#or just sell it I suppose? not sure yet but i can figure it out later

[kirkwallguy]

ok i complain a lot. but inquisition definitely has the worst loot system in any game ive ever played. none of the da games are great with it but dai is almost impressive with how bad it is

[capslocked]

HONNE, TATAMAE & THE OTHER ONE

male reader x shin yuna

9k words

Yuna shuffles into your office with the same sneaky smile, the same easy slouch, and she settles into one of the chairs across the table. There is, apparently, more to talk about.

It's a matter of image, of perception, is what she believes. 

You know every good lie starts with the truth.

So you swallow. You pause. Some other part of you understands Yuna can't ignore who she really is, and you’re not sure you can either.

-

Look - Shin Yuna is the kind of woman that turns heads, even with the best of intentions. A long, lithe silhouette; an easy, rosy sort of youthfulness clinging to the swell of her cheekbones, the curve of her waist. Take a dress that's cut to show a little thigh, or a hairstyle pushed back on one side - earrings, or heels, or just the subtle swipe of red over her lip - it doesn't take much for men (or anyone else) to figure that out. A girl who, more times than not, really ought to have a boy's hand planted on her ass, in possession.

So the opportunity to capture such a form perfected - all toned and graceful and flush for curves, her legs never seeming to end, the slithering fit of the dresses - these were the things they wanted. Package it, put a logo on it - better yet, a ribbon or a bow - and ship it straight to the consumer.

Somebody everyone wants, somebody no one can ever have.

“So,” Yuna asks from the other side of your desk, lips slanting halfway coy. “Are you going to treat me like an adult?"

Her fingers play idly with the hem of her skirt, and she lets a long, slender leg slowly slide out from beneath her.

“In what way,” you answer, half paying attention.

"The photos." She doesn't have the slightest qualms about lifting it higher. The soft creak of leather, and a deepening smile. "Am I not allowed to be a little racy?"

"That's certainly... one way of looking at it."

You glance away from where her stockings wrap around the soft curve of her thighs to flip back through the photos in your lap, one after the other, each a little different from the last. The beach, the sun, a flimsy white slip of a bikini top that hides exactly nothing, her muscles wet and glistening and perfect. Beyond suggestive, it's considerably inappropriate.

But then to a lot of people, Yuna is a lot of things. 

She’s more clever than anyone gives her credit for. And she’s fucking gorgeous, sure. That’s definitely not up for debate, but god is she young - she's barely twenty. And here’s some rather uninteresting food for thought: you couldn't even technically take her for a drink without faking an ID or breaking some law or another, like a real one. So go ahead, chew that down. Girls her age are typically studying, or working a retail job and getting wasted on the weekends. And they aren't typically making six, seven figures turning their head to the camera and asking how much more skin?

You have some thoughts.

Prudently, you’re her publicist, and it’s your job to make sure that the public gets a good look at her and sees exactly what you want them to see. It's unfair. She wields sex like a weapon. She's got the face, the body; it's an easy sell, commodified and commercialized down to the finest detail, the softest curve, the slightest arch of her brow. The idea's to not let anyone look too long, should they catch something you haven't approved yet, or the fact that she's quite possibly a real person with a real life and real feelings, which could easily fuck up her brand, so unfortunately, that's a bit of a no-go.

Sign of the times maybe, no ethical consumption under another something, yadda yadda - it's a shitty business, really, and the whole thing usually leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

(And just to be upfront, as an important disclosure: you are fucking her brains out on the side, which is a different kind of ethical dilemma, with a different kind of flavor to it. 

You’re supposed to be something of a role model - and she’s gone and fucked up bad by falling for you. From her perspective, it probably makes sense. Girl gets boy, bespoke song, credits roll and it's fine. No sin to atone, no 'after'. 

It was supposed to be a one time thing. It’s metastasizing into something you’re not even going to attempt to put into words. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, you know that. And you know the girl has daddy issues, but then you've never had a problem whatsoever playing into it. The possessiveness, the control - she gets off on it. You're pretty sure that she'd do just about anything if you asked her, and you'll admit that the thought alone makes your stomach stir, your mouth run dry.)

Yuna taps her knuckles on the wood of your desk. “What’s the verdict?” 

"Well, professionally," you say, caveat in hand, and you give the photos one last flip through. "I'd say they're fine.”

"Oh?" Yuna cocks her head to the side. Her long, blonde hair curtains over her shoulder, and the smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth is almost wicked. She leans forward, chin propped on a palm, and you see that her expression is bright, glittering with interest. "And unprofessionally?"

Sure. It's a fair question.

Though she's wearing her stage face, the one that looks all big eyes and doe lashes, a hint of a pout on her plush bottom lip, and she's staring at you expectantly, the way she might look at a man she's just asked for the time.

You've seen her look a million other ways. You've seen her with her knees spread, her cheeks flushed, on all fours, straddling your lap, face pressed into the sliding glass door of your shower, her eyes screwed shut as she chokes out your name. And god, doesn’t she look good in all of them.

Your fingers tap against the photos.

“Unprofessionally," you tell her, and the smile on your face is tight - unknowable. "I think they’re a little… gaudy."

Yuna frowns, and it's just a flash before her expression is carefully blank again, the stage face back in full swing. She's been doing this since she was a teenager, so the mask is impeccable, but you know her, and you know that she's thinking: about the photo shoot, the way the photographer was looking at her, and the way you had looked at her later, too.

She knows what you've seen. She's wondering if that's why.

"Really," she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Really," you confirm with a small sigh, though you're still smiling. It's a small, private sort of smile, like you're remembering a joke. You don't miss the way she glances down at your mouth either. "Let me be clear, you have a shot at real success. I mean, you have a chance at a career. A real, sustainable career.”

She's sitting there with her legs crossed, her foot tapping restlessly, and when she's silent for a moment too long, the way her eyes narrow just a smidge, her head tipped slightly, you realize how it sounds. Patronizing.

"Look," you amend. You're not the best at apologies, but you try. "I just mean - I think that you could be doing something that you actually enjoy."

"Who says I don't enjoy this," she says, and there's a bite in her tone, a challenge. She's leaning back in her seat now, arms crossed.

"What, taking your clothes off for the camera?" You laugh, a quick bark. Isn’t that a cruel question, and you can see it in the way her eyes flash. "You could do a lot more than that, I'm just saying."

"Right," she says, and she doesn't blink, doesn't even move. Her gaze is fixed, unwavering. "Because I'm not pretty enough."

You open your mouth. Close it.

It's not a question. It's a statement.

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"Do you know what makes me different from the IT-girl-of-the-month? The Jang Wonyoungs, the Bae Irenes, the Kim Jisoos of the world?" Yuna cuts in.

"Yuna, this isn't-"

"You should know. " She laughs. "It's your job, knowing things, isn't it?"

The silence stretches thin between you. She's not wrong. There’s the quintessential beauty, the timeless classic, the fantasy-wrapped-up-as-a-daydream - oh, it's all sexual, but the product there is palatable (read: marketable). An idea the general public wants to take home to their mother, not take to bed. A beauty so docile and innocent, you feel guilty harboring those untoward thoughts it makes you have.

Yuna is somewhere possibly, someway probably the opposite. You’ve sold her as such, as fantasy in sheep's clothing. She's neither afraid to put the images to words, nor speak her desires aloud. It's her own brand of sensuality, and it's what the public wants - has always truly wanted, since the dawn of man and of popstars fucking their publicists - what the public wants but turns itself in knots just to pretend they don't. The only way it’ll end up in anyones’ parents' home is under the guise that it will be smuggled upstairs and held down into the springs of a mattress. Hand over her mouth, or maybe around her throat, just so she'll shut up.

She's not a nice girl, or the girl-next-door, a bride-in-a-box, but you'd known that before. The line between fact and fiction is fine indeed.

"You're different," you tell her, finally.

"When I first came in here, you had no qualms, no issue to raise, and now all of a sudden, everything is too much," she says, and she's not smiling, her tone flat. "If it was a problem from the jump, you would've said so."

“I just think a little subtlety would be a nice change of pace. It could go a long way, I mean, I could show you the data- "

"So you're going soft on me, is that it?"

You blink, and the realization hits.

"Just where was this noble version of you when we first started out? You had no problem then, remember? Put a sixteen-year-old in front of a camera, in this industry, and all of a sudden-"

"Don't."

“And suddenly it's all 'oh no, that's a little too much, we need to dial it back'." She sighs, a single sharp burst. "Why is that? Is it because you think that now you own me? I fuck you, swallow your cum and call you daddy, and now these are your decisions? Is that it?"

She’s standing now, her chair shoved back so fast it nearly clatters to the floor. There's a storm on her face, almost a rage. This now become a familiar story. The one where the girl's too pretty for her own good. Too much, too soon.

"I'm not a child," she tells you, her tone measured, a sharp contrast to the fire in her eyes. "I know what I want. I know how to get it. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I'm different. You're right."

She's different, but the girl's clever, too. And she's stubborn. It's a dangerous combination.

You breathe slow. "Then why don’t you act like it."

“If they’re going to call me a slut,” she hisses, and she's walking forward. Her palms land on your desk, hard, and you glance down at her clenched fists, at her neatly kept nails, "you know, after we leak them all those steamy photos online-"

Your mind clicks. You reach to slam the cover of the photo book shut. She's caught your hand, though, in hers, holding it firmly to the desk.

Yuna glances at the photos over again, at the tight fit of the swimwear, or how the ties slip in an invisible breeze. And she's biting her lip, trying not to smile, you can tell. "You know it might be worth it for once," she says, slipping a finger between the buttons of her shirt.

There's a long, tense moment, and before you can register it, Yuna has rounded your desk; she’s closing the distance, fast. 

And she’s lowering her eyes. Putting her lips on yours.

It knocks the wind from your sail, for just the instant. You're speechless.

Because her fingers. Her mouth. Her hair. Yuna's everywhere, and she's warm. It's utterly selfish, you understand: you want her to be yours. You want her to be yours and no one else's.

She’s realizing she might be.

You feel her grabbing for more of you. Wanting. She tilts her head, her breath hot, and you kiss her back, her mouth slick against your own, and the kiss is a fast, deliberate kind of messy. Your teeth catch her bottom lip, and her tongue slips past yours, licking into your mouth, her hands clutching at the collar of your shirt. It's not like it is when you're fucking, which is slow and hot, and she's on her back, legs around your waist, her nails biting into your skin, or when she's bent over the arm of the sofa, her ass in the air and her back arched, her breathless moans a chorus of yes, yes, please. This kiss is more battle, more heat, less gentle and less finesse. It's the kind of kiss that's just short of an argument.

"You're an asshole," she breathes into your mouth, and it's not a compliment.

You smile against her.

"So are you," you murmur, and her lips are parted, her eyelids fluttering shut, her breath coming quick and hot.

"Then maybe you should just fuck me," she says. She's not asking. “Yeah.” You press your words right into her neck, her collarbone. “Maybe I should.”

Your hands are on her hips faster than you can realize what it is they’re doing, palms pressing into her, and then you're walking her backwards, shuffling a few steps until the small of her back collides with the edge of your desk, and you're lifting her up onto the surface, the photographs falling to the floor, scattering.

"I thought we weren't supposed to do this here," she murmurs, pulling away for just a moment, her mouth swollen and wet, her eyes dark. She knows exactly what it does to you: the goading, the taunting - the looks of faux-innocence later over a bare shoulder, her ass in the air. How it can get you to fuck her within an inch of her life. What it’ll get her, the return on investment.

"And I thought we agreed to longer skirts."

Her thighs are smooth, silky, and they part, the lace of her underwear stark against her skin. You slide a hand beneath the elastic band, sinking down, and down, until she inhales sharply.

"The fuck do you end up doing going up the stairs?" you add, and your fingers are tracing the swell of her hip, and you can feel the goosebumps on her skin.

She bites her lip. You sink down to press a kiss to her thigh, and then the other.

"Nothing," she tells you, and her eyes are wide. "I guess it all just hangs out."

