

And look at Tongrak's expression after the auntie leaves.

And the way he looks at Mut afterward. There's fondness there. There's respect and admiration. We've had small moments before this where the way Tongrak looks at Mut changes but this feels like the first time he really sees him. He's getting a clearer picture of who Mut is and what he means to the people in the village.

And it's because of that that he looks genuinely surprised and a little shocked when Mut reveals that his father kicked him out at 15. You can almost hear him asking himself, "how could anyone ever do that to this man?"

Mut talks about how he went to live with his aunt and started supporting himself relatively casually but there's a faraway look in his eyes when Tongrak asks why he doesn't go home.

And he looks down because despite his tone, it hurts to remember why he can't go home. It makes him sad to remember why he considers the fishing boat only his father's instead of theirs, as a family.

There's a defiance in his expression when he says that his father never takes back what he says and neither does he, and there was something about this specific wording and look that made me think that the reason his father kicked him out has to do with him being queer.

I have not read the novel (nor am I asking for spoilers) so I could be very wrong but this moment just read so queer to me. It unfortunately wouldn't be unheard of for a parent to kick out their queer child and for that child to cut ties with them because of it.

The shift in expression when Mut asks Tongrak if he thinks he's pitiful is so tiny but it's so significant. It's like he's daring Tongrak to pity him and resigned to it simultaneously, like pity is a foregone conclusion. It tells me that Mut is used to being pitied. He says himself moments before this that Tongrak could ask anyone on the island for his story so I'm sure there's no shortage of people who do pity him.

Maybe that's why he reacts the way he does when the auntie praises him. Maybe for him it's rare to be praised for his successes without having it be qualified or run through the filter of his personal history.

Even before Tongrak said a word in response, I knew what his answer was going to be. There's sympathy (and maybe even some empathy) in his expression. There's a sort of...I don't know how to describe it. Defiant kinship? that says, "why would I pity you?"

He shakes his head and gives a firm, decisive no. He doesn't pity Mut. He may not say it, but his face says that he's very quickly growing to admire and respect the person Mut has made of himself.

Of course he doesn't pity Mut. And hearing it makes Mut smile. A true, genuine smile that reaches his sparkly eyes and softens just a little bit when he says thank you.

This conversation felt like such a big shift for them. I have no doubt they're going to continue to bicker and annoy each other and piss each other off but from here on I think and hope there's going to be an undercurrent of understanding to it.

Tongrak is open to learning more about Mut and although Tongrak isn't willing to reveal too much of himself yet, the desire to learn more is there on Mut's part, too. He's not gonna push though. He accepts Tongrak's answer of why he became a writer being only for the fun of it.

And he does what no one else has before and praises Tongrak for it.

Which Tongrak was not expecting at all because why would he when no one has ever complimented him before? For Mut to be the first means a lot, and so does the fact that Tongrak compliments him right back.

Because I really do think that his compliment is coming from a place not only of respect, but from solidarity as well. We know that Tongrak doesn't want the people in the village to think badly of Mut for being affectionate with a man in public, and that moment also read very queer to me.

Queer people are like magnets and, in my experience at least, not only are we drawn to each other, we look out for each other. Tongrak doesn't give a damn what people think or say about him both because he's secure in who he is and because he's only a tourist, but Mut lives there. Despite his snark and snippiness, I don't think he wants Mut to have a hard time existing in his home.

Anyway! Those are just my few cents for this episode. This scene really stuck out to me and I wanted to talk about it because the whole time I was just:

Fort and Peat did some beautifully subtle acting and I didn't want it to get lost in the horny shuffle.

#rakmut #love sea #love sea the series #meta

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brotherwtf · 3 months ago

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John meeting Gale years after Gale rejected him. Just by chance. And like Hozier’s words, “crawling back to you” The pain from the rejection didn’t even register. John just immediately relapses like Gale is the hardest drug to heal from. Still beautiful, still handsome, still the brightest star Bucky’s ever had the pleasure of being in the presence of. They ended up going for coffee and John finding out he’s divorced and moved to New York (or wherever u imagine ig they’re just living in the same city now). John falls for Gale hard and fast once more. Every second spent with the other man just reminded him of all the things that made him fall in love. Except this time, his beautiful star falls for him as well.

SECOND CHANCE ROMANCEEE!!!

THISSS omg I love this, them a little older, a little less young and stupid, but John still feels as lovesick as the day he first saw him

his heart ached when he saw Gale and Marge get married, Gale looked so happy with her, and when he had held John like that overseas, that quiet rejection still fresh in his mind when Gale had held John's hand one night and told him that he was still getting married to Marge, eyes cast down almost to avoid John's gaze, but he met his eyes just once to ask if John would still be his best man, and how could John ever refuse Gale anything?

after the wedding John moved to New York, couldn't handle the small town of Manitowoc Wisconsin and wanted to see the big city, halfway wanted to forget everything and everyone he ever met, fucked his way halfway through the queer population to try and forget, but one day he sits quietly in a diner, horrifically hungover and he sees him sitting alone in a booth hands slightly trembling as they thumb through a menu, and John feels his heart drop all the way to his feet all over again, and he works up the courage to go over and sit in the seat across from him, a soft "Buck" on his lips that alerts the other man of his presence

he's still as beautiful as he was in flight school, a little scarred and skinny but still those same icy blue eyes and petal pink lips that form a small 'o' but falls quickly back into that soft smile Gale always reserved just for John, and even though John tried desperately to forget, he finds himself falling hard and fast again

John finds out as they eat breakfast together that Gale divorced Marge and came up to New York to start a new life, didn't know he'd run into John all the way out here, and John of course desperately invites him back to his place when Gale mentions he doesn't quite have a place to stay, to which Gale calmly and casually agrees, agrees that it would be nice to catch up after everything

every minute of every day that they spend together, trying to find non-trivial jobs and just go about their days as two war veterans, but every minute that John spends with Gale reminds him how hard he fell and he realizes he's falling in love all over again because they so casually fall back into step with each other, they work so easily together and John can't help but steal those same glances as before, steal touches as he used to, and Gale accepts them all as if no time had passed

John only realized Gale might be falling in love with him as well when he notices that Gale welcomes the touches a little more than overseas, when Gale looks for him in a crowd, when Gale's eyes light up whenever John comes home, how sometimes when Gale has a nightmare John finds Gale in his bed and shushes him for comfort, holds an arm around him and tells him he's safe, and when John wakes up screaming Gale's always first to run into his room, sits on the edge of his bed and awkwardly leans over until John lets him in.... he realizes Gale's in love with him as well when exactly ten years after VE day Gale leans closer to John on their little balcony and tells him he wasn't sure how he would have survived without John, and John finally allows himself to express his feelings and leans forward to kiss Gale and sighs in relief when Gale kisses back

second chance romance where they get to live the rest of their life in New York happy and in love :))

#mota #clegan #buck x bucky #gale cleven #john egan #asks

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panerasbox · 30 days ago

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Happy Pride from AvaMel!

word count: 1,652

read on ao3.

The last bell of the day rang, and Melissa was halfway through gathering her things when a suspicious blast of Beyoncé echoed down the hallway, loud enough to rattle the display of historical artifacts Janine had meticulously arranged.

She narrowed her eyes, a familiar twitch starting in her left eyelid. That could only mean one thing.

“Ava,” she muttered, stepping into the hall like a cop entering a crime scene. She braced herself, instinctively patting her pocket for her emergency Tums.

And yep. There she was. Ava Coleman, principal in title, professional chaos agent in practice, strutting down the hallway in a sequined rainbow jumpsuit that seemed to defy the laws of physics and common decency. Her heels were high enough to induce a lawsuit, and she moved with the confident swagger of someone who knew exactly how much trouble she was about to cause.

“Happy Pride, losers!” Ava shouted, tossing mini flags like Mardi Gras beads. One landed squarely on top of Gregory’s organized desk. He flinched.

“Abbott is officially queer-coded for the day. And if anyone asks, yes, I am taking applications for a queer-coded co-principal.” She winked dramatically.

Jacob squealed and chased a flag, nearly tripping over a group of bewildered first graders. Janine clapped like someone’s supportive aunt at a particularly enthusiastic talent show, her smile wide and earnest. Melissa, though, crossed her arms, her expression a perfect blend of exasperation and grudging amusement.

“Ava, what the hell is this?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the Beyoncé track.

Ava spun on a heel, the sequins catching the fluorescent lights, and pointed two finger-guns at Melissa in a dazzling, almost blinding display.

“This, Red, is visibility. A celebration. Also, I needed an excuse to write off glitter as a school expense, and frankly, the receipts were looking a little thin this quarter.”

Melissa pinched the bridge of her nose. “You used school funds for glitter and a Beyoncé sound system?”

“Love is love, Melissa,” Ava said with a shrug, like she was quoting scripture. “Even the IRS agrees. Probably. Besides, think of the positive morale boost. Look at Jacob. He’s practically levitating.”

Melissa tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward in a tiny, involuntary smile.

“You got permits for this circus, or did you just strong-arm the district into looking the other way?”

“I got permission,” Ava said, sauntering up, her movements fluid and utterly self-assured. She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough for Melissa to hear over the music. “From myself. Because I’m the boss. And a bisexual icon. Which, if anyone asks, you said first.”

Melissa cocked her head, her gaze sharp and assessing. “You really gonna out yourself to the school like this, Coleman? And blame me?”

Ava’s smirk didn’t waver, only intensified.

“Baby, I came out in middle school. Made a girl cry and a boy question everything. I’m not new to this, I’m true to this. And if anyone asks, you’re just admiring my bravery. Or my jumpsuit. Either works for me.”

Melissa raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge.

“And what? You expect me to wave a flag too, like some kind of cheerleader for your… whatever this is?”

Ava stepped closer, her tone lowering just enough to hum between them, the playful energy in her eyes deepening.

“Only if you want to, Schemmenti. No pressure. Unless you’re trying to hide something.”

Her gaze lingered on Melissa’s face, a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the theatrics.

Melissa hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty flickering across her usually unreadable expression. Then, with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated, she reached over, plucked a small, subtle rainbow pin from Ava’s overly decorated bag, and clipped it to her lapel, right next to her union pin. It was a silent, understated gesture, but it spoke volumes.

Ava blinked, her usual quick wit momentarily short-circuited. Her jaw dropped almost imperceptibly.

“What?” Melissa asked casually, turning to go, her voice deliberately flat. “I’m not ashamed. Just don’t need the whole damn parade about it. Unlike some people.” She gestured vaguely at Ava’s jumpsuit.

“Oh,” Ava said, her eyes brightening like stage lights switching on. The dazed look vanished, replaced by an even more mischievous glint. “So the rumors are true.”