She simply smirks right back into you, throws her arms over your shoulders. You’re snared, caught - she’ll always be able to fuck what she wants right out of you.

"Jesus, Yuna." Your hand curls around her wrist, thumb pressed to her pulse, and her shoulders roll back.

You push her down, and she's sprawled across the desk, legs stretching wide, her head tilted back and her chest heaving. “God, you’re so fucking wet, and I've barely touched you. That turns you on? Being a brat?"

She sucks air past her teeth, and you can measure each rise and fall of her chest. The lace under her hips is soaked, her pussy swollen and pink. Like if she doesn’t get your hot, open mouth on her clit this instant, you’re both going to have a problem.

You slip two fingers into her instead, and Yuna keens.

"I know it does," you say, and your voice comes out lower, drier than you expect. She's hot, so wet around you, her pussy fluttering. "It fucking turns me on, too."

"Please," and “god,” is what all you receive back in half whispers, while her legs are spread, her heels now really dug into the square of your back, and she's got a fistful of your hair like she owns it. Her voice is high, her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t be such a fucking tease."

You're not going to make it easy. She's not going to make this quick.

"What, and you aren’t?"

You curl your fingers inside her, and the noise that leaves her is positively obscene. She's grinding against your palm, her hips bucking, and her lips are parted, her eyelashes dark and thick, fanning her cheeks. She's panting, her thighs trembling.

"No," she breathes. If she’s shaking her head, you can’t tell. "I'm exactly what you tell them I am."

Your hand stills, and it takes a moment for her to realize that the pressure inside her is gone. Her eyes snap open, her mouth twisted.

"Fuck you," she spits. "Put them back."

You're already sinking down to your knees, and you've got her skirt shoved up, the lace panties pulled aside, her hips canted, her pussy glistening. The stockings can stay, fuck, the heels, too. She's so fucking hot, her legs spread apart and her lips red. Her palm shoved into her brow, and her breath just barely more than a ragged huff of air. You can feel her body wound tight and ready, her eyes on the ceiling.

You put your tongue against her, flat and slow. Inaccurate, indiscriminate, licking up her wet cunt. And her whole body arches off the desk, a cry leaving her mouth with her head thrown back. Her thighs are shaking, and her heel presses into your shoulder, and god, she tastes incredible.

"Please." It comes like music, really, a song of desperation. You can hear it. She's singing it for you now. "Oh god, please, fuck-"

So you do her one better. You put your whole mouth over her, and she fucking shivers. You don’t even try to ease into it - you're devouring, ravishing her, working your lips and tongue all over her pussy, lapping the length of her in broad, hot strokes, and she's almost shrieking, her body going taut. You suck on her lips, pressing your tongue into her clit, and when you pull off her, your hand takes over the place where your tongue can't quite reach, her wetness slick around your fingers. Yuna's close - you can see that she is, you can hear that she is, and it's her gasp that lets you know.

"I'm -" she says, her voice reaching higher, her nails digging into the flesh of your shoulders, the wood of your desk. The sound she makes is wretched and beautiful. "God, I'm cumming, I'm cumming - fuck!"

The licking, the lapping, the fucking fingering. You can feel her slicked cunt pulse and throb in a satisfied, anticipatory kind of way. Even if she wasn’t audibly wet around your knuckles, you’d read Yuna like a map.

Your thumb taps across her clit, once - twice, thrice, and it’s just that.

She arches off your desk, thighs trembling as your tongue works her over, This hard, hungry kiss, and she tastes as sweet as she looks - as filthy as she acts, too. Her pussy is slick, her hips rolling, her body trembling, and she's making soft, little ah, ah, ah, sounds into the wet seal of your mouth. She's trying to keep it quiet, because she knows as well as you, everyone in the damn office does, probably - it's one thing to play at being a slut. A complete other to really fuck like one.

Your finger slips in and out of her pussy, and then another. They fill her up. The knuckles bending and pushing deeper. Yuna's fucking ruined - your desk is ruined.

But then there you are, complicit, and perhaps a little evil: licking and licking and licking right into her, making her grip twist in your hair and her thighs clench around your face. You can feel it in how her breathing is coming fast, faster, her whole body growing taut, and it was never going to take long, you figure, the way her hips were rolling the moment you got your hands on her. You can tell. She's close, and she's so pretty, all flushed and writhing, her skirt hiked up, her ass perched on the edge of your desk, and when her mouth falls open and her breath catches in her throat, you pull yourself up to watch her, the heel of your hand pressed against her clit, and she's shaking.

"Look at me,” you tell her, a kiss trailing unsatisfyingly into the crease of her thigh, your voice running coarse.

She does, her gaze glassy, and the sound that leaves her mouth is a sob. That’s all it really takes.

“Show me. What face you make when you cum on my fingers sweetheart, show me what a slut you actually are-"

You can watch it all in real time, the panting, the heaving. The sculpted lines of her pretty face screw up, real tight, and she lets out another moan, breathier this time, her mouth hanging open. She does it again when you press down. And Yuna fucking shakes, her hands balled, white-knuckling, and the desk rattling beneath her.

It's all a matter of slight degradation, you’ve learned, the barest humiliation. Like the paradoxical freedom she knows she can find in a hand clenched tight around her throat or her hair pulled and twisted into a fist or the sharp sting of a smack across her ass. Her pretty face. She likes a little something that burns. Something sinewy, visceral, raw: you call her a whore, a filthy fucking cumslut and it makes her body curl like she has hot metal pressing into her skin. Makes her breathless, like she wants you to own her.

Sometimes it's better than being fucked.

(Sometimes.)

Because just look at her: she’s in the middle of coming apart, mouth fallen slack, brow furrowed - and she gets real quiet when she cums, the absolute opposite of the journey she’d taken to get there, all those loud little, uh-uh-ah, fucking please god, her moans, her whimpers - her orgasm ripping right through the middle of her, the hourglass of her entire body stiffening on borrowed time as it washes across her features.

You let out a loud sigh, something she can moor herself to that isn’t your fingers, the desk, or your hair at the roots. Yuna can be every bit as uncomplicated as she can be complex, but god, you love her most like this: an unrehearsed, beautiful mess.

"Baby," you tell her, because it's easier to just call her that, and because you don't know how else to end the statement, because you know if you ask, she'll let you - hell, she'll beg for more, and that’s got your brain feeling rather mushily incoherent at present.

"Daddy," she responds - because of course she fucking does; she’s gasping, and her cheeks are still so pink, her body sated, and your heart leaps into your throat. 

It's a problem; you've been trying to work it out for a good few months now, and by this, you mean the little moment you have right after you're done, where your eyes meet, and you smile at her. A problem, too, her lips. A problem, because she kisses you, soft, and slow, and easy. A problem, because her heart's probably already yours.

If anyone were to ask, you would have said there's no greater pleasure than knowing a girl that's almost died to take your cock, but maybe that's the point: it's just supposed to feel a bit better if you're a little head over heels, a little stupid about it too.

"I'm going to use this perfect pussy now," you warn her - just simple formality - because you're already rolling her down onto her back, your cock hard and aching against your trousers.

You've got your hands on her stockings, tugging them down to her ankles, the lace of her panties around her thighs, the neat garter of her garter belt wrapped around her hips, her cunt bare beneath it. You unzip, too slow. You tug yourself out.

“I’ll be good,” she says to you, a promise.

“Yeah,” you return to her, “I know.”

And you slip your cock into her cunt, just barely - maybe an inch, maybe more - and you hear a little noise leave her throat, low. Broken. 

“Fuck,” she murmurs, and god, you just can't help it, it's easy; you sink deeper, nice, slow, everything smooth inside her, until another broken sort of gasp spills off her lips. 

And then another: "oh my fucking god."

You snap your hips back in, bottoming out this time in the wet heat of her perfect cunt, and she just fucking collapses. Yuna looks like an absolute dream in this state of half-dress, half-distress: black suede around the ankles, stilettos, with just the perfect heel. There are worse things, you can imagine, and she looks perfect sprawled out against your notes and portfolios, all this hot, aching want. As gorgeous as she is fucked. You tear into her stockings, a little. You’ll tear more. 

You already know you're going to hell. Or at least that’s where you should already be, but you hips crash into hers again, fucking her legs wider apart, spreading her open across your desk for you, getting her slick all over the photos, her career - it’s all so perfectly unfair.

"You have no idea, the things I want to do to you right now," you breathe, your tone hushed, and you're talking again, like you often do. There goes your mouth - but your hips drag back, and then again, her pussy clenching, vice tight and impossibly wet.

It's a long, torturous, lazy sort of a pull, that draws these pretty thin moans from the very center of her.

And the way that feels, your cock buried deep in her cunt: better than good - heaven, if you care enough about labels for it, or the names of things. You haven’t any real way to tell; the gates haven't opened or anything, so all you're working from here is an educated guess. From the fact that Yuna’s eyes have slid closed, her lips parted, and her whole body starting now to tremble gently with it.

"Jesus, this perfect, tight pussy grips me so good, god - such a good girl, always so fucking wet for me," and your mouth is pressed to the arch of her ear, whispering every last thing you know will make her cum again, like a dream.

And she is, she does.

She's twisting up to grip at your hips, her head falling to one side. When you drag your cock through her cunt, slowly, you watch her lips purse and the way the flush moves all the way down the column of her neck, past her collarbone, her shirt half undone and her tits heaving against the white, sheer fabric. You fuck her for a little, and then you roll your hips slow, so slow. 

Until your pace is fucking punishing, deep, and so hard. You can’t help it.

Because it's unbelievable - she's so perfect, so tight around you. Fit snug like a glove, like she was made to take your cock, to whimper and mewl at your mercy. Her lips part further and she keens, her brows twisting in similar disbelief as you pound your length into her. The heat pooled in your belly, the way she looks under your desk: fuck, she's so beautiful like this, properly fucked. 

You'd let her ruin you for life - it's that simple.

"Yuna, you - fuck," you barely say, and you sound more than slightly stunned, so she’s filling in the gaps, elaborating in the spaces you cannot - that she loves it, that you’re so good for her, and so is that, and that, and that - the way it hits, right there, keep fucking her just like that, because right there, right there, right there, right there - the way she props herself up on her elbows to tell you, "you're fucking me so deep, oh my god - yes, oh my god, fuck."

By the time Yuna shudders through another orgasm, a silent ghost of a wail leaving her pretty frozen mouth, her lashes are batting against her cheeks, and she's biting her lip, so hard you're certain she's going to break the skin, her back strung like a bow. It's the look on her face, that soft sort of reverence, and how her lips are swollen and spit-slick, the pretty hollow of her throat. Your thrusts become faster, shorter - your own moan thick in your throat, your jaw hanging slack.

“Here,” you say, and she’s just putty between your fingers, on your cock.

You’re flipping her around, onto a different angle. You know she likes it, the way her tits are pressed against your desk, and it's hot the way her ass tilts right into your hips, arched. Proffering. "Be good for me, and spread yourself open."

She's already so meek when she complies. "Anything, sir. Stretch me out; I want you to make me yours."

God, she's practically purring when she talks like this. She knows exactly what that fucking does to you. Knows that when her eyes draw back, big and watery and full, you're a goner - if your cock wasn't deep in her pussy, fucking her open and raw, the view would nearly be enough. And all of this, the pretense, the pantomime, she knows how to bend the line of your body to her own, because when she turns, and presses her red mouth to the crest of her shoulder, you are hers.

You could probably cum, right now, deep down into the molten hot of her cunt: if your hips keep up their ruthless pace, if her ass was sticking up the slightest bit more - the sound that would come from her.

"Take that perfect cock - and fuck my pussy up," Yuna mewls, her voice saccharine and slurring, a touch whiny. She rolls her hips. Your cock grinds, still, though it stutters now - shallow and quick.

"All this pussy, for daddy's cock," and you're sure that the entire office can hear her now, the moans that escape from her mouth - but you can't even find it in you to care. You're caught, all of her a net you've willingly been ensnared by, and here you figure that's the slightest bit appropriate; you're so fucked, and it's funny, too. Funny enough to laugh about, later. "Nobody fucks this tight little pussy the way you do, sir."

It's a smile she hears in your voice when you say, "is that right? Go on then, let’s hear all the things you'd have me do to your slutty little cunt."

The line's crossed again, in some indecipherable direction. Where, again, exactly, does it matter? There are lines and lines, and none of them quite mark the beginning, the end, the periphery. This time you don't pull back; you dig deep, and it makes Yuna cry out like you’re killing her. Which, in a way - you already have.

So your hips stutter forward again, once more, and you lean into the slant, so fucking deep it's practically impaled. There’s nothing quite like holding this girl’s hips and pounding her from behind. Her pussy alone is fucking incredible. And the sound her ass makes against the flat of your stomach, the crease of your thighs - it's unimaginable, the way Yuna makes these little squeaks of a noise, like half-broken moans, when you fuck deep, deep, deeper into her. The way her arms splay wide and search frantic across your desk. And as you grab her slim, dainty wrist, pin it back and pull her tight - fixing her upright until you have her head lolling back against your chest - you simply fucking pound away.

Fucking all these little curses and sounds of appreciation out of her throat. Your cock forcing out each syllable, "yes," and "fuck," and "god, oh my fucking god - I cannot believe," now on repeat, how her tone grows tighter. How she moans - a lot, like something's being worked loose.

"Uh-uh," and you're holding her steady now, with one broad, strong hand at the back of her neck. "Keep telling me, and maybe I'll let you cum."

Your free hand finds purchase in her hair. Yuna's groan coming out pathetic and wanting, her mouth half open. You wrap her silky golden locks around your fist, her hair thread neatly through your fingers, and then give the slightest of yanks.

Christ, her pussy just fucking soaks onto you. Greedy. Needy.

"Shit," and Yuna gasps when she can, where she's allowed to.

"Oh, is my little girl into getting her hair pulled?" and you can see the signs of affirmation: the muscles inside her flexing, grasping you as you roll in, a small, soft nod, and the way she sighs your name, like a prayer on her lips.

Listen, she can barely speak, the way you're fucking her apart. Yuna's body is wound like a bow, like string and taught wire. Bent into the side of the desk and open for you, her pussy pulsing tight around you with every stroke.

"Sir, I'll do - whatever you need, just - just - let me have your cum, please -" and there, she's begging now, and her voice is tinny, breaking, breathless and airless.

Then it’s her fucking hair. You pull so much on it harder this time, with another measured thrust inside her, your body flush against her ass. Fingerprints searing down onto where her hips flare and taper, impossibly narrow.

You’re probably hurting her. You’re probably ruining her for anyone else - nothing will ever satiate her more than the way she sobs as your fingers twist tighter through her hair. Around her fucking miracle of a waist. It's an obscene sound that echoes down to your cock, as deep, hot and fucking filthy as her cries when she cums for the third, fourth?

"Just," Yuna barely makes, her eyelids heavy, her gaze flitting somewhere behind her. "Just look at you, fucking me so hard, filling up my tight little pussy, making me take everything your cock has to give. God, you love wrecking my perfect little hole, don't you?"

No, or yes, or probably. You’ll figure out the details later.

"God, I love it when you get real messy, when I get you like this-" your words run seamlessly into the searing heat between your bodies, like punctuation, like the end of days -

"Use me." She doesn't just say it. "Take me, and cum in me, wherever you want. Daddy, you can have my mouth, or, or, you can - you can finish inside me."

And god, you could, you really could: just the timbre of her voice does things to you, the way that it curls around the words daddy, and sir, and you're fucking me so goddamn good. She's saying them now, her whimpers breaking into outright moans and all: shit, please, please - you're gonna make me cum - oh - oh fuck! And when she's wound that tight, a quivering, sopping mess of a girl, you put your fingers against her clit, circling and pressing in tempo to the thrust of your cock.

The cruel metronome that makes. Hell, it fucking sends her.

She’s begging you to finish inside her. It's fucked up - and she knows it. She wraps her heels around the square of your back, and the tension rises, and rises, the coiled spring tight and waiting - just a push away, so you slam into her once, then twice more, the push of a hand splayed between her tits and your fingers digging into the muscle of her thigh. She wants you to cum in her pussy, fill her right up; she tells you that, again, that she wants it, and her voice is raspy, high. That she wants you now, as if she didn't before, and how does this compare, because she needs it now.

You hold out for just a little. You’re holding your breath. Just a little, just until Yuna’s eyelashes flutter open over her shoulder and she says your name, so sweetly, and says, "please, just, inside."

You shouldn't.

You can't.

So here, barely able to think at all, you end up doing the unthinkable - thinking all the while of pumping her right to the finish and draining your balls straight into the deepest reach of her cunt, how fucking tempting it may be - you muster an ounce of good judgment still adrift in a sea of lust. Your throbbing cock draws out of that wet, inviting heat and into your fist, and watch how that makes her begin to unspool: the way she tries to press her knees shut. She's sobbing for it, pleading, her lashes dark with tears. "No, no, fuck me, please, I'm begging you. Please, I'm going to be so good - god, please -"

You tug her back, look her in the eye, and let out a loud, shaky exhale. "Knees, princess."

She's too wracked with need to do anything other than comply. Her jaw drops. “But-”

"Mouth," you cut in, sharp enough that her gaze lifts, and you're right there - on the precipice, so close, watching her tongue dart out of her mouth to run across the swell of her bottom lip.

Watching her knees fold into the carpet, her stockings down loose around her thighs, her underwear hanging off an ankle. The rise and fall of her chest like rolling waves, and you can see her hands fisting on her knees, and her face: you watch the emotion flash over, like water on glass, and a moment is all it takes. She leans her face forward to your hand, as you wind her hair into your fist, her lips parted and her gaze lowered. She's obedient, taking the weight of your cock with her pretty pink mouth like the fucked-up-little-fantasy that she is, opening so nice and wide.

Her eyes flit up to yours, her mascara-ringed lashes fanned against the pink of her cheeks.

"My face," she tells you, or something close to it, "fuck my face. Go ahead, use it - cum all over me."

Your cock slides halfway home, her cheeks hollowing, and when it presses to the back of her throat, she gags. You curse and tip your head back, the wood of your desk digging into the flesh of your palm.

"What did you say," you half groan out. "Baby," you add, just for good measure, just to play along, "c'mon."

The tip of Yuna's tongue sweeps and swirls just beneath your cockhead, and she moans her answer around your length, lapping at a leak of precum. "I said," she's repeating now, her cheek brushing across your shaft, and you shudder. "Fuck, what I said was I want you to cum all over my face."

Jesus.

You bury your cock into her mouth once, twice. Let it sit there. Let her really struggle for it, the angle just a tad awkward from above. Let her lips stretch wide, and her shoulders shake a little - tears start to gather, pricking her eyes, her lipstick a mess, the way your cock fits, plugging up her throat so full. You hold her like that for just a second, a little less - until Yuna's moaning, the vibration low in her mouth, and her eyes flutter open, closed.

"Fuck," you spit out, and "perfect," and your voice is shot, your whole face warm, and you're going to cum on her - everywhere on her. Yuna, who’s been staring up at you in wide-eyed submission, gives you a little nod, like she means it.

Like she’s earned it.

And maybe she has: it only takes one last look to seal it - her hand curled around your cock, her cheek matted with her own spit and lipstick, the bright smudge of her own cum from the point of her chin to the cleft of her cupid's bow, and her eyes are locked on yours, eager and hot. Maybe she hasn't - and maybe you should make her beg, fuck her mouth some more - it's almost cruel, how she looks. A perfectly pretty picture, poised and pliant and waiting, and she's right there, beneath you, and fuck - this is so wrong, and you'll ruin her, you'll mark her up like this. She'll be painted like a work of art.

Your pulse thickens. Stands right up in your veins.

Then, your control, snapping: her pretty lashes flutter, her mouth gone slack, her jaw still tilted up like she expects a gift, an offering, her palm wrapped so nice and snug around the base of your cock, her expression dazed, and so easy, and perfect, so eager. You tilt your hips just a fraction further, and she fucking swallows, her tongue tracing the underside where you throb harder, heavier - her body lilting up as you press in so deep.

“God,” you breathe in, out. It hits hard. It hits fast. “Yuna-”

A tensing of your stomach coils up through like smoke, and your grip tightens on the edge of your desk, the other in her hair, a helpless, desperate thrusting, and there - it's a wonderful, brilliant sort of explosion, like light, the white-hot burn of a fever breaking. You cum all over her face and into her hair, spilling out streaks of hot, filthy white onto her sculpted features and the sweet line of her throat, and god, there's so much, she's taking it so easily, all her breathing hot and heavy and loud.

Her skin alabaster and porcelain; cotton and canvas; she lets you fucking paint her, all messy and ruined.

In fact she’s even smiling like she’s holding in a laugh, all gooey-soft with satisfaction, and you're jerking your cock slow through her slender fingers, even after there's nothing else left to give and every inch of her face is marked - the way she wears your cum like new skin. You feel the shockwave tear your nerves open, and then the calm, right on its heels, spreading out from your core to your fingertips, out through the roots of your hair.

"Ah," you exhale, a tight gasp. Yuna takes the entirety of you into her mouth, sucking down your length - harder - as she swallows back a final, sticky load, her own hair sweat-slick to her face.

Just look at the damage: that’s a story not even you’d be able to spin. There's cum on her nose, dribbling past her cheek. On her jaw and on her cheek. Filthy white streaked all over her parted lips, her neck. Down her shoulder blades, and soiling her hair, and leaking down past her collarbones.

(Christ, was this better or worse? You can't even tell. Every version of her that's been served on a plate for you has seen fit to make you sweat.)

When the dust begins to settle, you’re left panting and spent. Yuna, the collateral on this fine, whiny, disaster of a deal. A collection of photos, and some thoughts and ideas, that now sit disheveled on the ground. There's a scathing voice inside your head that's demanding to be heard, reminding you all-too-casually that this is not any way to manage a client. She could snap her fingers, call out to that sycophant at the top floor, and your career would be over - she could do anything she should ever desire.

You know, on a baser level, this, and worse: the duality of the thought. Her tight cunt on your desk, you on your knees; the sharp gasp you can steal from the top of her throat, perhaps when she feels the gentle pressure of teeth around one rosy nipple. The pinch of your thumb and index finger around the other. Her nails down your back in ten angry lines, and the throb in her throat, while you slide the whole width of a hand, rough, over the flesh of her ass.

Maybe the desk, like everything else, can just join the pile on the floor.

"Yuna," you say, the vowels pitching like a sigh.

Her palms find the sharp crease in your pants and slide upward. She's gazing up at you, bright, her face sticky with you.

"You can't send me out like this," she tells you, matter-of-factly, letting a smile cross the lines of her lips - or a smirk. A wordless extension of the previous sentence - of a few.

You pull out and away from her: a white and gray dotted tie hanging loose, unknotted; a button still fastened somewhere mid-center, your trousers pulled off and loose down just below your knees, the fly gaping open. She's in a similar state, the cups of her bra slipping loose, her mouth flushed, lips swollen and red, the outline of how she’d let you use her in a smeary, runny stain across her cheek.

"Maybe let your manager know," you tell her, pulling your belt in place, and you think you catch her eye rolling. "That you're going to be late."

Yuna doesn't hesitate.

"Tell her yourself," she responds, "I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear I'm not actually dead - just having gotten fucked stupid on my PR person's cock."

"I might forget to include a couple details."

"You shouldn’t." Her eyebrows jump. And she's chewing, lazily, on the full curve of her lower lip, her teeth glinting like razors. "Here, before you throw all this to the sharks -"

So, so very dramatic, and with this: her thumbnail pressed beneath your chin. It draws your gaze up - up, and down: from the splay of her legs and the gleam of wetness between them, a brief rest along the arcs of her chest - the room's a total fucking wreck. Your necktie, her skirt, her blouse, her pantyhose. The papers and books all spread, bent, broken, the stack knocked clean onto its side. The skirt's probably still pulled too far up her hips for decency, her breasts shoved up to her neck and the collarbone, and then there's her face - her chin streaked with cum. Yuna smiles then, the corner of her mouth pulled upward.