Melissa turned back, slow and dangerous, a predatory glint in her own eyes.

“What rumors, Coleman? You better be careful what you’re implying.”

“That under all that South Philly sass and mafia energy,” Ava purred, stepping closer, her voice a low, teasing whisper, “you’ve got a soft spot for women in power. Especially ones who can rock a sequined jumpsuit.”

She winked.

“Careful,” Melissa warned, stepping even closer, her voice a low growl that held a surprising amount of heat. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might just make you prove it. And I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of homework, Coleman.”

A beat. The air crackled with unspoken tension. Then Ava broke into a slow, wicked grin, her eyes dancing with amusement and a hint of genuine surprise.

“Melissa Schemmenti,” she said, her voice laced with delight, “are you hitting on me at a school-sponsored Pride event? With children present?”

“Technically, you hit on me first, Coleman,” Melissa retorted, her own smirk playing on her lips. “I just hit back. And better.”

Ava looked genuinely flustered for a second, a rare, almost miraculous sight, her usual bravado faltering just enough to reveal a flicker of something raw and exposed. And Melissa, ever the opportunist, leaned in just close enough for her breath to ghost against Ava’s ear.

“Happy Pride, Ava,” she whispered, her voice a low, husky purr that sent a shiver down Ava’s spine.

And just like that, she walked away, heels clicking confidently down the hallway, leaving Ava speechless for the first time in recorded history, a faint blush creeping up her neck.

Jacob, still chasing a stray flag, passed her with a thumbs up.

“Did you just flirt with Melissa?” he asked, eyes wide with childlike wonder.

“I think…” Ava said, dazed, her gaze fixed on Melissa’s retreating form, a look of utter bewilderment and something close to awe on her face. “I think I just fell in love.”

The Next Day –

The faculty lounge was unusually quiet, save for the hum of the vending machine and the soft thud of Janine’s reusable water bottle hitting the floor again. Ava swaggered in wearing a pink faux fur coat over yesterday’s jumpsuit like some kind of hungover disco queen.

She paused.

There, on the bulletin board next to the sign about not microwaving fish, was a new flyer.

PRIDE RESOURCES + LGBTQ HISTORY SPOTLIGHT

Sponsored by: Staff Diversity & Inclusion Committee

(in tiny print: “…and Melissa S.”)

Ava blinked. She turned slowly. Melissa was sitting at the table, sipping her coffee, pretending to read the sports section. The same subtle rainbow pin was clipped next to her union one.

Ava walked over and held up the flyer like a piece of evidence.

“You did this?”

Melissa didn’t look up. “What, a girl can’t have hobbies?”

“You made a whole flyer. With resources.”

“Jacob helped. He likes fonts.”

Ava’s lips twitched.

“So what, you’re on my queer committee now?”

“I’m on whatever committee makes sure kids don’t grow up thinking who they are’s a problem.” Melissa finally looked up and met her gaze. “You wanted visibility, right? This is mine.”

Ava’s voice softened. “Thanks, Red.”

“You gonna cry or something?”

“No. But I am gonna add you to the Certified Babes of Abbott slideshow for next year’s Pride assembly.”

“You do that and I’ll shove that fur coat down the faculty room shredder.”

They stared at each other. Ava grinned. Melissa didn’t smile, but there was warmth in her eyes. Quiet. Solid.

Support.

Later That Week – After School

The school was quiet, end-of-day sun stretching through the blinds. Ava stood near a window, scrolling her phone. She looked up as Melissa walked in, two coffees in hand.

“Figured you’d be here,” Melissa said, handing one over. Ava took it without missing a beat.

“Oat milk and just the right amount of disrespect. You do love me.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “You got a sec?”

Ava shrugged. “Always, unless this is about the glitter in the HVAC.”

Melissa glanced around and made sure the door was shut.

“I been thinking. About the other day. And that pin.”

Ava stood a little straighter. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t put it on for show. I put it on because I’m bi.” Her voice was flat, simple. “Been that way since high school, maybe before. Just never said it out loud. Not to anyone.”

“Not even your family?”

Melissa snorted. “Especially not. You met my ma. She thinks gluten is a liberal conspiracy. Can’t exactly hit her with a ‘hey Ma, I’m queer and also I vote.’”

Ava laughed, but her eyes stayed locked on Melissa. Listening.

“I always figured it didn’t matter. I dated guys, it was fine. It worked. But when you came storming down that hall like Lady Gaga on a mission from God…”

“Technically Beyoncé.”

“Shut up.” Melissa almost smiled. “Point is, I saw you being loud and proud and ridiculous, and I thought, screw it. Maybe I don’t have to keep hiding. Maybe I don’t want to.”

Ava stepped closer. “That’s a big deal, Red.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t expect a parade.”

“I mean, I already threw a parade—”

Melissa grabbed Ava’s sequined lapel and tugged her in just enough to shut her up.

“I’m not looking for a parade. Just maybe someone to walk with. Glitter optional.”

Ava’s breath hitched.

“You realize if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna fall harder than the school’s test scores last year?”

Melissa grinned. “Guess you better catch up then, Coleman.”

#avamel #pride month #pride 2025 #abbott elementary #melissa schemmenti #ava coleman #melissa schemmenti x ava coleman #wlw fanfic #sapphic #bisexual #lgbtqia #ao3 writer #a03 fanfic #archive of our own #fluff #lisa ann walter #janelle james #gxg imagine #oneshot: avamel

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 8 months ago

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Words: 6,623 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Era: The Whisperers Reader pronouns: she/her Warnings: language, discussions of past trauma (nothing super graphic), discussions of violence, allusions to child abuse (Alpha to Lydia), alcohol A/N: You can find the other parts to this series on my Master List! Check out my pinned post. Previous part here!

Daryl had to ram his shoulder into the door of the little cabin a couple times before it gave way, ripping off part of the doorframe in a shower of splinters. He thought you shot him a bit of a look afterward but he couldn’t be entirely sure what your intention with it was or what it was even about. After all, you weren’t happy that he’d, umm, tagged along. He signaled for Dog to enter first and he followed after with his crossbow at the ready, but the interior of the small cabin was completely quiet.

Inside, the rooms seemed to still be stocked with almost everything someone would need to actually live there. The furniture was shrouded under sheets to keep off the dust and most of the windows had been reinforced or boarded up, although their glass was smudged and dusty and a few panes were now cracked or broken out from wayward branches or hailstones. Daryl drifted back to the front door to call you inside. He found you staring at the building with a queer expression on your face, almost a haunted look. Your arm was draped across your body to press your hand to your side right over the bandage that hid Alpha’s knife wound.

“Hey,” he said gently, snapping you out of whatever had been going on inside your head. “S’clear. C’mon.”

You nodded and whistled to Achilles, who burst out of a tree above and landed on your shoulder. The noise of his wings as he fluttered down was reminiscent of wind through leaves. You climbed up the steps and across the small wooden porch to follow Daryl in. As soon as you could, you relieved your body of the burden of your pack and quiver, setting your bow beside them as well. You started pulling the dusty coverings off the furniture and clouds of speckles drifted in what little late afternoon light could still filter through the gray panes. You moved around in a way that suggested to Daryl that you knew this place well; uncovering this but not that, running your fingers along the oak mantle over the fireplace. He drifted after you as you went into the kitchen and he watched as you thumbed open the pantry. Inside were rows and rows of dusty canned vegetables, clearly homegrown and preserved.

You seemed to have felt his eyes on you and looked over before quickly shutting the cabinet again. You squeezed past him where he was standing in the doorway, nearly brushing your body against his, and stepped back into the main room. Daryl’s heart seemed to have jumped into his throat for a moment, inexplicably. He tried to gulp it back down where it belonged.

“What is this place?” he asked you. Dog had already settled down on the rug in front of the hearth like it was an old home he’d warmed his fur in many times. But Dog had a way of making himself at home that Daryl envied.

You paused, halfway through tugging a sheet off an armchair by the fire. “A cabin,” you said, looking at him with a tinge of annoyance.

Daryl sighed and frowned at you. “Ya know that ain’t what I meant. And that ain’t just it.”

You stayed frozen there for a long moment before you finished tugging the sheet off the chair and then glanced back at him, your expression distant. “It’s just—someplace I stayed once… a long time ago,” you said vaguely.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip and nodded. “Alrigh’,” he drawled, but you could tell he knew it was more than just that. “I’ll take the couch,” he said, tossing his pack down.

“Obviously,” you retorted. “There’s only one bed and only one of us has a stab wound.” He was surprised to hear some note of jest in your voice and he looked up to catch just the momentary wink of a smile at the corners of your mouth. “You’re far too noble to make me sleep on the couch. You barely let me walk out of that community today.”

Daryl huffed a little and sat down on the couch, his mouth tightening into a thin line for a moment. “If I’d had my way—ya wouldn’t have. Ya’d still be in that clinic with Enid watchin’ ya.”

“And probably you too,” you retorted. “Yeah, I know. I’m well aware… and now I have a tail to shake off,” you retorted, easing yourself down into the armchair you had just uncovered. Your cautious movement wasn’t lost on Daryl. Your body ached and panged. You let out a heavy sigh as you sunk into the cushions.

“Good luck. Dog can track. And so can I.”

You smiled at him, a small one that seemed almost knowing. Daryl’s brow flinched down for a brief moment. On your shoulder, Achilles let out a happy sound and his large bill began to pick through and nibble your hair as if he was preening you. Your eyes crinkled in a smile as your head tilted toward the glossy black bird. You reached up and stroked the feathers on his breast and he let out a sound that was almost like a purr. You whispered something to him that Daryl couldn’t quite hear.

“How’d ya end up with him?” Daryl asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he sat forward on the edge of the couch, his attention intense.

Your eyes met his and they were tired, but soft. “Probably the same way you ended up with Dog. He came to me,” you said. Achilles climbed down your shoulder and perched beside you on the arm of the chair. He let out a harsh click click click and looked inquisitively at Dog as he lifted his head and stared back at the bird, his head tilting and his ears at attention.

Daryl nodded. “Dog wandered up to me when he was just a pup. He started comin’ round and hangin’ at my camp,” he said. He ducked your eyes and you could tell he was holding some piece of the story back, but you didn’t begrudge it.

“Your camp?” you asked.

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, staring down at his hands and fiddling with a rough spot on the back of his thumb. “Ain’t like I’ve always lived inside walls. Lived way more outside of ‘em. Even before the world went to shit.”