She might kiss you if you'd let her.

Cum on her lips be damned, she's beautiful like that, like she isn't even trying. And in fact, she never really had to - this girl, she'd do it alone. The idea that someone could be as universally loved as she, is enough, a marvel even, but here she is in front of you, every atom and curve a siren, a study in perfection and composition. Like she’s not just all your mistakes laid out to bear.

"Take a second to take a proper look, hm? Get all the memories in, while they're fresh."

"Because?"

"You can remember I'm only the person you say I am, for you."

"Oh, of course," and the laugh that leaves your throat sounds dry, cracked open. The band of her skirt stretches, snaps back, so neatly that it leaves a pale line on her flesh. And now there are your hands, fitting around her hipbones, a sigh: a short, sudden motion, tugging her up. Yuna gasps: something surprised, delighted. She's all grins and teeth, all clean, bright incisors. 

"Mine," you're breathing, the flat of her stomach underneath the fingers you've placed upon it. "This is mine - you. Yours - you're all mine."

It’s possessive, but, you’re not all incorrect.

"Yeah," she more than agrees. 

There's a ribbon-taut quality in the way it leaves her mouth, the tension in her body coiled up through to the bones. She makes it sound like the beginning of a promise, the beginning of something much larger.

And by the way." She’s still buttoning her shirt. Putting herself together. You’ve seen the triage, the damage control. This is the Yuna you get. 

So, she needs the second - a respite to lick a stray stripe of slick and cum off her wrist - blotting her cheeks with a ball of wet tissue, until all that's left is the smeared lipstick, her stockings splayed around the floor. The pattern you've worn, where your fingerprints would've shown, gets covered up under her skirt and her coat, wrapped up in a scarf.

The smug satisfaction in her tone pulls your focus, just in time, her hair's falling in waves down her shoulders - perfect, but not flawless: there's a creased line, a hint of her throat, just beneath the collar. There's a slight wisp out of place. The buttons aren't arranged all the way from her collar to her sternum.

"I'm going to go with that photoset, with the white top, in the sand - gonna post 'em online and generate some buzz. You even said it yourself: they're fine. " She pauses, pushing away a strand of hair. "Professionally, of course."

"Professionalism." You smile. "Of course."

She walks out carrying the stilettos: pumps in either hand.

"Always. Catch you soon," she promises, and you do catch a last flash of her expression, lips parted, the lower curving into a satisfied smile, right as she flicks the lock on the door open and your office goes back to quiet.

For a split second, it's unbearable: the silence.

And you think again.

She can have anything, get any boy, girl, whoever, any designer, photographer, make-up artist in the world; there's something so unmistakably intoxicating about the fact that the thing she's decided she wants, is you.

[maybefae]

Blessings Coming In!

Pile 1 - Pile 2 - Pile 3

Remember, this is a general reading and it may not resonate for everyone or completely. Tarot is a tool to help guide but you are responsible for your actions and life, you choose your path.

Tips!

Pile 1

Tarot: The Empress, Ten of Wands, Nine of Pentacles, Three of Swords, Knight of Pentacles, Page of Pentacles, Four of Swords, Queen of Pentacles, Five of Cups, Knight of Swords, The Hanged Man and Three of Wands

Oracle: Seeds (New Ideas, hope, open-mindedness), Oak Tree (power, courage, strength)

You’re getting your mojo back! You could be getting over some heartbreak, probably losing a couple of friends or a relationship. Or you had finally cut off people that weren’t healthy for you. I see this heartbreak happening before this reading and you come to this reading in the process of figuring things out. That’s not to say that you don’t go through moments of grief though. I see you working your abundance, things that fill up your cup. This takes many forms. But I do see you also taking small steps in getting a business or project started and out into the public and I do see this growing faster than you expected! The love and work you put into it will pay off and your doubts will be soothed over from the response you get. 

For the people who are trying to get back out there to find friendships/a partner, I see you taking a very lighthearted approach. You aren’t putting your full heart into them just yet but you are being open, friendly, and slow-burning the progression. You’re feeling very sure of yourself, trusting yourself, and finding the courage (even if it’s a little nerve-wracking) to open up your heart again to new connections. These people could be completely different from who you’re used to connecting with, types of people that you could’ve always wanted to connect with.

For those dating around, I see two different people. One is very grounded, maybe even slow-moving, and you are probably not sure if they even have feelings for you or if they are emotionally available. But I think they have high standards and are as cautious (albeit open-minded) as you are. The other likes what they see, and they are probably very cheeky and knows how to talk to you. Very cunning. May have really intense eyes, “bedroom eyes.” I don’t see these two getting far with you since you’re being selective but I think you will have fun talking to them. You are keeping your options open. And since you’re the Empress, you could be looking for someone to fit the Emperor role (any gender). 

Pile 2

Tarot: Nine of Cups, King of Cups, The Sun, Four of Cups, Page of Wands, The Devil, Three of Pentacles, Four of Swords (Reversed), The Tower, The Star, Queen of Swords, Six of Wands

Oracle: Bee (Community, cooperation, sweetness), Autumn (Bounty, balance), Snow (Rest, contemplation)

Before I even pull cards, The Artist card that solely belongs to this deck was shown to me and I head “As an artist myself, I know they can be a little flighty. Head in the clouds.” But I also thought of David Bowie? Some of you could be really successful when it comes to selling your art. And I’m talking gallery level prices in the thousands of dollars. But I suppose this can be applied to any career field. “Six months time.”

Now that I’ve pulled your cards, I can confirm the previous message of money and/or success when it comes to your career coming in. I think this is coming after some burnout, which could be a bad habit of yours that reoccurs. This burnout probably left you uninspired and you could get inspiration back. Easier said than done, but please rest. You can’t do the things you love without rest. There could’ve been a big setback before that left you hopeless and burnt out. But you could be having a moment where it reignites the spark for you and that could feel like the biggest blessing since nothing seems as dull anymore.

I feel like your blessing has everything to do with abundance. Happiness, a resurgence of hope (maybe you get validation that you’re on the right track), and money from something you created from all your love and hard work. 

So, for those wanting a connection (platonic or romantic), I do see that someone could be coming in very out of the blue. I had to pull an extra card and it came out while I was looking away while shuffling. You won’t see this person coming. This could be platonic (friend or work partner) or romantic.

Pile 3

Tarot: Queen of Cups, Nine of Cups, The Sun, The World, King of Cups, The Hermit, Three of Wands, Queen of Pentacles, Nine of Wands, Page of Wands, Five of Cups, The Moon

Oracle: Rain (cleansing, purification, hydration), Sickle (focus, regrowth, letting go), Mushroom (recycling, breaking down problems)

I haven’t pulled cards yet but I am using a deck I haven’t used in a while. As soon as I pulled the cards, I got a whiff of glue.

And now that I pulled the cards, the glue is about uniting. This pile is for the people in long-distance friendships/relationships. After so many tries to finally see them, something always went wrong and you had to cancel plans. This could also be an issue about not having enough money at the time. 

The stars had to align, the moon had to be at a certain lunation…You finally get the chance to see your loved one that’s at a distance! Your wish for that is coming true. In a way, you had to kinda “give up” on the plans and now you are being gifted the opportunities since you weren’t focusing on it heavy. It’s like you had to take care of other things before you could make it happen. 

I’m being advised to tell you not to control it too much! Don’t have a tight grip on plans. Continue to go with the flow and enjoy the present with this person. You will have an amazing time together!

Decks Used: Ophida Rosa Tarot by Leila and Olive, Ethereal Visions Illuminated Tarot Deck by Matt Hughes, Modern Witch Tarot Deck by Lisa Sterle, The Green Witch Oracle by Arin Murphy-Hiscock and Sara Richard

Dividers: @inklore

[yournowheregirl]

Let it be known that Eddie Munson hates big box stores. They represent everything he’s against: a big piece of capitalist bullshit that underpays its workers and pump out unnecessary products like it’s nothing. 

And yet, he finds himself in a Target on a random Sunday evening.

He’s not quite sure how he got roped into doing Chrissy’s shopping for her, something about ‘owing her a favor’ and ‘making up for all the times she had take out the garbage when it was his turn to do so’ or whatever that means. But here he is anyway, pushing a bright red shopping cart in search of every item on her list so she can go on her date with that girl from the concert in peace. The things you do for friends.

Eddie finds the first few items quite easily - they’re on sale and easy to spot with the big display in the middle of the aisle - but once he gets to the fourth item on her list: Fresh Cotton scented candle, he starts to panic just a little.

Why are there so many fucking candles?

He rubs a hand over his face in attempt to make himself focus on the rows and rows of glass jars in front of him, taking a deep breath before he starts looking for the Fresh Cotton scented candle Chrissy wants. Only to find out, there aren’t any.

There is Pure Linen and Natural Cotton and even one that’s called Laundry Day - whatever the fuck that’s supposed to smell like - but there is not one candle that says Fresh Cotton. 

Okay. Okay. He can do this. He knows Chrissy like the back of his hand, he’s smelled that candle practically every day, he can totally figure out which candle she wants. 

Eddie grabs the first candle that’s vaguely named after a fabric and smells it, but that one isn’t the one he’s looking for. He tries another (closer, but not quite the same) and another (doesn’t even smell like cotton in the slightest), until he’s smelled practically every cotton-linen-laundry candle in the store and his nose has become immune to any smell whatsoever.

Christ, he really is a terrible best friend if he can’t even get her shopping list right.

Something red flashes by in the corner of his eye and Eddie immediately perks up and chases after it. He stops himself from screaming in victory when he sees that he was right and that there is in fact a Target employee in a red polo walking in the main aisle.

“Excuse me!” Eddie calls out. “Excuse me! Can you help me?”

The guy in the red polo turns around and whoa- Eddie didn’t know that they were hiring actual models to work at Target. He’s pretty sure he’s never met a big box store employee that looks this good - with floppy golden brown hair and a chest that fills out that red Target polo really nicely.

“Uh yes?”

“Great!” Eddie gestures the Target guy to follow him back to the candle aisle and grabs the two candles that he thinks are the closest to what Chrissy wants. “Which one of these is Fresh Cotton?”

Target guy frowns and takes the candles from Eddie’s hands, his hazel eyes narrowing as he reads the labels. “Neither? This one is Clean Cotton and the other one is Crisp Cotton.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But Target used to sell Fresh Cotton, I think, at least that’s what my friend’s shopping list says.” Eddie rambles. “So I guess my question is which one used to be Fresh Cotton and got renamed or whatever.”

“Huh.” Target guy shrugs and takes the lid off both the candles, carefully sniffing each of them before finally handing Clean Cotton back to Eddie. “This one smells the most cotton-y to me, so I’d go with this one, dude.”

Eddie feels his eyes light up with relief as he clutches the candle to his chest. “Christ, that’s a relief. Thank you...” He trails off, searching Target guy’s polo for a name tag, only to come up empty.

“Steve.” 

“Thank you, Steve.” Eddie beams. He puts the candle into his shopping cart and rummages through the pocket of his leather jacket until he finds Chrissy’s shopping list. Scented candle? Check. “Look, I gotta go. I have at least twenty other things on this list and- hey!”

In one quick motion, Steve has grabbed the shopping list from Eddie’s hands, scanning the items on the list and the items in the cart with precision. 

“Dude. Your friend asked for shampoo and conditioner. You bought them that two-in-one crap.” Steve scoffs.

“Is that... bad? Seems to me like it gets the job done faster.” Eddie shrugs.

“Is that bad, he asks. If your friend cares just a little bit about their hair, they’d be devastated.” Steve chuckles. “C’mere, I’ll help you.”

Before Eddie can even protest, Steve has taken his shopping cart from under his nose and gestures for Eddie to follow him. Huh, personal shoppers must be a new thing at Target. He just hopes that Steve doesn’t charge him a surprise hundred dollar fee at the end of the shopping trip.

Turns out, a personal shopper like Steve comes in handy for a Target virgin like Eddie. Steve (obviously) knows the store like the back of his hand and seems to know a lot about the products they sell as well - from the difference between normal and purple shampoo for blonde hair to the package of colored notebooks that Chrissy needs for the next semester. His knowledge is impressive and Eddie can’t help but stare and listen to every word that rolls of Target Guy Steve’s tongue.

(And if he lets a flirty remark or two slip just to see a twinkle in Steve’s eyes in between the shop talk, that’s nobody’s business but his own)

He is a bit confused when Steve starts loading things into the cart that aren’t on Chrissy’s lists, though. Things like highlighters and staples and various arts and crafts supplies. 

“What are those?” Eddie asks.

“Hmm?” Steve hums, following Eddie’s gaze to where it’s looking at the small pots of paint in his hands “Oh. Those are for me.”

“You can do that?”

“Uh yeah? That’s the point of a store?”

“Right.” Eddie nods. “Yeah, I mean, duh. Just didn’t know you were allowed to shop on company time.” 

“Right...” Steve blinks at him in response.

They go through the rest of the list fairly quickly, much to Eddie’s disappointment. When he first set foot inside the store, he wanted to leave as fast as he could, but now that he’s got Steve around, he doesn’t really want this shopping trip to end. 

At least not without Steve’s number saved in his phone. 

There are only a few people in line at the register when they arrive and Steve immediately starts putting his things on the checkout belt. As he waits, Eddie lets his eyes linger at Steve’s toned back, at the way the red fabric stretches over the muscles there, at the way those jeans look practically painted on.

Yeah, he really has to get that number before he gets out of here.

“You probably get employee discount, right? Must be nice.” Eddie grins as he starts putting his stuff on the checkout belt.

Steve cocks his head to the side. “No?”

Christ, not giving your employees a discount in your own store is a new low, even for a big company like Target. “Oh sorry, man. That sucks.”

“I mean, I have my teacher’s discount.” Steve shrugs.

Hold up. What?

“Your what?”

“My teacher’s discount?” Steve repeats. “I’m an elementary school teacher and I get a small discount on stuff I need for my class? Like these art supplies?”

“You- you don’t work here?” Eddie squeaks, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Oh God, did he just drag a random stranger through a store and make him listen to all of his stupid problems with Chrissy’s shopping lists? This is embarrassing, even for him. “Fuck, I thought- I mean with the polo and- Christ, I’m so sorry.”

But luckily for Eddie, Steve doesn’t seem mad in the slightest. In fact, he just laughs, all bright and clear. “It’s alright, really.”

“But wait, if you don’t work here, why did you help me?” Eddie asks, ignoring the hopeful feeling that starts to bloom in his stomach. 

Steve ducks his head for a second, suppressing a grin, before looking back up at Eddie through his eyelashes and fuck, he has no right to look this hot in a freaking polo shirt. 

“Because I thought you were cute.”

A bright Target red blush settles over Eddie’s cheeks and there’s nowhere to hide, not even behind his hair because his dumb self from two hours earlier decided to put it up in a high bun. 

“Plus, you looked like you were this close to having a panic attack in the middle of the candle aisle.” Steve shrugs. “I’ve been there, and trust me, it’s not a good look.”

The honesty in his voice makes Eddie cackle so loud that even the cashier turns her head to see what all the commotion is about. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Eddie says when his laughter dies down.

“Maybe.” Steve says, his eyes already twinkling with amusement. “But did it work?”

Eddie really can’t say no to that.

(He leaves Target that night with two shopping bags filled with Chrissy’s things and a date with Steve the next weekend.)

[breadbrioche]

fit for a princess

luke castellan x reader

➳summary: a quick fluffy thing because admin eagerly wishes summer can come sooner and is purposely ignoring the ending of the pjo series :D

➳warnings: not proof read, written during multiple fits of delusion, established relationship

➳word count: 1.1k

➳a/n: IM BACK!! Sorry to any who were expecting a TUC fic but the pjo has been my latest obsession so I had to write it

At Camp Half-Blood, the weather is always perfect but, somehow, its even better than most days. The sun is shining at its brightest yet the cool breeze blowing made it so that it wasn’t uncomfortably hot. As one of many campers taking advantage of the great weather, Luke leans his back against a tree with his eyes closed and enjoying the warmth and listening to the calm sounds of the nature around him.

He winces when a suddenly shadow obstructs the light and peaks his eyes open slightly to see what caused it. Though through blurry eyes as he blinks to adjust to the brightness, he spots your figure looming over him and a smile instantly forms on Luke’s face.

“Can I help you?” He drawls out teasingly. You pout playfully before seating yourself next to him, fingers easily tangling with his like routine.

“You should be thankful I’m even here! Seriously, it took forever to track you down.”

“It’s not like this place is a particularly hard place to find.” Luke argues back but you roll your eyes and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah but I’d never thought you’d be here of all places” You point out as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What, can’t a guy just enjoy some peace and quiet?”

At that, you bark out a laugh, not believing him. “Not if you’re called Luke Castellan.” You chastise. “You’re always training as if you aren’t already the best swordsman in the camp”

“Did you come here to nag at me or do you have an actual reason?”

“Oh right!” You reach into your bag and place something atop Luke’s hair faster than he could see what it was. Immediately raising his hands to his head, he gingerly felt around blindly to see what it was. His fingertips brushes against something soft yet so thin he could tell it was delicate but also a more rough and rigid material.

As he carefully removes the item of his head to inspect it, Luke amusedly huffs upon realising what it was.

“You made me a flower crown?” He asks as he admires your craftsmanship - various summer flowers were woven together intricately, intertwining to create a colourful circlet. Leaves were bent precisely to frame each flower, some of which Luke could recognise being sunflowers and marigolds.

“I saw some Demeter kids making them and I wanted to try too.” You explained. “Do you like it? I know it’s not perfect but I think I did a pretty good job with it!”

“I love it.” He confirmed and using his free arm to pull you in for a hug to show his gratitude. “It’s almost as pretty as the person who made it.”

Groaning at his cheesy line, you lightly shoved him off you before taking the crown back into your hands to nestle it on top of his dark curls once again.

“Well I think you look way prettier than I ever could; it really suits you, y’know” you tease with a sly grin. “You’re giving serious fairy princess vibes”

“Are you being for real?” He sighed, looking away embarrassed but making no move to remove the flower crown. You giggled at his actions, cooing as you poked his reddening cheeks. Luke catches your offending wrist before using it to pull you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you and nestling his face into your neck.

“I thought I was supposed to be a hero” he complains against your skin.

As you wrap your arms around his neck, you huff endearingly, feeling how warm his face is.

“Ayy now don’t sell yourself short; you can still be a hero while being a fairy princess. I’m sure there’s a myth about that.”

“I don’t think there is, love” Luke retorts which makes you scrunch your face disappointedly. Though, you don’t dwell on it for long as you gently grab his face and remove it from the crook of your neck. Luke’s face morphs into a confused expression, eyebrows furrowed and dark eyes assessing you to find the meaning behind your antics, but you paid him no mind as you grinned happily.

You don’t understand how the boy before you doesn’t know how beautiful he is - and hell, you’d even say that Luke is way more attractive than any of the Aphrodite boys - especially in this current moment with how the sun made his eyes twinkle and his ruddy skin look like it was glowing.

But unfortunately, your thoughts are interrupted with the way Luke drums his fingers at your side, an unspoken request for an explanation. Stubbornly, you deny him the satisfaction in favour of admiring him more.

However, his drumming becomes more insistent then turns into pokes and before you know it, he’s attacking you relentlessly with tickles. This forces you to release your hold on Luke’s face to wrestle his hands off you. You shriek when he resists your attempts and puts his weight forward which pushes your back to the ground.

“Stop-!! Let go!!” You demand between fits of laughter while you writhe on the grass from the way your stomach cramps, you kick your feet and claw at his hands but Luke is, as always, relentless, finding how the whole situation has turned incredibly amusing.

“What…the fuck was that- “ you pant out when Luke eventually stops tickling you. As you heave, you glare up at Luke - the damn flower crown still perched on his head even after all that - who has a shit eating grin on his face.

“Maybe you aren’t a fairy princess hero after all.” You say accusingly. Luke raises an eyebrow inquisitively before rolling onto the ground next to you, his shoulders bumping into yours in the process.

“What am I then?”

“Probably a monster. A mean,ugly monster who disguised himself as an insufferably pretty boy who’s sole mission is to make my life a living hell.”

After you air out your complaints, it's his turn to laugh; the deep sound almost makes it hard for you to keep scowling at him.

“It still beats being a fairy princess hero, for sure! That job sounds right up my alley.” Luke exclaims, urging you to shove him with a roll of your eyes but he’s not at all unfazed. Rather, he shimmies closer to you so his mouth is at the same level as your ear.

“Y’know what being a ‘pretty monster who’s sole mission is to annoy you’ would mean right?” He asks you, and it’s like you can hear his smirk.

“What.” You reply, not bothering to correct his misquote.

“It means that I would get to be with you all the time.”

[spicycinnabun]

pt. 1 2 3 4 6 7 💐

Eddie turned around, finding none other than the flower nazi. His nametag actually said Steve. 

He had a leaf stuck in his hair, and his nose was abnormally rosy. Going by that and his nasal tone, he clearly had a cold. He sneezed, then looked annoyed at himself for doing so. “Ugh, sorry,” he apologized. 

He was fucking adorable. It made Eddie smile. “Don’t be. I don’t really need help.” Not with flowers, anyway, just with everything else about his life. “I’m only browsing.” 

It was a weird response, he realized. A guy like him, who looked like he belonged anywhere else, loitering in a shop like this. Just browsing. Right. Steve probably thought he was a creep. 

Steve was surprised to hear that the man wasn’t looking for anything. Last time, he had bought something, so Steve had assumed he was a returning customer. He had been staring at the wedding arrangement, so maybe he was trying to figure out if Harrington Floral was the best place to get them from.

“That’s some talent you’ve got,” Eddie added, pointing to the display.

Steve felt himself flush. “Thanks,” he said softly, ducking his head bashfully. It wasn’t usually guys who were doling out compliments on the displays. Typically, they just asked for his advice on what they should buy for their significant others.

The redness that bloomed on Steve’s cheeks was just plain delightful. It could have been due to his illness, but Eddie was pretty sure it was a reaction to his compliment. His smile widened. “You made it, right?”

“Yes, I did. I make all the displays.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, missing the leaf by a mere centimeter. “I think I saw you last month when I was building one in the window over there. Are you sure you’re not interested in anything?”

Instead of answering, Eddie reached out and plucked the leaf out of Steve’s hair. “Sorry, you had a little bud-dy trying to catch a ride there. Was distracting the hell out of me.” Eddie showed him the small, curvy leaf. 

Steve laughed, which made him cough a little. After clearing his throat, he got back to business. Steve was all about closing a sale, so he pushed a little. “Are you or someone you know getting married? I can, uh…” he thought quickly, “give you a free bouquet as a testimony to how well our flowers will hold up. I was just pruning the roses before you came in. What do you think about a bouquet of them?”

Steve remembered Eddie. And he’d laughed at Eddie’s horrible pun. But Eddie was caught off guard by the questions and the offering. Steve was observant. “I can’t let you do that,” he said. “My uncle is getting married. Hopefully. He hasn’t popped the question yet.”

It would be kind of terrible of him to accept free flowers if it didn’t work out and they never ordered any.

“That’s exciting,” Steve responded.

Genuinely, he felt like it was. Steve loved love. Working in a flower shop would be hard if he was bitter about being single. Also, the fact that someone else around his age wasn’t getting married made him feel a bit better about his own love life. Lately, it seemed like all his friends were getting hitched.

Eddie twirled a piece of hair around his finger, contemplating. He pocketed the little leaf. “I’m meeting the bride-to-be tonight. I suppose making a nice first impression wouldn’t be a bad idea.” He could give the flowers to Wayne to present to Kathleen when she came over. “How much for half a dozen?”

That was probably all he could afford, but he would be paying.