“Mm,” you acknowledged, studying his features; his wavy hair, the sharpness of his cheekbones and jawline, the scar running above and below his left eye. You stroked Achilles’ head feathers as he bent toward you in a bow, asking for attention. “Achilles was an orphan. Fell or pushed from his nest when he was far too small. Ravens are usually cared for by both parents, so I can only assume that one or both of them were lost in a storm or to predators… I’m not sure. But he was just this tiny, helpless thing. I hand fed him and kept him warm, safe. Taught him to use his wings when he was big enough. Ravens are incredibly smart. He did the rest pretty much.”

“And now he lets ya use his feathers as a thank you?” Daryl asked, mainly joking.

You caught the jest in his tone but answered more seriously. “We’re bonded. To him, it’s like the bond he’d have with a mate or family member. Ravens are highly social. As for the feathers, it’s just that black feathers are the strongest and the most resistant to wear. A convenient fact,” you said. “And he’s kind enough to share.”

“S’that true?” Daryl asked curiously.

You met his blue eyes and a strange sensation ran through you when yours connected with his. You couldn’t quite name it, but it was… almost destabilizing. You sat with it for a moment before you answered. “Yes. That’s why many white birds, like seabirds, will have black edges to the feathers on their wings and tails. The dark pigment, melanin just like in people, actually strengthens the feather structures. It’s why they work so well for fletching.” You returned to stroking Achilles’ back, watching the shine shifting in his dark feathers as he moved.

“Hmm,” Daryl hummed, nodding. “He got anymore tricks I should know about? Besides yankin’ out my hair on command?”

You allowed yourself a small amused exhale and Daryl liked how the corners of your mouth turned up subtly and stayed there. He thought it was maybe the first actual smile he’d seen on you since he’d looked up at you in that damn tree as you told him to forget about you.

“He can talk, mimic sounds he hears. But he’s not a parrot. He won’t do it on command. Ravens are—” you paused thoughtfully, searching for the right word. “—suspicious. He’s not comfortable around new people or even new objects sometimes… Everything must be thoroughly vetted,” you explained. “If he does talk around someone, it means he’s comfortable. That he’s accepted them. They’re very wary.”

Kinda like you, Daryl thought. But he didn’t speak it. He nodded and glanced at Dog who had gone back to snoozing. “Hungry?” he asked you, climbing to his feet.

“Not really.”

“Well, too bad. ‘Cause ya gotta eat somethin’. Need to get your strength back up. Ya’ve got a lot of healin’ to do.” He started toward the kitchen and your eyes followed him across the room and through the doorway.

“You’re gonna cook?” you called after him. Achilles took off from his place on the arm of the chair and soared over to a large armoire and perched on the top.

He appeared in the doorway again and the expression on his face nearly made you laugh. “What? Ya think I can’t cook?” You shrugged and now did laugh a little. “Alrigh’, I may not be no damn chef but I can cook. I mean, it’ll at least be edible.”

“Well, that generally is the most important quality in food—that it’s edible,” you said, pushing yourself up to stand, wrapping an arm around your midsection again and pausing as some pain shot through you.

“Would ya just sit down and—”

“You aren’t exactly inspiring confidence in me about your kitchen skills,” you argued.

“Nah,” he scolded you, shaking his head. “Sit yer ass down. Now ‘m gonna really have to figure somethin’ out in here,” he drawled. “Ya should be restin’ and I dun want ya breathin’ down my damn neck while ‘m workin’ out here.”

“Breathing down your neck?” you laughed. “Christ, I wasn’t planning on that.”

“Well, I dun want ya—supervisin’ or starin’ or judgin’ me anyhow, so sit back down,” he scolded you again.

You considered him for a long moment but being on your feet again reminded you of how tired you were. “Fine. I’ll just get a fire going and then I’ll sit out here with Dog. Just try not to burn the place down or waste my ingredients, would you?”

Daryl rolled his eyes but disappeared back into the kitchen. You soon heard the clanking of pots and pans and the slamming of cabinet doors. You glanced up at the armoire to see that Achilles had made himself comfortable and tucked his head under his wing for a nap.

“Hey—anywhere to get water ‘round here?” he called out from the kitchen.

“There’s a covered well out back—least… there was when I was last here. But you should probably boil the water just in case,” you said.

You heard the back door being unlocked and tugged open. Dog lifted his head from his paws to look toward the kitchen, apparently concerned about his master leaving.

“He’ll be back,” you told the Malinois. You walked over to the hearth and Dog’s eyes followed you. You sank down to sit on the hearth, wincing at the pain running through your torso. “Fuck,” you murmured, wrapping you hand around your middle again.

Dog tilted his head and whined lightly, looking at you with bright, inquisitive eyes.

“Oh, hush. I’m fine. I don’t need you worrying about me too,” you told him, straightening and turning your attention back to the fireplace. You leaned in and opened the flue, wiping the dark smudges of soot that transferred to your hand on your pants. The basket beside the hearth still had faded newspapers, tinder and kindling piled in it and there was a large stack of dry wood beside it too, now shrouded in cobwebs and coated in dust. But you reflected on the fact that it really looked like no one had been here since you’d left… and that had been years ago.

As you busied yourself with getting a fire started, you heard Daryl enter the kitchen and get back to whatever he was doing in there. You soon had a happy blaze crackling away and it cheered and soothed you instantly, casting the previously gloomy and neglected interior in a warm glow.

Dog had already settled his head back down on his paws, but as the flames licked around the logs, he shifted more closely to it and it drew an appreciative chuckle from you. You slipped off the stone ledge of the hearth and knelt beside him on the floor. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Dog let out a content sigh and closed his eyes, the fire warming his back. You sunk your fingers into his soft fur and he quickly exposed his chest and belly for scratches, which you provided with a smile. In no time, Dog was snoozing on his side again and you propped your back against the stone ledge of the fireplace. It warmed your back and shoulders. It felt good. It helped your focus on something besides the pain in your body from your fight with Alpha. Your fingers ran through Dog’s thick fur absently, almost meditatively, and you let your mind drift for the first time since you’d left The Hilltop.

Daryl appeared in the doorway and looked in, surprised to see you nearly cuddled up with Dog on the floor. You must have felt him looking at you because you glanced up, and it was like a lightning bolt shot through him at the exact moment your eyes met his. His heart jumped in his chest and he found himself inexplicably nervous. “Dog’s won ya over, huh?” he drawled. “I might have to ask him for some tips.”

“Not anything you could emulate,” you joked.

“Nothin’?”

“He’s not a person. I tend to prefer most animals to people.”

Daryl smiled briefly. “Yeah. I think tha’s fair.” He ran a hand nervously over the back of his neck. “Well—food s’almost done. Can’t say whether it’s any good or not—”

“It smells good,” you remarked. “Even if I don’t feel much like eating.” You started to try to climb to your feet, grimacing and struggling to even get your feet under you at all, let alone stand up. Daryl hesitated for a split second before rushing over.

“Uhh—can I—can I please help ya up before ya rip a damn stitch?” he asked.

You struggled for one more second, but sore and exhausted, you relented and gave him a hesitant nod. He extended his hands and you delayed a moment longer, looking unsure, before placing yours in his. He gently pulled you to your feet and for some strange reason the two of you were frozen for a moment. The time had passed when he should have let go and you both felt it. Your breath seemed caught in your throat until he finally slipped his hands softly away from yours, tingles left behind like the ghosts of his touch, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll just go check on the—the food. Ya should go sit down,” he drawled, and he made a hasty exit for the kitchen.

Ten more minutes passed and Daryl came out with two steaming bowls. Funny enough, both Dog and Achilles perked up as he handed one to you where you had sunk into the armchair again. “S’just—some dried beans and bunch of those canned veggies ya had in there. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, uhh… peppers, I think? Careful. Bowl is hot.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, accepting it by the top edge of the bowl. Your fingertips brushed the back of his hand and Daryl swore there was a static charge, though you didn’t seem to react as if you’d been shocked. Achilles stretched and then fluttered over to perch on the back of your chair, letting out a squawk and interested trill as he peered over your shoulder at what was in your bowl, tilting his glossy black head this way and that. Dog trotted over to beg at Daryl’s side and while he watched Daryl eat, a string of drool grew in length until it touched Daryl’s knee and pooled a bit on his black pants.

He let out a disgusted noise. “Agh… Dog! Dammit, get back!”

You couldn’t help chuckling a little as you scraped at the last of your meal.

Daryl looked up in surprise. “What? Yer laughin’?”

You glanced up still smiling and shrugged a little. “Maybe,” you said, unable to hide another chuckle at his expense.

“Yeah, real nice. After I cooked ya this five-star meal,” he joked.

“It was actually pretty good,” you admitted. “Maybe I was hungry after all.”

“Ya should be,” he murmured, chewing his last bite and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “Ya ain’t had anything in how many days?” He stood and came to collect your bowl.

“No—I’ll deal with the dishes,” you argued. “You cooked.”

“Nah—look at ya,” he growled, taking your bowl. “Ya can barely stand up. And ya sure as shit ain’t haulin’ more water like that. Just lemme do this.”

You watched his broad shoulders retreat toward the kitchen. “I can stand you know! We walked how many miles today?”

His voice rang out from the kitchen again. “Exactly. Ya did yer standin’ and walkin’. More than ya shoulda. Ya should’ve been in bed all damn day!”

You rolled your eyes but got to your feet anyway and threw a couple more logs onto the fire, blowing on the coals to get them to catch. Dog came back to the rug in front of the hearth and circled a few times before laying down. You wandered over to a painting hanging over a long, low bookshelf. It depicted an early morning landscape shrouded in fog. The grass was luminescent with dew and you could practically taste the verdant smell of the meadow as you looked at it. But you lifted a hand and nudged it aside. It swung on the wire hanging over the nail and revealed a little nook behind it.

Daryl was walking back out of the kitchen and froze at the threshold. “What’re ya doin’?” he asked, his brow furrowed. He watched curiously as you withdrew a glass bottle and then replaced the painting. You straightened it carefully before you looked over at him.

You held it up so the light from the fire cascaded through the deep amber liquid inside.

He frowned. “Uhh… should ya be drinkin’ in yer condition?”

This drew another dry laugh from you. “I’m not pregnant. I have a knife wound. And… some other bruises. It’s fine.”

His brow furrowed. “Dun ya have a concussion?”

“It’ll be fine. Look—I need something to take the edge off, alright?”

“Yeah, ya should’ve stayed in the clinic,” he said for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Enid woulda had pain meds for ya.”

“Well, I didn’t,” you replied. “Am I drinking alone or what?”

He fixed a long stare on you and then sighed, giving in.

“Great. Get some cups from the kitchen, would you?”

He returned with two mugs and handed you one. You poured in a healthy share of whiskey and then held the bottle up to offer him some. He held his mug out. “Not sure I should be encouraging this…”

“Come on. After all the trauma I just went through you can’t let me drink alone,” you joked wryly.