Eddie wasn’t selling as much anymore. Just weed, no powders or pills. Not since he’d discovered that one of his regulars had recently overdosed on Molly. He was at least partially responsible for that. He should have questioned the steadily increasing amount the guy was buying, but he had only been thinking about the money.

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.” Steve had no intention of taking any money for the bouquet. 

He walked around the store and started building it. Steve picked out four roses in red and pink, then added two pastel-dyed Asiatic lilies and sprinkled in a few strands of baby’s breath.

When he was finished, he went to the counter to put them down. He grabbed the twine and unrolled some tissue paper. “I’m sure there won’t be any more customers tonight. I’m kind of in charge, so I can totally give you these for free. Because I want to.”

Eddie pressed his lips together briefly, walking over and planting his forearms on the counter. He wasn’t some charity case. He didn’t like having debts, either. Maybe Steve had seen the type of clothes he wore and automatically assumed Eddie was trailer park trash who couldn’t afford it.

But Steve was smiling at him, looking sweet as a goddamn sugar cookie, and Eddie relaxed, rejecting the thought. That just didn’t seem right.

(Though why Steve wanted to give anyone, let alone Eddie, free flowers was a mystery.)

“You’re the boss, huh?” Eddie said. Steve looked young to own the shop, but maybe he was one of the Harringtons.

The name rang a bell. Steve Harrington. Dustin used to talk about a Steve during D&D. Gushed more than talked, really. Was he the same one?

“Technically, it’s my mom’s shop, but I’ve been running it for a while now,” Steve said. He couldn’t take all the credit.

Eddie gently drummed the counter, rings click-clacking as he watched those nimble fingers cut, tie, and wrap. His mom’s store. Well, wasn’t that precious.

Steve gave the bouquet one last critical look and a fluff with his fingers before handing it over. “With these, I think you’ll make the best impression. Maybe your uncle will even pop the question tonight!” Steve was excited for the groom to be even though he didn’t know him.

Eddie accepted the bouquet and looked down at it. “Thank you. It’s stunning.” Kind of like you.

He didn’t say that last part out loud, though he thought it hard enough that he’d probably projected it into Steve’s head.

Steve felt his face heat again. He didn’t know why he was reacting this way to the compliments. When women complimented his arrangements, he barely blinked.

Eddie brought the bouquet to his nose to smell its perfume. It brought another smile to his face before he lowered it. If Kathleen didn’t end up liking them, she was crazy.

Steve watched Eddie, grinning. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Eddie’s gaze flickered up. He lowered the bouquet. Why were they both smiling like fucking idiots? “Eddie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Eddie. Let me get you a card—you know, in case your uncle does propose and will need flowers from somewhere.” Steve grabbed one of the embellished business cards from the stack beside the register.  

Eddie reached out to take it, and Steve sneezed again just as their fingers brushed. It was a big sneeze that made his face screw up and nearly blew him backward. Luckily, he managed to cover his nose before he bombed Eddie. Eddie tried not to laugh at his irritated expression and soft whine as he sniffled.

Eddie pocketed the card and tugged his handkerchief out at the same time. “Here,” he offered kindly, holding it out to Steve.

It was his favorite hanky, his pirate one with the skull and bones, but it was the least he could do. 

Without thinking much about it, Steve took it and blew his nose. He let out a soft sigh, feeling a little better. Then he realized what he’d done. “Sorry…this is kinda gross now. Do you want it back?” 

“Oh no—no, that’s yours now,” Eddie said hastily. “I insist. Consider it a token of my gratitude.” He lowered himself in a teasing bow. “Farewell, Steve, fine sir.”

So, so fine. Even with all the snot.

Eddie backed out of the store, still bent over for extra theatricality. When he straightened up, Steve looked confused but was red in the cheeks again. Score.

On the ride home, Eddie almost missed a turn because he kept glancing at the bouquet.

🌷🪻🌻🌹

co-writing this with @batty4steddie 💕

[writteninlunarlight-years]

hi so I was wondering what do you think about Hazbin hotel vox, luci, and Adam with a pinkie pie like reader like they are super cheerful, loves making people laugh, loves planning parties, takes a confetti cannon with them maybe even have the pinkie pie abilities like pulling huge cakes out of no where, do things that should not be scientifically possible and even break the 4th wall like pinkie pie does on the show

Just thought I’d ask thank you love you work and stay safe out there

Vox

He was very put off by your overly pleasant and bright personality. I mean, come on, he works with the infamous Vee's, and you just walk in all chipper and cheerful and so ungodly neon that you look like a florescent light.

As you became a staple in Vee's club, he enjoyed watching you work well with Velvette and Valentino. You may not be their exact cup of tea either, but you managed to help them execute some of their more outlandish ideas.

When he noticed he was developing more significant feelings for you, he locked himself away from you, yet that hurt both of you far more than he cared to admit.

Bucking up the courage to ask you out, he was pleasantly surprised and mildly embarrassed that you made an 'asking you out party.' He said yes, but he asked never to have something like that done again.

He never dulls your sparkle; instead, he likes to enhance it and loves putting you in front of a camera if you allow him. You radiate so much positivity and joy that he can't help but smile and laugh.

If he has a terrible day against Al or, in general, he loves coming home to you. I stand by the fact that this man is stuck in his ways from the 50s, and a pretty thing with a big smile waiting for him at home makes him soar.

Lucifer

When you came into his life, he was ecstatic. He was very sure he had found his daughter a new best friend. He wanted to say that he had helped Charlie, which was his biggest goal.

Yet you also managed to help him out a lot with your positivity and assistance in branching out and experiencing more life than just his room. You even expressed an interest in his ducks and helped him learn how to sell them.

What was supposed to be a new friend for Charlie slowly morphed into a new mother figure for Charlie as your bright, outlandish ideas were easily molded and crafted to better the young girl and guide her in her endeavors.

As Lucifer noticed his growing feelings, he became a stuttering and bashful mess, leading to Charlie taking the lead and pushing him towards you. She really thought you would be a great addition to the family.

Once you two started dating, Lucifer took his kingly duties much more to heart. He worked hard, day in and day out, to be a positive influence on his people and promote redemption.

If he has a bad day, you being there with a good idea or a new idea for a duck always puts a smile on his face. After you two get done tinkering with whatever you two thought of, cuddles are a great way to end the day.

Adam

He thought you were like every other bitch he met in heaven. You were overly optimistic and wanted to hang with the first man. Yeah, right; what ulterior motive did you have.

Yet, as he saw you having fun with Lute, Emily, and some other close friends, he realized that maybe you weren't after a title but just a happy person.

It was a whirlwind of change when he allowed you into his personal life. You managed to make his home and office more alive and himself more alive.

You were so positive and full of ideas that he saw a lot of Eve in you, making it hard for him to fully let you into his heart, even if he slowly fell head over heels in love with you.

After a swift kick in the ass from Lute and you welcoming Adam into your heart, arms open wide, he admitted his feelings and deep love for your over-joyous personality.

If he has a bad day, he always knows he can look forward to finding you nearby with a smile on your face and a positive solution to fix the mess that he made.

[sarahs-secrets2]

Suit and Tie ˋ♡ˊ

phillip graves x fem!reader

help me pick out a suit yeah? 1.6k words

pet names, innuendos, alc, some swearing

graves masterlist!!

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

It was a slow day, as usual. High-end suits were not usually an everyday purchase for some, and the store's main cash flow was regulars who had their suits delivered. This meant another boring day of reorganizing an already spotless store. You busied yourself behind the counter pretending to be going over the delivery list for tomorrow when in reality it had already been looked over 3 times today.

That was until the door chimed, and a brand new customer walked in just an hour before closing. Perfect. Your eyes flickered up to greet him, and wow did he look out of place. Of course, it isn't polite to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes if you wanted to make enough commission to cover your rent a few assumptions were necessary. Typical customers came dressed for the part, maybe they were overcompensating but it sure made your job easier. This one was different, old blue jeans with obvious fraying, a blue button-up that was just a shade lighter than the jeans, and black dirty work boots. You had seen the type before but it had been awhile.

“Sorry sir, we don’t sell jeans here. Can I redirect you to a different store?” Maybe it was a tad rude but there was no way this guy was serious, and you weren't in the mood to have your time wasted. 

He laughed, walking further into the store and right up to the counter. The man rested his palms on the glass countertop, leaning closer as he whispered, “Good thing I’m not lookin’ for jeans.” A smirk danced on his lips as he leaned back and stood up straight. “Phillip Graves, I need a suit doll, help me pick one out?”

The forwardness caught you off guard, you could feel the heat rising to your face. Maybe he wasn't going to waste your time? Trying to keep your composure you walked out from behind the counter, heels clicking against the wooden floors in the suit shop. Phillip Graves, the name echoed in your head, bouncing around, and making sure you wouldn't forget it. “Can I ask what the occasion is?”

“Mhm,” he rubbed his jaw as he thought. While he took his time, you took in his appearance. A pretty blonde, blue eyes, a stubbled jawline with the faintest scar on his cheek, who was Phillip Graves? “Military thing,” he finally said.

“So you’re military?” you scoffed, now sifting through a rack of suits. 

“You could say that.” He walked over to join you by the racks. “I’m not sure if I’m goin’ yet, but better be prepared,” he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Do you know your inseam?” turning to face him, eyeing him up and down trying to gauge what it could be. 

“Got me there, not a clue. Been a long time since I got a real nice suit,”

“Figured,” you laughed, Graves tilted an eyebrow up at you jokingly. “Go to the fitting rooms, just over there,” you pointed off towards the pedestal in front of the big mirrors, “and I’ll get your measurements, then we can start trying some stuff on yeah?”

“Whatever the pretty lady says,” Phillip walked over to the mirrors and stepped up onto the pedestal. You were just a few paces behind him with a loose tape measure. Taking the measuring tape in both hands you kneeled down in front of him. It wasn't hard to feel how his eyes burned into you as you began to line the tape measure against his inner thigh. Your fingers ran down his leg along with the numbers as you took his measurements. Carefully you stood up, taking a mental note of the number of his inseam. 

“Large?” Phillip raised his eyebrows, “Maybe extra large?”

“No, and not how it works” you quickly retorted, lightly slapping his chest with the tape measure. “Stay here, I’ll go pull some options. Need a drink?”

“A drink? Thought this was a suit store, not a bar,”

“Well it’s a high-end suit store, and if you're willing to pay as much as these suits cost then I can swing one whiskey your way,” 

“And how am I supposed to say no to that?”

“Thought so,” smiling, you walked back into the main showroom looking for some options. After a few minutes of digging you pulled a few different suits and brought them back to Phillip. 

“Here you go Mr. Graves,” you hung each suit on a different hook in the fitting room and motioned for Phillip to go ahead. 

“Mr. Graves,” he smirked, “No one’s called me that in a while.” As you stepped out of the fitting room to make room for him, you scrunched your face in confusion to which he caught on. “Sorry, I’m a Commander, usually it’s just Commander or Phillip. I don’t really hear mister too often now,” 

“So which do you prefer, Commander?” 

Phillip could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand as you used his rank to address him. He wasn't blind, you were stunning. It didn't help that just minutes ago you were already on your knees for him. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest as he waited for you to get his measurements, any longer and Phillip could have sworn he was going to faint. Graves’ eyes met with yours, “Just call me Phillip hon’,”

“Well, let me go get you that drink Phillip. Go ahead and start trying these on,”

“Will do,” he winked, tugging the velvety curtain across the fitting room entryway. While Phillip tried on his first suit, you went to get his drink. The bar cart wasn't far, it was important to have it close for the clients to feel welcome. Pulling out a glass you poured the whiskey in, glancing at your watch you realized it was past close. If this was any other customer maybe you would've been bothered, but you had grown quite fond of Commander Phillip Graves. Deciding to treat yourself, you poured a second glass before setting the top-shelf bottle back down. 

“Phillip, I have that drink whenever you’re done in there,”

“Go ‘head and open the curtain for me, I’m just about done,” his voice was muffled as he spoke. Setting down your glass of whiskey, you walked over to the curtain with Phillip’s drink in hand and pulled back the divider. To your surprise, Phillip was nowhere near being done. The Commander was standing shirtless, only getting the dress pants on before giving up it seemed. 

“Ah thanks, darlin’,” he slipped the whiskey out of your grasp and took a swig before setting it down on the small table in the fitting room. Your mind was elsewhere, eyes too busy taking in the physique of the man in front of you. He was fit, clearly, the military would do that to you. There were various scars, probably from combat but if anything it made him that much more attractive. “See somethin’ you like?” the southern drawl snapped you from your trance. 

The Commander laughed before turning around facing the mirror in the fitting room, his back now towards you. Fuck, his back, his shoulder, his everything. If you hadn't just met this man today, especially considering the fact he is a customer, you would be all over him. Honestly, you weren't even sure if that was enough to stop you at this point. Graves began to slip the white button-up on, your eyes glued to his back intently watching how his muscles flexed. 

“I like that suit,” you quipped back, trying to play off your obvious staring. 

“Just the suit?” Phillip turned back around, now taking his time buttoning up the shirt. His abs peeking through the fabric 

“Just the suit, I picked it out you know,”

“I know, that’s why I like it,” he finished the buttons and glanced up at you.

“You need a tie, one second,” it was part excuse and part serious. He was a sweet talker, always knowing exactly what to say and it was becoming impossible to hide the effect he was having on you. Grabbing a pale blue tie, you returned having regained some composure. “Here try this, just for the full effect,”

“Look at you, thought I was just comin’ in for jeans, now you’re pickin’ me out ties,” he teased as he adjusted the tie around his neck in the mirror. 

“Hm and you still need new jeans,” you giggled, picking up your whiskey, and taking a small sip as you watched him finish getting dressed. Phillip was finally done and stepped out of the fitting room and back onto the pedestal. 

“How’s it look?”

Taking your time, you walked around him surveying the fit of the suit. Your hands ran along the sleeves of the jacket, “A bit loose through here, but we can get this tailored.” You continued and kneeled down in front of him again, tracing the inseam of the black dress pants. “And how’s the fit on these? Do you like it?”

Phillip let out a cough, “Yeah, these are good,” he shifted in place as you stood back up. 

“Perfect,” your hands ran down the collar, grabbing onto the lapels, “Well, now we know what fits, it all comes down to what you want to do,”

“What I wanna do?” he huffed out, his head rolling back slightly, “I wanna take you out on a proper date that’s what I wanna do,” 

“Oh?” it took you by surprise, in a good way. 

“I mean, already saw me half naked. I think we skipped a few steps but a date would be a good place to start. Don’t you think darlin’,” 

“I think a date is good,” you leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on Phillip’s cheek, “Now about these suits…”

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

[legiblyloathed]

Ain’t He Darling? (Chapter 1)

Yandere! Wally Darling x Reader

A/N: Okay, so the little blue haired menace has been rotting my brain for the past week, sue me. I tried to get him out of my brain by rewatching Gravity Falls, only for the episode “The Hand that Rocks the Mabel” to inspire a whole fanfic. Straight up water on a grease fire. Anyway, enjoy.

Next

I always forget how much of a hassle moving is until it’s time to actually do it. Weeks spent selling and giving away half of my belongings, trying to shove the rest of them into boxes, then taking all of them into a new location only to have to figure out where all of them should go in the new space; it’s on the list of most mundane yet stressful life events a person has to put themselves through.

These were the feelings that hung around my being like a dark cloud for the past few weeks, but now, as I finally set my final knickknack in its chosen spot, I can feel the sun breaking through. I stand up and stretch as hard as I can, trying to wring the residual tension out of my spine. Even with my reduced number of belongings, it’s a lot of work to unpack them all, especially when working alone.

I didn’t have to do all the work myself. Within minutes of hauling stacks of boxes into my new house, I’d been approached by numerous rather colorful people, all very keen to lend a hand. As the newest neighbor in town, I was a curiosity to them, after all. I’d declined the offers, not wanting to place any burdens on the shoulders of my new potential friends. Looking back on it, that wasn’t my smartest move. Or maybe that’s just my aching muscles talking.

I’m dragged out of my tired contentment by the sound of a knock on the front door. Relaxing with a heaving sigh, I stroll over and peer out the peephole. Standing on my porch is a large, multicolored bird. My eyes dart to the plate of cookies balanced in her wings. With newfound excitement, I yank open the door and greet her with a smile.

The bird almost appears startled at this, the cookies on the plate jostling as she jumped. “Oh dear!” She shuffles the plate to her left hand, her right settling upon her chest as if to calm her heart. “You startled me for a moment!”

I give her a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Settling down, she waves her free wing dismissively. “Nothing to apologize for, I’m a bit prone to fright, is all.” As if remembering their existence, she extends the plate of cookies towards me. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood! I do hope you like them!”

“I’m sure I will!” I pull the plate from her grasp and hold it carefully to my chest, my mouth watering at the sugary smell. “They look and smell delicious, thank you so much…” I trail off, realizing in embarrassment that I never caught her name.

She seems to sense my hesitation, and beams in reassurance. “My name’s Poppy, Poppy Partridge.” I give her my name, mentally thanking her for the help. “It’s very nice to meet you, we haven’t had any new neighbors in a long time.”

“Really?” My head tilts to the side. “Why not? This place is beautiful.”

“Oh, I can’t say myself,” she sighs. “Suppose there’s just not much to around here.”

I shrug, trying to appear lighthearted. “It’s a pity.” She nods in agreement, and the conversation begins to lull. Not wanting to leave on such a sour note, I ask, “Out of curiosity, what do you like to do around here?”

“Me?” she squawks, looking taken aback. She fidgets with her feathers, her wings wringing around each other. “I suppose I like to bake, especially when the weather’s nice enough for a picnic.” I can almost see the lightbulb turn on above her head, and she turns her much cheerier gaze to my own. “Say, the rest of us were planning on a picnic this afternoon! Care to join us? It’d be a good time to meet your new neighbors.”

A sense of anxiety washes over me. The idea of being among that many strangers with such late notice flutters around in my stomach like butterflies. Without thinking, I begin to shift back and forth on my feet. “I… I don’t know, it’s very sudden…”

The bird wilts a bit, looking down at my porch. “Oh dear, it is, isn’t it? You must still be so busy with unpacking.”

I look up at her, my anxiety curdling into regret at her disappointment. I reconsider the situation. What’s an hour or two with a handful of strangers? There’s only nine houses in this town, counting my own, I can handle it. Having made up my mind, I shake my head. “No, no, I already finished unpacking. I’ll be there.”

Poppy perks up. “You will?” I smile, hoping she can’t see the hesitation in it. “That’s wonderful news!” She flaps her wings in excitement before stopping with a gasp of realization. “I have more baking to do, than! I’d better get going,” she says, turning to leave with one last wave of her big red wing. “I’ll see you soon, neighbor!”

“See you soon!” I shout back, waving with the hand that wasn’t clutching the plate of cookies. As she goes further from my field of vision, I feel myself slump, the excitement of a new friend and a batch of treats wearing off to remind me of my exhaustion. My hand falls limp to my side and I stare at the plate in contemplation.

Nap? Or snack?

I pluck a cookie from the tray and take a bite, feeling myself melt at the incredible flavor. I scarf the rest of the sweet down before heading back inside, picking up another one as I go. Maybe just a few before I rest up.

—————————

I snap up on my couch, almost falling off of it in my sudden awakening. What time is it? A quick glance at the clock on my wall reveals it to be mid-afternoon, and I throw myself off my resting place so fast I nearly hit the floor. I scramble to the window and see a small crowd of people in the distance, the sounds of talk and laughter wafting in through the glass. I let out a sigh of relief. At least I wasn’t… that late. After a quick change and a once over in the mirror, I hurry out the door and towards the picnic.

As I approach, the jolly sounds become clearer, with voices all chattering their cares away. Colorful blankets are scattered across the clearing, each rife with sandwiches and sweets. I really hope they aren’t upset that I didn’t bring anything. As I scan my surroundings, I pick out Poppy as she talks with a caterpillar and head in her direction, relieved at the semi-familiar face.

As if on cue, my way is blocked by a short girl in a pink dress dragging along a disgruntled looking man with a bowtie. “Ooh, you must be the new neighbor!” she squeals, bouncing up and down in place, hands flapping in front of her chest. “We were so worried you weren’t gonna come! I’m Julie Joyful, and this,” she says as she grabs the arm of the man next to her, “is Frank Frankly! Say hi, Franky!”

“Uh… hello.” I pondered briefly if I looked as awkward as poor Frank did as he gave me a small wave. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” I respond. As Julie begins to babble about her excitement, my eyes move to drift over the rest of the strangers. The vast majority are split off into their own small groups, with a single exception. Sitting on a bench under a large apple tree is a man who seems to be studying me the same way I’m studying him. One of his legs is crossed over the other, supporting his elbow as he rests his chin on his hand, staring at me with an intensity that sends a small shiver down my spine. And either I’m going crazy, or his lazy smile broadens ever so slightly at that.

I’m startled out of my impromptu staring contest by Julie, who seems to have noticed that I wasn’t listening and cranes her neck to see what I’m looking at. “Oh, have you met Wally yet?”

I shake my head. “No, not yet.” It takes all the willpower in my body not to meet those eyes that I can almost feel lingering on me.

The girl grins, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, you gotta meet him! I bet you two will get along like two peas in a pod!”

She begins to force me from my spot, and I feel myself start to panic. Before she can pull me away to the creepy man, Frank reaches out and stops her in her tracks. “Say, Julie, they don’t look too keen on it. Maybe they should take it slow, meet the others on their own time?” He gestures broadly to the snacks left sitting around. “They haven’t even gotten anything to eat yet, after all.”

Julie looks surprised at the intervention, a flash of guilt going over her face. “Oh my, you’re right, Frank! I’m so sorry, neighbor, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” At my dismissive hand wave, she changes course, instead pulling me to the piles of food. “Poppy told me she gave you some cookies, but just you wait ‘til you try her pie!” I turn to look at Frank, mouthing a ‘thank you’ at the grumpy looking man. He smiles a bit with a reassuring nod, and the three of us settle down on a blanket. For the rest of the picnic I eat while the two of them (mainly just Julie with the occasional comment from Frank) talk about all kinds of things.

I try hard to pretend I can’t feel the eyes burning into the back of my head.

—————���———

The sound of a steady, rhythmic knock wakes me up the next morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes, noting with absent mind how high the sun had already risen. The three slow knocks reverberate through my house once again, and I roll out of bed and head towards the front door, not bothering to change out of my pajamas or even look through the peephole. This, as it turns out, is a bad move on my part.

I yawn as I open the door, only for it to become a strangled cough as I lock eyes with the one resident I didn’t want to see this early. The man, or Wally as Julie had called him, stood on my porch, his face as eerily relaxed as ever. His posture was straight, his clothes neat, his appearance put together; I don’t think he could be any more of a contrast to my current state if he actively worked towards it. Which, to be frank, I suspect he did.

Just like the last time I’d encountered him, the two of us looked as if we were having a staring contest. Unlike last time, however, this time he decides to break the silence. “Hi, neighbor.” His voice is soft and monotonous, each syllable dragging along in no hurry. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

Somehow, I doubt that. In an attempt to relieve the strange tension, I let out a stilted laugh. “Yeah, you did, but it’s fine. I overslept, anyway.” He hums in acknowledgement, and it takes a few long seconds for me to realize he doesn’t plan on responding. Eager to hurry along this interaction so I can dart back into my house and hide from those piercing eyes, I prompt, “Something I can help you with, Wally?”

He tilts his head. “I never told you my name.”

“Yeah, no, you uh, you didn’t. Julie told me yesterday. At the… the picnic.”

“Oh, right. You three looked like you had a good time.”

“We did! We did…”

“Hmm.” His smile stretches, looking pleased by that confirmation. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re settling in okay. I’ve heard it can be awful hard to make new friends, but you have a way of drawing people in, huh?” Cutting me off before I can ask for elaboration, Wally continues. “Speaking of drawing, I was hoping you might join me for some painting today, down by the south woods.”