He shook his head at you but took his glass over to the couch and sat down, planting his boots up on the coffee table and taking an exploratory sip. “Mmm. S’pretty damn good whiskey.”

“Yep. Medicinal grade,” you said, gulping down a good amount. You were hoping it would ease not only the pain in your body, but quiet your anxious thoughts a little too. A slightly fuzzy head sounded good at the moment. Either way, a nightcap hit the spot after the decent meal and with the fire crackling in the fireplace… You could almost forget outside was a hellish nightmare of death and violence. Almost. You never could completely forget.

“Pretty nice place ya got here. And pretty well stocked,” Daryl said, interrupting your train of thought.

“Who says it’s my place?” your retorted.

“You did.”

“No. I just said I stayed here once.”

Daryl gave you a knowing look. “Alrigh’. Maybe ya didn’t say exactly, but ya know where the damn hidden booze stash is… And I could tell even before that. Ya moved around in here like ya knew it. But… ya left so many things behind, especially all that food in the kitchen. Ain’t exactly like ya can walk down to the grocery store and pick up what ya need anywhere.”

You ducked his gaze and ran a finger over the curving handle of the mug in your hand. You raised it to your lips and took another big sip. The burn down your throat and into your stomach felt good.

“Ya have to leave here in a hurry?” he asked. You didn’t answer, but Daryl didn’t seem to need you to and he wasn’t deterred. If you had looked up, you would have seen his blue eyes narrowed perceptively, flickering over your features. “Ya left it all here on purpose. As a… like a safehouse,” he said, nodding. He didn’t ask it as a question. “As a ‘just in case’,” he finished. “Yeah. Ya seem to live your whole life with a ‘just in case’.”

You looked up at him, your brow slightly furrowed. “What does that mean?” you asked, an edge to your tone.

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Sorry. I dun mean anythin’ bad by it. Prob’ly just means—ya didn’t have a ‘just in case’ sometime when ya needed it. And ya ain’t ‘bout to make that mistake twice.”

You gulped, feeling how exquisitely close to the mark he was deep in your midsection as a tense knot materializing somewhere behind your navel. You downed the last of your whiskey and eyed the bottle again.

“Must be a lot for ya to have me here, lettin’ somebody else know ‘bout it. Thanks for trustin’ me that much.” You did. You didn’t know why, but you did. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d trusted some—wait. Yes, you could. “Ya won’t tell me a thing more about ya? About what’s happened to ya?” he asked. “Bout the trees? Bein’ up there?” His voice was gentle and patient. Your eyes flickered back over to where he was sitting reclined on the couch, his hands absently twirling his mug.

“Why do you want to know my story?” you asked in a low voice.

He shrugged. “‘M just—tryin’ to understand ya,” he drawled.

Your brow furrowed. “But why?” you asked softly. “Why does it matter?”

Daryl fiddled with his now empty mug and shrugged again. “It just does. To me. Ya saved my life and I can’t shake the feeling that yer in somethin’ with these Whisperers, Shepherds as ya call ‘em. And if ya are, I want ya to know that ya dun gotta do it alone. My place, the communities ‘m tied to, they’re full of good people. People who’d help ya. People who did help ya.”

“And this has nothing to do with the fact that I recognized Lydia and know about The Shepherds? All these questions,” you said.

“No. But I ain’t gonna lie and say I don’t wish ya’d just tell me what ya know.”

You grabbed the bottle and poured in a generous amount of whiskey again. You leaned forward, ignoring how it sent a sharp pain through your stomach, and set the bottle in front of him on the coffee table. You considered him for a long moment. You thought about his people who had saved you, about the place they’d brought you to. It had seemed wholly good. He seemed wholly good. Your gut was telling you, over and over, that you could trust him. It had told you that since the night he’d ended up at your tree in the storm. But you’d been wrong before and you had to consider this all carefully. What harm could come from opening up, just a little bit, to this one person? Logically, you didn’t think much, but it still felt… scary. You took a small sip of whiskey and let it sit on your tongue a moment, the smokiness of the oak. “I can’t really tell you one without the other, I suppose.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“About them and about me, at least some of it. In some—sick way, we’re connected.” You froze for a moment, truly wondering where to start. Daryl leaned forward and poured another share of whiskey into his glass before sitting on the edge of the couch, leaned forward, ready to listen intently. “I know a lot about The Shepherds,” you said. “More than probably anyone alive who isn’t one of them.” You gulped and tried to suppress the flashbacks that were threatening to surge forward. Your hand shook as you raised your mug to your lips again and took a big drink. “Alpha is not someone you want to fuck with lightly. She’s ruthless, even to her own people. The things I’ve seen her do—” You broke off and shook your head, shutting your eyes for a moment as you tried to retain your composure. You licked your lips and went on. “Look, without going into my whole backstory since the world went to shit—I was part of a community once. One that was probably a lot like yours. All of a sudden, Alpha comes out of nowhere and starts telling us that we’re trespassing on her lands when we’re hunting the same areas we’d been hunting for years. She threatened us with consequences if we didn’t pay attention to her borders. But the reality was that we had hungry people, hungry kids to feed. It was winter and game was already scarce. Supplies were tight. I wasn’t going to wait around listening to the leaders sitting on their asses talking while kids starved. I went out and hunted like I felt I had a right to. The way I had been…” You felt as if a concrete block had just materialized on your chest. It was built of residual anger and grief and guilt and blame… “‘Fuck her borders,’ I thought.” You averted your eyes to stare down into your mug, swirling the whiskey inside and chewing on your bottom lip. Daryl swore he could see the color draining from your face. “One of them saw me. Of course they did… we didn’t know they wore the dead’s faces then... But I figured it out real quick when what I thought was a walker started attacking me with a knife. That one and two more ended up dead.” You sighed and your head fell back against the chair. Achilles, still perched on the back, picked at your hair and let out a soft rasp. “If they’d managed to kill me, that might’ve just been the end of it,” you thought aloud. “Probably not. But maybe.”

Daryl gulped. He had a bad feeling about where this was going. “What happened after that?”

You let out a dry laugh and blinked away the moisture burning in your eyes. “Alpha went back to my community, where the leaders themselves were enjoying the venison and rabbit and quail I had shot, and offered them a deal. But she didn’t come alone this time. She brought a horde with her, and delivered a note into their hands. A final warning. If no one else crossed her borders again, she would leave the community alone. But there was a caveat. She wanted me in exchange,” you said.

“Dun tell me they—” but Daryl broke off, reading the answer on your face. He couldn’t even begin to contemplate that level of betrayal.

“They did. More than that, they did it right proper, with a vote. Yay, democracy,” you said wryly. “They traded me for their safety. Turns out one of the ones I killed was Alpha’s number two. Beta. Not the same Beta she has now, obviously. A different one. And she was pissed. She was pissed that I’d killed them, but more than that she was pissed that I had defied her, ignored her. If there’s one thing Alpha hates, it’s people who aren’t intimidated by her. She wants people scared, even her own. It makes her feel… powerful.”

Daryl stared down into his mug and then downed the whole thing. “I’ve known—plenty of people like that.”

You nodded. “Yeah. They seem to do well these days.”

“So, what? They took ya prisoner? And your community just went on livin’?” The rage in his chest was starting to boil over.

“Not exactly.”

Daryl’s brow was low over his blue eyes, casting them in shadow. “So, what happened?”

“I was taken to Alpha’s camp as a prisoner,” you said, resting your hand over the knife wound again, which seemed to pulse and burn as you talked about the one who’d given it to you. “I think I’ll—I’ll gloss over the finer points of that experience…” Your voice went soft and trailed away.

He ducked his head. Though across the room, he could feel the waves of pain and suffering radiating off you. He cleared his throat finally so you’d look up at him again. “Look, ‘m sorry. Ya dun gotta tell me any more of this if—if it’s too—”

“We already started,” you said, straightening up again. “Might as well finish.”

He nodded. “Where’d Lydia come in?” Daryl asked.

Your expression unstiffened, became less stony. “She was really just a kid then. Little. I saw Alpha beat the shit out of her countless times for screwing up, which was really just being a kid with normal needs. Sometimes, at night when she couldn’t sleep which was often, Lydia would come and talk to me. She’d ask me questions about the old world or about where I came from. Bring me whatever little bit of food or water she could. There was a—a kindness in her that her mother couldn’t kill. But it didn’t stop her from trying. Eventually, Lydia saw that they were going to kill me. I was going to die. Whether it would be from exposure, or hunger, or sickness, or the fighting, or whether Alpha just decided ‘today is the day’… neither of us knew, but I was going to die there.”

Daryl drew in a sharp breath as he realized. “She let ya go. Lydia.”

You nodded. “Yeah. And I tried to take her with me, to convince her that she didn’t deserve everything her mother—” you broke off and shook your head. “She wouldn’t. She was young. She was afraid. She almost didn’t remember any other kind of life…” Daryl watched you wince at the thought of leaving her behind.

“S’not yer fault,” he said. You looked up at him quickly, vague surprise on your face. “Ya tried. Ya can’t help people if they ain’t ready for it.”

You let out a wry laugh. “That sounds familiar… considering recent events,” you joked, giving him a semi-sheepish look.

“So, what happened after ya escaped?”

“I… went back. After what I’d seen out there, I had to try and warn them. Even if they’d traded me like a fucking sack of corn, I had to tell them. They betrayed me, maybe as good as killed me in some ways, but there were plenty of people in there who didn’t deserve what would come from The Shepherds, from Alpha. They were scared…”

Daryl’s brow furrowed more heavily. He stared in disbelief. “Ya went back… to the damn people who—”

“No.”

“No?” he repeated, confused.

Tears welled up in your eyes again and you fought against them, blinking rapidly to clear the blur. “No. I was too late. There was… nothing to go back to. No one. They were all dead. The whole place was ransacked, destroyed. Alpha had brought her horde in. She’d lied. There was never any fucking deal. She put the community board’s heads on pikes,” you said, your face distorting in disgust and anger as you remembered it, could almost taste the copper in the air.

Daryl’s heart sunk into his boots. “Fuck… ‘m—‘m sorry.” The distant look grew in your eyes again. You seemed to fade away, behind some gray veil where he wasn’t sure he’d be able to reach you again. Your voice drifted out from behind it.

“I still wonder if I hadn’t gone out hunting there again,” you shook your head, “maybe none of it would have turned out that way. All those people… families. Kids. They’d still be alive. Maybe the community would still be standing.”

Daryl’s chest ached. He felt hollow. Not just because of what you were telling him, of what had happened to you, but at the thought that it might happen to the people he cared about—The Hilltop, Alexandria. “Look, I’ve done things—things that I felt led—to some real bad shit happenin’. Got people killed.” Flashbacks of the line-up burst behind his eyes and he had to close them for a moment and steel himself before he could go on. “But we dun get to know. We don’t. It ain’t how it works. So, ya can’t keep on carryin’ that guilt. Maybe shit woulda turned out different, but maybe it woulda turned out exactly the same. Hell, maybe it woulda been worse. Ya made a choice to try and feed some of yours. Ain’t no blame in that.”

You looked up at him for a long moment and finally sighed. “After that, I just… I left. I hid.”

“Here?” Daryl asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. I found it and I built it into some kind of a life until I was ready to go after them.”

“Alpha.”

“And the others. She has a lot of loyal followers who are nearly as fucked up as her. If I get the chance to take them out, I do.”

Daryl set down his empty mug and clasped his hands between his knees. “Why was Lydia so angry with ya? When we went to see her at The Hilltop?”

“Because I’m killing them. Because she knows I want to kill Alpha. Because she knows she should have left with me? I don’t know. All of the above.”

Daryl’s mind was whirling, but he could see that you were exhausted, physically and now emotionally. “Thanks for tellin’ me,” he said. “I mean it. That—that can’t be easy to talk about. And… I understand why ya felt—unsafe at The Hilltop. It’s a community and it’s got people and I sure as shit would have some fuckin’ trust issues after that,” he said.

You let out an amused exhale. “Trust issues? Who says I have trust issues?”

“Oh—Nah, I—No, I didn’t—”

You let out a laugh and it broke the tension immediately. “Relax, Daryl. I’m kidding. You nailed it. But—I also suspect you may have some,” you said perceptively.

“Me?” he retorted. “Nah, I trust ev’rybody. ‘M a real open book…”

“Uh huh…” You leaned to one side as Achilles suddenly took off and landed almost silently on the rug beside Dog. He hopped closer and tilted his head one way and another, puffing up the feathers on his head and chest. Dog lifted his head lazily and turned to look at the bird. Achilles let out a low croak and strutted closer. “Achilles,” you said in a warning tone. “Be nice.”

He flapped his wings a little and walked around toward Dog’s tail. “Achilles…” But the raven showed no sign he was listening. He took a hop toward Dog’s long tail, the Malinois looking on, and then seemed to consider something for a moment. He made an exploratory grab at Dog’s tail, which the Malinois quickly flicked away and punctuated the action with a low growl. Achilles’ head tilted this way and that, thoughtfully, but the next second he hopped closer and repeated the annoyance. Dog rearranged himself more strategically on the rug, flicking his tail away again and curling his front toward the bird. He let out an annoyed noise. Achilles flapped his wings and gurgled, taking in Dog’s much closer muzzle and watchful gaze. Then, apparently undeterred, he darted forward, took hold of the end of Dog’s tail in his bill, and pulled. Dog lunged and barked. “Achilles!” you scolded him as he flew away with his prize, a tuft of Dog’s fur, and soared a victory lap around the room back up to the top of the armoire again.

Daryl couldn’t help himself and laughed at the bird’s antics. You rolled your eyes. “Don’t encourage his bad behavior,” you said. “Achilles, come on!” you said, pushing yourself up to stand. “Bedtime. Let’s go.” You held out your arm and he soared over and landed gracefully. You scratched his head affectionately. “Sorry, Dog. He can be pretty incorrigible.” The Malinois blinked at you, sighed, and went back to sleep. “Alright,” you sighed. “I’m pretty tired so… I think I’ll turn in.”

“Yeah. Yeah, good idea,” Daryl said, standing abruptly and awkwardly rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Dog and I will hold down the fort out here…”

You nodded and started toward the door that led to the bedroom. “Night.”

“Night…”

When you got to the threshold, you looked back at him. “I meant what I said, you know. About Alpha. You and yours should take The Shepherds seriously. Especially since you have Lydia, the whole community could be in danger. To her, Lydia is a possession.”

He nodded, a little confused by the abrupt warning. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks again, for tellin’ me.”

With another nod, you disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door softly behind you.

#daryl dixon fanfic series #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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genderqueerdykes · 7 months ago

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i've been getting a lot of asks over the years of having this blog about what it's like to live as an intersex person and i'm glad to be able to give insight into that, but i really would like to express that how you approach it will make a difference in how it affects me and my ability to respond to you- this goes for all intersex people. i feel like people often treat us like another species in the way they approach us, and i just want to give some insight on how to reduce saying things that make intersex people feel alienated and dehumanized when asking questions about us

i'm going to start off with the most important one, i will not answer any messages asking me to help someone write an intersex OC. i don't really care for it when someone instantly equates my real-life human biology to fiction without any hesitation. it feels dehumanizing. it also feels fetishistic. i can't describe to you how it feels to be equated to an interesting DnD species, but "icky" is close. not every fictional character in a piece of media is representation. there's a difference between representation and having queer characters in your personal projects. i have never had anyone ask me "can you tell me what it's like to be a lesbian so i can write a lesbian character" "hey is it okay if i write a gay man even if i'm not a gay man" or anything like that. not genderqueerness, bisexuality, being a fagdyke...

never. but people always focus on intersex folk when it comes to writing fiction and it's really uncomfortable. i don't like my intersex condition instantly being translated into fiction, likely a fantasy environment, and especially if that information is going to be used for pornographic content. there is such a long history of intersex people being fetishized by perisex people that i just do not like giving people advice for writing fictional characters. also, i'm not a fiction writer or reader. i don't really know where to start with fiction. it doesn't appeal to me. i understand that fiction can be very impactful on a lot of people and creating fiction isn't a bad thing, but i do not gel with it at all, so i'm not a good person to ask in the first place

there is no "intersex life/style". we don't all have the same lives or experiences. 2 people with polycystic ovary syndrome will have wildly different experiences. 2 people with penises and with low androgen production and high estrogen production will have wildly different experiences. there's no one catchall way to represent what intersex lives are like, because they're all so different. intersex is not a set of personality traits, it is a set of physical characteristics. being intersex may change how other people affect you, but it does not mean you will inherently act a certain way. whenever we get asked about feedback on our intersex condition so someone can better write a character, it feels like being asked "what's in your pants?"

intersex conditions do not affect personality traits or behaviors. there are no intersex characteristics, it's not a gender identity. it's not a sexuality. it's a state of physical biology. human anatomy. most intersex people live their lives without anyone else even knowing. most intersex people are not even affected by their conditions socially or health wise. this is the vast majority of the intersex experiences, alongside just not knowing that they're intersex at all. only a small portion of intersex people actually know they're intersex. the rest either never find out or are told their conditions but not that there's a word for their experience

basically what i'm trying to say is a lot of people are being creepy, likely unintentionally, about intersex experiences, and i'd really like people to listen and understand that we're not comfortable with basically being asked "what's in your pants?" every single conversation we have with someone else about intersexuality. if the first thing you think of when it comes to intersexuality is creating fiction, especially erotic fiction, that really says a lot about how you view intersex people. we are not sex toys to be played with. we are not fictional characters or beasts. we are real people and there's no catch-all experience to our lives.

now with people trying to claim that the term AGAB (assigned gender at birth) should ONLY be used by intersex people and that it's intersex exclusive really sheds light on the fact that a lot of people really want to speak for us when it comes to our needs and wants as a community. people think they have a good read on us because they heard "mixed genitals" and got horny thinking about how cool that concept would be. it's uncomfortable. we can tell we're being asked about what's in our pants and it's getting old, fast.

there are better ways to approach these questions. asking about intersex conditions in ways such as, how does it affect your health? are there treatments available to make your experience easier? does your intersexuality affect your other identities at all? what kind of troubles do you face on a regular basis? do people react poorly when they find out? questions like these are a great way to gather useful information on intersex lives. it's great that people want to take an intersex in our rights, but we're not going to make any progress until people stop focusing on our genitals, and speaking for us.

#intersex #lgbtqia #lgbtq #lgbt #queer #queer community #queer punks #queer punx #intersex community #intersex rights #intersex liberation #lgbt community

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midnight-in-eden · 5 months ago

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I realized I never made a thorough post about my experience at the Unitarian Universalist church. I’ve attended several times now and I honestly don’t even know how to sum it up. Here’s an attempt:

At the UU church, all the leadership members introduce themselves with their pronouns. The reverend uses she/they and has a trans teenage son. Today their stole (the scarf-like thing clergy wear) had the trans pride flag emblazoned on it.

At the UU church, I wrote my pronouns (they/them) in large letters on the name tag I wear every week. No one has batted an eye. I am openly nonbinary. Everyone is unfazed.

At the UU church, there are queer people everywhere. I am no longer the only non-cishet person in the room. Far from it.

At the UU church, there is signage explicitly stating that it is a safe and accepting space for LGBTQ people.

At the UU church, so many people expressed worries this week for queer people, for immigrants, for other people impacted by the new administration. It was candidly discussed during our secular meditation group.

At the UU church, congregants are not united by shared religious beliefs, but by shared values, which include equality, inclusivity, valuing human life and the planet.

At the UU church, on my first day, I met Christians, Buddhists, pagans, atheists, and practitioners of various eclectic spiritualities. (Including many exmormons!) None of whom had any problem including each other in their community.

At the UU church, God is rarely mentioned and they don’t fixated on gaining salvation and exaltation; instead they talk a lot about how we treat people and how we can make the world better.

At the UU church, today the little story about animals having a soup party shared for the children was focused on inclusivity and included a they/them fox.

At the UU church, today the reverend asked us to imagine what kind of world we wanted to create together and handed around the microphone. People talked about a world where healthcare is a human right, where schoolchildren are safe, where borders are not more important than people and families. When I took the microphone and added, “Where politicians don’t get to declare that my identity doesn’t exist,” the entire congregation cheered and yelled YES and AMEN.

At the UU church, though she does not mention politicians by name or tell people how to vote, the reverend encourages people to be politically active. Not the way Mormonism does, by sending out a formal letter during big elections, but by reminding people to call their representatives, to vote in elections big and small, to show up to school board and city council meetings.

At the UU church, they coordinate with other churches to provide transportation, meals, showers, and overnight sleeping spaces to homeless people, with the UU church sanctuary taking its turn being used for that purpose once a week. (Try to picture Mormons doing that—allowing homeless people to sleep in their buildings.)

At the UU church, they’ve adopted a refugee family and an elementary school in a low income area and do fundraising and provide assistance for both.

At the UU church, there are so many groups and efforts focusing on different ways of making the world better that I have a hard time even knowing where to start.

At the UU church, instead of demanding people starve themselves to show their obedience and loyalty to God, first Sundays of the month include a lovely soup lunch fundraiser for the youth group. I love this monthly event, where I get to sit with different people and eat and talk. And if you don’t want to or can’t pay, there are always coffee, tea, and snacks provided free at every meeting.

At the UU church, they start and end with the lighting/extinguishing of a flame instead of a prayer.

At the UU church, the congregation is alive. People laugh, cheer, clap, do call-and-responses with the leaders. We are invited to stand or sit for songs as we wish. Every meeting involves some kind of opt-in ritual or extra fun thing; you can light a candle, add water to the water fountain, write a note in a book saying what you’re struggling with or what joys you’ve had lately—all those are every week—and then some of the once in a while things we’ve done include choosing a percussion instrument to accompany the day’s songs (I got to play hand drums today!), standing at a side table to wrap care packages for homeless folks while the reverend spoke, or coming up to the front to write a worry on dissolving paper and drop it into a bowl of water. It’s just so fucking fun. Nothing like the boring, enforced silence of the congregation in the Mormon church.

At the UU church, people swear. People drink coffee or tea. People have whatever piercings they want and wear sleeveless shirts if they want, and “church clothes” can be anything you want. At the UU church, the idea of your religious leaders dictating all these things and even your underwear is completely baffling. It’s hard to see how such infantilizing nonsense ever made sense to me.

At the UU church, I am welcomed with genuine friendliness, but not pressured to formally become a member. No one is harassing me to commit to baptism or declaring that this is the only path to salvation/true happiness/whatever. I’ve met quite a few people who’ve been attending for years but are still not formal members, and everyone is fine with that.

At the UU church, people are encouraged to donate (to pay the reverend who is a professional instead of a voluntold rando doing unpaid labor, to pay for the building, etc) but tithing isn’t a thing. No “Give 10% of your income or you’re stealing from God!!!”

At the UU church, I don’t think I’ve heard the word “repentance” once. It’s just not part of the worldview. Neither is “sin.” Or “redemption.”

At the UU church, rather than being taught humans are inherently sinful and in need of saving and unable to rely on our own strength or anyone’s strength but God’s, I am taught that humans are inherently good and valuable and powerful in our ability to make a difference together.

In short: Unitarian Universalism is an entirely different world than Mormonism. If you haven’t had the chance to attend a UU church I’d recommend trying it at least once. It has soothed my religious trauma in some ways, and I am starting to love the community there. I don’t know if I will ever become a formal member of any religion again (probably not), but I like this a lot.

#and frankly i NEEDED that accepting community today. after the political bullshit lately. it’s just good to be with likeminded folks #exmo #unitarian universalism #long post #i don’t even live in a very leftist area btw. i thought this area was a sea of red but i roll up to the UU church and BAM #blue hair and pronouns everywhere #so even if you live in a conservative area. you might still find a good community this way

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smilepilled · 3 months ago

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in light of all of these horrible things jappening to till, i would like to start a loveletter train to hir. i'll go first, and i'll tag some people under the cut. please try to be platonic and reasonably-far-yet-friendly if you're not close to hir, because im sure no one that does this wants to make void even more upset. let's show some love for a dear member of this community; show some kind words and support for hir

i'll go first...

@idwl, till. we are distant mutuals, and i wish i could utter these words in a private setting, but i will repeat them as many times as i can until you accept it as a undoubtable truth. i will say so much more than this when i can, and i truly apologize for not once expressing my heartfelt appreciation for you.

coin-related; you are brilliant. your terms shine upon mine eyes when i see them, and the geniosity of the majority of your terms brings me hope for a more unified queer community. you've created things that struck close to home for me, and im sure your terms have brought the same feeling of homeliness to many others. your creations arent just pretty labels with pretty flags— they are ways for people to feel unionship, a sense of belonging & hope for themselves. your creations may be mocked by the soulless minority, but you should ALWAYS remember that your terms have, do, and will reach into the hearts of people.

person-wise; i am not able to say much myself, but from all and any interactions i've seen from you, i can tell you are a lovely, dear person. you are cared for, people cherish your presence— and even if i'm a mere aunt (read: vibe of a "distant relative") for you in this case, i too partake in the appreciation of your presence here. regardless if you choose to move on from liomogai tumblr spaces or choose to remain, you will always have a place in the memoirs of the people. you may leave the scene, but you'll never ever be removed from the picture frames in the people's hearts. you are appreciated and folks will be willing to offer support for you, no matter how small or big they feel it is.

please, please count on us. don't isolate yourself or run away out of fear that you're "too much" or "evil" (for example?), or any other adjacent though you personally may have about asking for help. your friends and peers care about you, and i hope this old creature stending its hand to you can act even as little as being a symbol of that. you are valued and cared for, and even if you never coin again, people will still care for you — as a person, not a coiner. thank you, thank you & thank you for all you've done in here, and thank you for hanging in there as you are today (& have many other times). please dont be mean to yourself, hurt yourself, and instead go to your friends & watch a nice nature documentary with snacks instead.

your community's got your back, publicly and/or privately. you can reach out, and we do care. please be well, and take a bunch of breaks if you need to— play some games and get some snacks, you deserve it; especially now, but you always do.

i'm happy to spend time with you if you need a distraction, my discord is @\hackerbug if you wanna drop by. no need to ask or warn me beforehand, just airdrop yourself and i'll be glad to help. its not just me, either. please take care

additionally: i apologize if any of this is too much or too intense. i'm just really worried and i want to make sure you understand im offering myself to help you with a space to rant/vent and take your mind off this situation. thank you for being yourself

tagging: @radiomogai, @lunentity, @rwuffles, @kiruliom, @inknoidd, @h-halos, @puppfie, @gender-mailman, @hypnosiacon, @losergendered, @rabidbatboy, @acronym-chaos, @daybreakthing, @gengernoway, @local-maneater, @scr-ppup, @sevvys, @icwdtea, @floraeth, @nyrieve, @snugmutt, @starstruckdolly. — it's obviously okay to skip this, but i'd appreciate if you guys could drop some love for till. hi definitely needs some hearts right now. please focus on giving support to hir instead of attacking the harrassing party, for this.

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hotvintagepoll · 1 year ago

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Propaganda

Loretta Young (The Farmer’s Daughter, The Stranger, Love is News)— Her cheekbones!! Her lips!! Her big eyes and small nose and not quite classical features!! The planes of her face hypnotize me and her smile clears my mind of anything else. She’s an interesting beauty, not a standard one, almost in a Mads Mikkelsen type way (I repeat: cheekbones). Also I’m begging people to watch The Farmer’s Daughter, a charming rom com where my babygirl Joseph Cotten falls through the ice while skating because he got distracted by how pretty she was, and where Loretta puts on a 40s-bad Swedish accent and runs for Congress! Girlboss!

Marlene Dietrich (Shanghai Express, Witness for the Prosecution, Morocco)—its marlene dietrich!!!! queer legend, easily the hottest person to ever wear a tuxedo, that hot hot voice, those glamorous glamorous movies.... most famously she starred in a string of movies directed by josef von sternberg throughout the 1930s, beginning with the blue angel which catapulted her to stardom in the role of the cabaret singer lola lola. known for his exquisite eye for lighting, texture, imagery, von sternberg devoted himself over the course of their collaborations to acquiring exceptional skill at photographing dietrich herself in particular, a worthy direction in which to expend effort im sure we can all agree. she collaborated with many other great directors of the era as well, including rouben mamoulian (song of songs), frank borzage (desire), ernst lubitsch (angel), fritz lang (rancho notorious), and billy wilder (witness for the prosecution). the encyclopedia britannica entry im looking at while compiling this propaganda describes her as having an “aura of sophistication and languid sexuality” which✔️💯. born marie magdalene dietrich, she combined her first and middle names to coin the moniker “marlene”. she was a trendsetter in her incorporation of trousers, suits, and menswear into her wardrobe and her androgynous allure was often remarked upon. critic kenneth tynan wrote, “She has sex, but no particular gender. She has the bearing of a man; the characters she plays love power and wear trousers. Her masculinity appeals to women and her sexuality to men.” in the 1920s she enjoyed the vibrant queer nightlife of weimar berlin, visiting gay bars and drag balls, and in hollywood her love affairs with men and women were an open secret. she was an ardent opponent of nazi germany, refusing lucrative contacts offered her to make films there, raising money with billy wilder to help jews and dissidents escape, and undertaking extensive USO tours to entertain soldiers with an act that included her a playing musical saw and doing a mindreading routine she learned from orson welles. starting in the 50s and continuing into the mid-70s she worked largely as a cabaret artist touring the world to large audiences, employing burt bacharach as her musical arranger.

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Loretta Young:

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

"ms dietrich....ms dietrich pls.....sit on my face"

"First of all, there are those publicity photos of her in a tux. Second of all, I have never been the same since knowing that she sent copies of those photos to her Berlin lovers signed "Daddy Marlene." Not only is she hot in all circumstances, but she can do everything from earthy to ice queen. Also, she kept getting sexy romantic lead parts in Hollywood after the age of 40, which would be rare even now. She hated Nazis, loved her friends, and had a sapphic social circle in Hollywood. She also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a voice that could melt you."

Bisexual icon, super hot when dressed both masculine and feminine, lived up her life in the queer Berlin scene of the 1920s, central to the 'sewing circle' of the secret sapphic actresses of Old Hollywood, refused lucrative offers by the Nazis and helped Jews and others under persecution to escape Nazi Germany, the love of my life

Her GENDER her looks her voice her everything

“In her films and record-breaking cabaret performances, Miss Dietrich artfully projected cool sophistication, self-mockery and infinite experience. Her sexuality was audacious, her wit was insolent and her manner was ageless. With a world-weary charm and a diaphanous gown showing off her celebrated legs, she was the quintessential cabaret entertainer of Weimar-era Germany.”

"The bar scene in Morocco awoke something in me and ultimately changed my gender"

youtube

"Her manner, the critic Kenneth Tynan wrote, was that of ‘a serpentine lasso whereby her voice casually winds itself around our most vulnerable fantasies.’ Her friend Maurice Chevalier said: ‘Dietrich is something that never existed before and may never exist again.’”

"Songstress, photographer, fashion icon, out bisexual phenom (notoriously stole Lupe Velez and Joan Crawford's men, and Errol Flynn's wife, had a torrid affair with Greta Garbo that ended in a 60-year feud, other notable conquests including Erich Maria Remarque -yes, the guy who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front- Douglas Fairbanks Junior, Claudette Colbert, Mercedes de Acosta, Edith Piaf), anti-Nazi activist. Marlene was a bitch - she had an open marriage for decades and one of her favorite things was making catty commentary about her current lover with her husband, and her relationship with her daughter was painful- but she was also immensely talented, a hard worker, an opponent of fascism and the hottest ice queen in Hollywood for a long time."

youtube

"She can sing! She can act! She told the Nazis to fuck off and became a US citizen out of spite! She worked with other German exiles to create a fund to help Jews and German dissidents escape (she donated an entire movie salary, about $450k, to the cause). She looks REALLY GOOD in a suit. If you're not convinced, please listen to her sing "Lili Marlene". Absolutely gorgeous woman with a gorgeous voice."

Gifset link

"Bisexual icon and Nazi-hater. Looks absolutely stunning in the suits she liked to wear. 'I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men'."

"Did a bunch of humanitarian work during ww2, pretty sure a shot of her from Shanghai express was the inspiration for one of queens album covers and also her in the suit in Morocco (1930) CHANGED LIVES. I’m sure she’s already been submitted but I wanted an opportunity to submit one of my favourite pictures of her for the poll"

"would you not let her walk on you?"

#marlene dietrich #loretta young #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 2 #Youtube

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whereianonymouslypostfics · 1 year ago

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Distracted

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~1.8k

Summary: Wanda and Y/n spend the night in a club

A/N: This came to mind while I was riding my peloton bike, idk why

Warnings: fluff, angst

Wanda tried to feign interest in the rather one-sided conversation she was having while she sipped on her drink and kept an eye on you.

Tonight she was working which wasn’t abnormal, but it also happened to be one of the few times where you had accompanied her. She’d decided that it was acceptable for two reasons. One, she wasn’t expecting this meeting to be particularly dangerous, and two Bucky and Steve were both here as well.

They blended in well with the patrons at the night club that Wanda used as her meeting place. It was busy enough that not many, if any people took notice of her in the VIP area, and it wasn’t like it mattered much anyway. Wanda only really cared about keeping an eye on you.

You had invited some friends out tonight, and you and your group of friends were enjoying the queer-artist inspired set. Although all of your friends were taken, Wanda had to remind herself multiple times not to get jealous when she caught one of them dancing closer to you than she deemed strictly necessary.

“Do you agree, Ms. Maximoff?”

The only sign that Wanda was caught off guard by the question was the subtle tightening of her fingers around her glass. She kept her expression neutral as she turned back to the woman across from her and nodded despite not having any idea what she was talking about. Last she remembered; they were reviewing notes for the meeting that should be starting any minute now.

She knew that she had to be more attentive for what came next. The woman she was talking to was visiting from the East Coast to discuss a supposedly mutually beneficial arrangement. Apparently, the sudden surge of competition Wanda found herself facing was due to a runaway wannabe drug lord. She knew she could probably handle it on her own, but when the leader of the most influential group of criminals in New York asked for an audience, she knew she shouldn’t say no.

That said, she wasn’t sure what Bianca Sullivan had to offer her, and if she’d even be able to match it. She realizes she should have paid more attention to her talking points than how you continued to dance with your friends, but it couldn’t be helped. She was only human after all, and you looked way too good in those shorts.

The first sign that Bianca had arrived was the appearance of two of her guards setting up shop in the VIP area. When Wanda glanced toward the back entrance, she noted unfamiliar faces introducing themselves to her guards and then there she was.

The brunette was exactly what she expected. She had a severe expression and gave off the impression that she didn’t take shit from anyone. Wanda could respect this and she found herself smiling slightly as she stood up to greet the woman she’d only spoken with once. She watched out of the corner of her eye as her assistant left to get a waiter’s attention.

“Ms. Sullivan, welcome. I appreciate your willingness to meet here.”

Wanda didn’t bother to say that she wouldn’t have met her anywhere else. This was her territory, and it was only polite for the brunette to meet her here since she had something she wanted after all. Luckily, she sensed that the woman who offered her a brief yet firm handshake had a formidable business sense. She merely nodded before she settled into the plush seat across from Wanda with an enviable amount of grace.

“I appreciate you meeting with me at all, Ms. Maximoff. I know it’s a little unconventional.”

Although it was unnecessary, Wanda offered a small nod before she glanced to the waiter who brought Wanda a new drink and asked Bianca for her order. She isn’t surprised in the least by the other woman’s order, but she keeps her opinion to herself.

“I have to admit I’m intrigued. The group I’ve been dealing with has only grown since they first declared themselves a couple of weeks ago.”

Wanda watches as the brunette scowls at the thought, but she doesn’t get a chance to ask for the reason. She’s surprised by how upfront the other mob boss is. She discloses that someone she believed to be her ally, betrayed her, attempted to murder her, but when she’d failed, she fled here. It seemed like a random choice, but Wanda’s realized that very little that happened in her line of work was random.

It seems that she was right.

“I’m surprised that she made it this far, but unfortunately, for you, she’s causing trouble. I think I know how to handle her.”

Wanda finishes up her drink listening to the woman’s proposition. It seems simple despite the inherent complications of having Bianca’s people operating in her territory for a minimum of three weeks while they work on cleansing her city. She understands why Bianca doesn’t ask her to do it. Simply watching her talk about her former friend is telling enough. She feels responsible for her, and she wants to be the one to take her down.

“If you’re open to it, I’ll stay for as long as it takes to get rid of her.”

A familiar song reaches Wanda’s ears and she has to force herself to ignore it as she considers the cons of such an arrangement. She knows that the other woman isn’t here to stay and steal her business, but her presence is going to cause confusion and maybe even panic. She’ll have to spread the word that they have a new ally.

After almost a minute of deliberation, Wanda nods and sits up in her chair so she can set her glass down on the table between them.

“I don’t see why not. We’ll work out the arrangements and make sure my people don’t get in the way of yours.”

Bianca finally cracks a smile and Wanda is in the process of returning it when her gaze moves to over the brunette’s shoulder.

Baby don’t you like this beat? I made it so you’d sleep with me.

The way you dance to these words gives Wanda pause and she knows that the woman across from her notices. Still, she recovers quickly and tries to scrub the way your hips move against your friend’s from her brain. At least for now.

“Have you made hotel arrangements yet? I can offer a few suggestions if not.”

Bianca politely declines her offer with another genuine smile that Wanda feels is reserved for very few.

“Thank you, Ms. Maximoff, but my fiancée has already taken care of it.”

Wanda nods and the pair continue to talk logistics until Wanda’s distracted again a few minutes later. She plans on wrapping things up quickly so she can join you. Or maybe drag you from the dancefloor and into the nearest dark corner.

After arrangements are made to meet again tomorrow and talk strategy, Wanda decides to cut this meeting short. She sees Bianca’s gaze drift over her shoulder once again toward where her guards are, and she wonders who just arrived.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I look forward to speaking with you again, Ms. Sullivan.”

Bianca nods and they both stand at the same time, their minds already on something else entirely.

“You as well, and thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Maximoff.”

Wanda barely notices her leaving the way she came as she makes eye contact with you. You’re smiling at her, and as soon as you realize you have her attention you take advantage of it. Wanda watches your mouth move, and you raise an arm and motion her toward you.

Baby, why don’t you come over?

Wanda doesn’t hear you say the words, but they still have their desired effect. She abandons the VIP area for the bustling dancefloor nearly running into half a dozen people on her way to you. She notices none of them and they seem to scatter the closer she gets to you. You’re still smiling and dancing as she reaches out for you, and she barely notices how your friends have discreetly turned away and formed a barrier between you and everyone else.

“It’s about time, Wands. I’ve been trying to use my feminine wiles to summon you for ages.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at your exaggerated tone before she pulls you closer by the hips with a huff. She takes a moment to admire the way you move as the beat of the song picks up. She tightens her hold on you when she remembers that you’ve been dancing like this without her for almost an hour.

She leans in so she doesn’t have to shout, and she smiles as you wrap your arms around her neck.

“I’m lucky that I’m the only one you summoned dancing like that.”

She hears you laugh and she pulls away to see you smiling mischievously before shrugging seemingly unconcerned.

“What can I say? Your meeting was taking too long.”

Wanda rolls her eyes again before she leans in to kiss you like she’s been wanting to all night. She pulls you flush against her and allows herself to pretend that it’s just the two of you. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.

Bianca smiles as she embraces her fiancée with a tired groan. It’s past 2am their time, and she’s exhausted, but at least she’s accomplished something. She’s glad that Wanda is amenable to their alliance because now she’s one step closer to ending things once and for all.

Maria puts an arm around her shoulders and shoots her a knowing look. She’s suddenly so relieved that her fiancée was willing to make this trip with her. Forget the fact she may not be in New York again for weeks. She always felt more settled when the redhead was around.

“Is it time to call it a night?”

Bianca considers having another drink with her fiancée, but it’s loud and she’s practically dead on her feet. So instead of cozying up here, she decides that the hotel that Maria booked will be more than sufficient.

“I think so. It’s been a long day.”

Maria smiles as she guides the taller woman down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the club where they’d parked. She ignores the normal shadows that follow them everywhere and considers how she can help her future wife decompress.

“Agreed. I think a hot bath and a massage would be a perfect way to end this day, hmm?”

Bianca smiles brightly as she follows Maria out into the parking lot. She pauses just long enough to plant a kiss on her lips, much to the chagrin of her bodyguards, before nodding in agreement.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Masterlist

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda x reader #silver springs #silver springs drabble #mob au

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forest-hashira · 1 year ago

Text

Birds of a Feather

happy pride everyone! finally some explicitly queer content (even tho nothing i write is cishet in my mind). another coming out fic. idc if it's cliche, it's a big deal for our girl and i'm very proud of her ok? also you legally have to be nice to me and her this whole month bc it's pride. also, this is my entry for @dearbraus's "blooming into you" collab! be sure to check out the rest of the masterlist 💜

series masterlist | read on ao3 | wc: ~2.4k | cw: gender neutral reader, transfem gojo, coming out, fluff, super light angst (she's nervous to come out), gumi's in this one!, hints of parental gojo/mentions of gojo raising megumi, megumi is a trans man in this au

Satoru continued to grow her hair out after you first trimmed her undercut, continued painting her nails, and wore her clear lip gloss to the school more days than not. She seemed content with things as they were – and if she was content, you were content – but when her hair got long enough for you to braid out of her face, she decided it was time to take another step in her transition.

“Don’t you think it’s time I told someone else about… well. About me, I guess,” she asked one evening while you were in the kitchen.

The question caught you off guard, and you finished setting up the rice cooker before turning to face her. She was avoiding your gaze, instead staring down at her nails; her polish was starting to chip a bit, and you’d been trying to break her of the habit of picking it off when it would chip.

“That’s not really my decision,” you responded gently, watching her closely. “Are you ready to tell anyone else?”

She hesitated, still not meeting your gaze. “I think people are starting to notice anyway.” Her words were so soft you nearly missed them, but the anxiety that permeated her words broke your heart.

“What makes you think that?” You stepped closer, crossing the room and taking her hands into your own when you noticed her start to pick at her nail polish. The odds that anyone had been cruel to her were low, but it didn’t ease the surge of protectiveness that flared in your chest.

“Nobara,” she said quietly. “She mentioned my hair, and my nails.”

Your brows furrowed; of course it was Nobara who said something first. “What did she say about them?”

A shrug. “Nothing in particular, really. Just pointed them out. She’s mentioned my nails a couple times.”

“Didn’t you say Yuji really liked your nails the first time Nobara pointed them out?” The smile Satoru had worn when sharing that piece of information with you a few weeks back had been so sweet, bashful but excited, nearly giddy that someone else liked the small changes she was making to her appearance.

“…Yeah,” she agreed, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. “He did. He had Nobara paint his nails after classes that day.”

A smile tugged at your own lips then, and you gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “See? Your students don’t think poorly of you for any of the changes you’ve already made. You don’t have to take any steps you’re not ready for yet.”

Finally, she looked up from her hands and met your gaze, managing a small and still slightly nervous smile. “I think… I think I am ready to tell someone else, though. I think it’ll help me feel better about all of this.”

You gave a small nod. “Alright, ‘Toru. If you’re really ready, I’ve got your back. Do you know who you want to tell?”

Her smile faltered slightly, but it didn’t disappear entirely. “Not really,” she admitted with a sigh. “I know I’ll tell everyone eventually, somehow, but it feels…” Satoru trailed off for a moment, and you could tell from her expression that she was trying to find the right words. “I dunno, just feels odd to rank how important people are to me, y’know?”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” you assured her. Another moment of silence passed as you considered the best way to reframe it for her, hopefully make it easier for her to decide who to tell first. “Well, think about it this way: this isn’t about how important each person is to you, at least not for what order you tell them in. This is about who you’re comfortable confiding in, or who you’re comfortable being open with. It’s about you, princess, not everyone else.”

Something in your girlfriend’s expression shifted as you spoke, almost like it was clicking for her, and you watched some of the tension bleed from her shoulders. “Yeah,” she agreed, smiling a bit brighter again. “Yeah, this is about me. You’re right.”

Seeing her more at ease had you smiling a bit brighter, too, and you squeezed her hands again. “Can I make a suggestion about who to tell?” you asked. “You can say no, of course. This is a big step forward, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to make the decision for you.”

“No, it’s okay, go ahead,” Satoru said. “I still don’t have anyone in mind, so I’m open to suggestions.” Her expression was earnest as she looked down at you, all of her attention focused on you.

“I think Megumi would be a good choice.”

The suggestion seemed to catch her off guard, and she blinked a few times before she spoke again. “Really?” she asked. “Why Gumi?”

“‘Cause he’s trans, too, remember?” you reminded, still smiling gently up at her. “He’ll understand.”

“Oh, yeah.” A fierce blush spread across her face almost faster than you could process, and you couldn’t help but giggle softly at her. It honestly didn’t surprise you that she had sort of forgotten about that detail of Megumi’s gender; it’s not like it was something that was discussed frequently between them, since Megumi was already presenting as a boy when Satoru first met him, and the revelation of him being trans didn’t come along until the boy started puberty. Megumi had always just been Megumi, and nobody that mattered had ever treated him any differently because he was trans. You knew that the boy would think the same of Satoru, and that he would even likely be one of Satoru’s fiercest advocates after he learned of this development.

“I think I will tell Gumi first,” Satoru said after a few moments. “Like you said, he’ll get it, and I think… I think that understanding is what I need to start with.”

“I’m really proud of you for recognizing that, ‘Toru,” you told her with a grin. This process hadn’t been all that easy on her, so being able to identify and verbalize her needs herself was a good sign.

As impossible as it should have been, she seemed to blush even more at your words, the red now stretching from the tips of her ears all the way down her neck, and all you could think was how much it made her eyes pop. Unable to resist, you pushed in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek before settling back into your former spot.

“You want some more time to think about how you wanna tell him?” you asked curiously, thumbs rubbing over her knuckles absentmindedly. You were a bit surprised when she shook her head, though.

“No,” she said softly. “If I think about it for too long I might talk myself out of it. I’ll tell him tomorrow after class.”

“Would you like me to be there with you when you tell him? For moral support?”

“...Yeah,” Satoru whispered. “Yeah, I would.”

“I’ll be there, then.”

The beep that indicated that the rice cooker was finished nearly made you both jump, but you just chuckled softly. “Alright, princess, we’ll figure everything else out later. For now, let’s eat.”

Just as you promised, you went to the school with lunch for yourself and Satoru, knowing that the break between classes and training was when your girlfriend was planning to speak to Megumi and share her life update. You arrived just as Satoru was finishing her lesson, and waited patiently outside the door, not wanting to interrupt at all. When the door slid open a couple minutes later, you took a half step back to give the students a bit more room to leave. You smiled at them as you saw them.

“Hi Nobara-chan, Yuji-kun. It’s good to see you,” you greeted as they passed you, but you reached out to catch Megumi before he could slip away. “Megumi, could you come back in with me for a moment?”

The boy paused when he felt your hand on his arm, and his brows furrowed slightly when you used his full name, rather than a nickname like you tended to do, since you’d known him so long; if you used his full name, it meant something serious was happening. “Yeah, of course.” He looked up when Yuji called out to him, and he quickly waved his classmates off, promising to catch up with them soon.

A slight sense of relief washed over you as Megumi agreed to come with you without any argument; he wasn’t as combative as he’d been when he was younger, but it was still nice when he didn’t make a fuss. The two of you stepped back into the classroom, where Satoru sat at her desk. She brightened a bit when she saw you and stood from her chair, though when she saw Megumi right behind you, it seemed to hit her all over again what was about to happen.

“Hi, ‘Toru,” you greeted, sliding the door to the classroom shut once Megumi was fully in the room with you. The action seemed to make him a little apprehensive, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t make to leave, either, which was another relief to you, and, you assumed, to Satoru.

Your girlfriend murmured a small greeting in return as you stepped closer, and allowed you to tug her around the front of the desk without fuss. She held tight to your hand as she came to stand beside you, though, and you could feel the faintest tremor in her grip.

“Is something wrong?” Megumi asked, glancing between the two of you, though his gaze lingered on Satoru a bit more; his teacher was rarely this quiet, so it was a definite sign that whatever this conversation was about, it was serious.

“No,” you answered right away, wanting to ease any nerves the boy might have. “Nothing’s wrong. Satoru has something to tell you, that’s all.”

You looked up at your partner then, offering her a soft smile when she looked back down at you, and when she seemed to hesitate, you squeezed her hand, silently encouraging her to share her news; you couldn’t do this for her, even if you hated how nervous she was about doing it herself.

She gave you a tiny nod, taking a deep breath and turning back to look at Megumi. “Well… I know you’ve noticed some changes with me recently,” she started. “Nobara was pretty insistent on pointing out my nails, and how my hair is growing out now.” With that, she pulled her blindfold down, allowing her hair to fall into her face completely for a moment before she ran her fingers through it, tugging lightly on it in a self-soothing motion. Despite the fact that her eyes were no longer covered, she still wasn’t quite making eye contact with the boy she’d spent the last ten years raising.

Megumi nodded at Satoru’s words, though he said nothing, clearly not wanting to interrupt and throw his sensei off from whatever it was Satoru was trying to tell him.

The snowy haired sorcerer let out a shaky breath before she continued. “Before I started painting my nails, or intentionally growing my hair out, or anything like that, I did some reflecting, and I… I realized that I’m not, uh. I’m not—”

You frowned when she got a bit choked up, and you squeezed her hand again, leaning in a bit and resting your head on her arm in silent support. The touch seemed to punch a small gasp from her, but it was enough to let her take a steadying breath and keep going, to let her finish what she started without fully breaking down in the middle.

“I realized that I’m not a man. I never have been, I just… didn’t have the words to explain it. Or the option to even consider it, really.” A small, almost bitter laugh escaped her then, but she shook her head slightly, likely pushing any of the lingering negative feelings aside.

Finally, she met Megumi’s steady gaze. “I’m still me,” she said. “I’m just… not a man. I’m a woman.” She shrugged slightly when she finished, and it wasn’t long before she dropped his gaze again.

The boy was silent for a few long moments, his expression unreadable as he nodded again, but when he finally spoke, you could feel the tension bleed from your girlfriend’s frame. “Do you still want me to call you Gojo-Sensei?”

Satoru’s head shot up at the question, her expression brightening. “Yeah,” she laughed softly. “Yeah, that’s fine. I like my name, I don’t plan on changing it.” She hesitated for a moment, unsure, then asked, voice small, “Can I give you a hug?”

The blush that dusted Megumi’s face at the question was endearing, and it made you smile, especially when he mumbled that yes, a hug was fine. Satoru was quick to release your hand and close the distance between herself and her ward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“Thanks, Gumi,” she whispered, face half buried in his hair.

His arms came up to wrap around her in return. “Just tell me when I can start correcting people about your pronouns and everything,” he replied. He peeked at you around his teacher’s arm, and you could see a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“You gonna get into fights defending me?” the sorceress asked, somewhat teasingly; given Megumi’s violent streak in middle school, it wasn’t entirely impossible.

“If I have to, yeah. Nobody’s getting away with that shit on my watch.”

She let out a choked half-laugh, half-sob at his words, and squeezed him a bit tighter. “I love you, Gumi.”

The words caught both you and Megumi off guard, his face going an even deeper shade of red; Satoru hadn’t said those words to the boy since he was little, probably because he’d been resistant to the sentiment – understandably so, after everything he’d gone through so early in his life.

This time, though, he didn’t try to squirm away from the affection, or deflect or ignore what had been said to him. Instead, he squeezed Satoru a bit tighter, and whispered something that sounded an awful lot like “Love you, too.”

i'm an animal rn apparently sorry guys. i've finished 3 fics in 8 days (even tho i've spaced out posting them here). i hope you're enjoying my insanity at least AHAHA. also peep the new divider!!! i'll be using it going forward bc it's cute and is perfect for this series 💜

taglist: @mitsuristoleme @redlikerozez @dr-runs-with-scissors @teddybeartoji @gods-landing @dearbraus (sign up for my taglist here!)

dividers by cafekitsune

#fallon's fics #transfem gojo #trans gojo #trans gojo satoru #gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk fanfiction #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk reader insert

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