“Oh!” I blurt out, taking a moment to process the invitation. “I’m not exactly much of an artist, myself.”

He laughs, and it’s every bit as emphatic as the rest of his speech. “Oh, neighbor, that doesn’t matter. We all start somewhere, and besides, I’d like the company.”

I consider turning him down flat, but something tells me he’s a bit too persuasive for me to keep him at bay forever. With a grin so forced it hurts, I say, “Sounds like fun! I’ll be there.”

Wally’s head bobs in a slow nod, and he takes a step back from the door. “I’m glad to hear it. See you soon, neighbor.”

I return the nod and raise a hand in a brief wave. “See you soon.” His stare remains, and just as I ready myself to ask him to stop, he finally, finally, turns away and walks away, humming a quiet tune to himself.

I step inside and close the door, leaning my forehead against it as I recover from the encounter. My stomach growls, but I feel as though I’ve lost my appetite. The inexplicable dread in my heart squashes any hope of breakfast. I close my eyes, but even then I can still see his own staring back, unblinking in their ceaseless observation. With a shudder, I push myself up, trying my best to steel my nerves. It’s just a little art lesson, I chastise myself. So he’s a little spooky, it’s probably fine.

No matter how many times I repeated those three words to myself, the memory of those eyes seems to peer right through the lie.

[420technoblazeit]

in my mind dean was always supposed to get older and become the new bobby. like ok you're a hunter, maybe a little new to the scene and still figuring things out. and you're tracking down a werewolf, easy case. except some things don't line up quite right and now you're thinking it might not actually be a werewolf. so you ask around a hunter's bar and they all say the same thing. go to this one bunker in the middle of nowhere in kansas

and you're like sure what the hell. you're stumped anyway, might as well check it out. maybe it's a weapons storehouse or something. but then you get there and there's a doorbell and a bee-shaped welcome mat out front and you're starting to think you've got the wrong place. the door swings open and there's this middle aged guy with a robe and batman pyjama bottoms. and he laughs at the look on your face and tells you to come in, he doesn't bite. not since he got that vampire cure, anyway. you're not sure what to make of that last part but he winks at you when he says it so you figure he's joking. maybe.

he gives great advice about hunting everything under the sun and if you stick around long enough he'll go on and on about how he saved the world at least five times. ok sure. you don't want to be rude so you just sit there and sip your coffee politely while he talks about some guy called chuck and how much of a bitch he is. and another guy who's aged a little more gracefully comes padding down the hallway in a metallica t-shirt and rolls his eyes. has he told you about tvland yet? ('i was just getting to that part!')

if you go to the basement you'll find shotguns filled with salt, wooden stakes, holy water, and demon-killing bullets for sale. and if you're lucky the witch who sells hex bags might be around. low-grade curses only, of course. you better leave the powerful stuff to the professionals. and she'll get in trouble if she gives you anything stronger, not that she can't be persuaded. a girl's gotta make a living after all and she's always encouraged eager new witches. it's worked out pretty well for her so far. and then a guy you swear is twice your height will raise an eyebrow at her and insist she only sell the weaker hex bags, please. you don't need any more witches in your coven, rowena. you've got plenty

pagan god giving you trouble? there's a man who swings by every once in a while who knows how to deal with those. give him some candy or a fun magic relic and he might help you out. it depends. he's a little picky about dishing out advice and he likes to play favorites. and if you've got a demon problem they can give you the number of a guy who swears up and down that he used to be the king of hell. but you've seen him walking around with a purse-sized terrier tucked under his arm and a dozen more following him so you're not really sure if you believe him

idk i like to think that dean got to grow old and retire. that doesn't mean he stops helping people, it just means he hangs up his coat and becomes an old man who rambles on and on about 'back in my day' and makes a dent in his leather armchair. there's a foosball table where the dungeon used to be and sam complains about beer bottles being everywhere and it becomes a safe haven for anyone still fighting the good fight. it's just that for dean and the rest of team free will the fight is over. they're done hunting now

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday - Johnny Storm

Summary: Johnny is a natural when it comes to cyber security but he has to tread lightly.

Warnings: None at this point. Please let me know if I missed any.

Part 1

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Johnny was flummoxed. Every attempt he made to contact his hacker connections, he hit a wall. He'd been blocked from all the usual places, and several of the unusual ones. Everywhere his hacker persona went, he was denied access.

What the hell is going on? Johnny thinks to himself.

He tries sending out DMs to various hackers. The only one to respond is you, DarkAngel2000.

DarkAngel2000: Well hello there, Mr. Storm. TheHumanTorch69: Who? What the hell is going on? DarkAngel2000: C'mon Johnny. Did you really think I wouldn't catch on?

He's about to type a response but you beat him to the punch by sending him a copy of his work ID card. He rubs his face for a few seconds, trying to think about how to carefully handle this.

HumanTorch: Who the hell is that?!

You'd laugh if it weren't so sad. He's clearly grasping at straws. But you know better. He's on their side. Worst of all, he lied to you about it and sabotaged your own work. Sure, it wasn't legal work. But it paid well and you had a reputation to maintain.

DarkAngel: Silly boy. Stop trying to deny it. I have you figured out and have warned the others about you. HumanTorch: YOU DOXED ME?! DarkAngel: Not yet. I simply showed them the proof that you were playing both sides. I decided to give you a chance to make it worth my while to not give out your personal information.

Johnny takes a breath. You're clearly not someone to be messed with but he is not about to give up his office. Yeah, it's just a job but it's a job that pays well, lets him work with good people, and they never nag him about what previous jobs dubbed "unprofessional behaviors". These people have his loyalty and he will not sell them out.

HumanTorch: What do you want? DarkAngel: That's more like it. I want credentials. HumanTorch: For this company? Not happening. I like these people. DarkAngel: Oooo! You're a loyal puppy, huh? Well, loyal to those who pay you. HumanTorch: They're good people. DarkAngel: I suppose we can compromise, then. You are rather skilled. I'm sure I'll have some other project for you to work on. I'll send you the details later, Mr. Storm.

Johnny flinches at that. You know his name, his face and the company he works for. No doubt you know everything else about him as well. At least you were willing to help him keep his job. Johnny starts working out a plan for reinforcing his personal privacy measures. He seriously doubts you'll let it go at just one job. He's got skills and he doesn't feel like being blackmailed into using them.

Maybe he should look into finding you.

Part 1

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen;

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ozwriterchick; @ronearoundblindly

[sandy-the-glader]

Hi!! I hope this is okay!! If not, no worries!! 💜💜💜 (I love you lots!)

Can I please request an Adrian Chase x fem!innocent!reader Where while Adrian is out and about doing his Vigilante work he comes across a bunch of criminals in a warehouse, and after they’re all “taken care of”, he hears someone crying and finds a girl hiding behind a pile of the criminal’s stuff, and she’s handcuffed to something over there, so she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to. She’d obviously be completely terrified of Vig, but as we know, he is very good at reading a person and would clearly see that she is innocent, and had been taken by the bad guys. Normally he would just set the innocent girl free and be on his way, having already taken care of the bad guys, however… He had unfortunately taken off his mask right before finding her, and had forgotten to put it back on, so she has seen his face. Panicking, he just picks her up, and takes her to his car with him, driving straight to the 11th Street Kids HQ, carrying in a terrified Y/n, he himself all panicked, and the team is like “wtf did you do????” “Did you abduct her???” And he’s just like, “No no, I saved her! But then she saw my face… So I guess, yes??”

Lmao it’s honestly a mess, but the team takes care of Y/n’s injuries, apologies for Adrian’s behavior lmao, and lets her stay there until she has recovered, as not only is she hurt, but very scared. After a while of staying with them, she gradually starts warming up to Adrian, him desperately trying to get her not to be afraid of him anymore (for a while there she was terrified of him), and their relationship eventually grows into a more romantic and intimate one🥺🥺🤧

Afraid of Me

*Not my gif*

Character: Adrian Chase x SoftFem!Reader

Type: Fluff and sorta angsty

Length: 5.4K (a bit long)

Summary: Request above <3

Trope: Strangers to friends to lovers, Slow-burn

A/N: LONG A/N!! Sorry this took forever I've been busy with a lot of stuff and I just haven't had any time but I worked on this whenever I could. Btw again I bent the request a little bit (I'm not sure if I wrote what you wanted for it and I apologize ) so I hope it’s okay I just made this go over the whole period of time the show does and like more so there's more time for a bond to be built lol

I heard a quick gunshot followed by another. Tears continued to fall from my eyes as I was tied to some random wall in some warehouse, Apparently, I was not supposed to come across two men selling heroin to each other but here I am. They claimed I saw too much, took me, and tied me up. Who even does that?

I just wanted to return to my apartment and read this new book I bought. That's all I had planned for my day anyway. Yet now I was tied to a pole in some wet and cold warehouse with random crates surrounding me. I tugged and tried to break from but it was helpless. I cried and sniffled as I continued to try but there was no avail.

Were those shots from them or someone else? Please god, let someone save me. I had been here for hours and I was scared of what they had planned for me. They already hit me pretty hard over the head which caused a small trail of blood to fall from my temple.

I heard loud and heavy footsteps coming towards me. I braced myself and waited for the figure to come around the crate to where I was. He was wearing a teal suit, with blood covering it. It was Vigilante. Should I be happy or terrified? He's a killer but isn't he supposed to be a hero?

"Fuck oh my god." He gasped slapping a gloved hand over his mouth. He was missing one exceptionally important part of his suit. His mask. That must have been why he was so frantic.

In all honesty, he looked nothing like I always pictured him. He was lanky with glasses and he looked really young. He looked mid-twenties though I had a feeling he was older. He honestly looked nerdy.

"I'm sorry. I really won't tell anyone who you are. I-I mean I don't even know your name." I stammered. He didn't care though because he continued to curse.

"Fuck fuck fuck. This is so not good." he groaned. The man ran a thick hand through his hair while bouncing back and forth. "Umm." He pondered confused about what to do. "Shit, I can't let you go." My eyes widen. He already has saved me why not let me go on my merry way? He took off his glasses and put his mask back on.

He came over to me and examined my situation. He crouched down and started untieing the rope that kept me on the pole but didn't bother with the ones around my hands or feet.

I was about to thank him for his acts but he picked me up and started to carry me out. Oh, he's actually not letting me go.

"What are you doing!?" I panicked. I started wiggling my body in his grasp then he held me tighter. "Where are you taking me? This hurts." He continued to keep walking until we reached his car a couple of feet from the warehouse.

Holding me with one hand, he opened the door to his back seat and tossed me in. Judging by his face, he didn't mean it to be as aggressive but it was enough to get me to shut up. He slammed the door and rushed over to the driver's seat.

This is it. After all that's happened today I'm being kidnapped by Vigilante and who knows what's going to happen. I guess the law doesn't apply when it comes to him. I actually can't believe it right now.

The entire car ride was silent. Not a sound from the man or from me. It was terrifying. All I could think of was what was going to happen to me. it took him forever to get to his destination and when we got there I realized it was some rundown video store. That couldn't be where we're going right?

-

"Guy's we got a fucking situation!" Adrian called opening the door with the girl in his hands. The whole team in the building stared at him with wide 'What the fuck' like eyes.

"Who the fuck is that?" Economos asked adjusting his glasses and leaning over his desk.

Adrian (not so carefully) dropped the woman on the floor making her yelp out in shock and pain.

"Did you just kidnap a girl?" Adebayo's eyes widened at the sight.

"No Adebayo!" He yelled defensively. "Okay, well technically yes but-" He was cut off quickly.

"And why did you bring her here?" Harcourt burst out running a hand through her blonde hair.

"Okay, I was doing my badass stuff, right? Like beating up these bad dudes and I found her behind some crates." They all stared at him waiting for him to continue. "And since I didn't know these dudes took a hostage I took my mask off and that's-" He removed his mask again and replaced the glasses on his face. "Really bad." He grimaced.

"Adrian what the hell dude you could have left her. She would have never turned you in. Look at her. No offense." Chris said. She stayed silent like she never heard the comment in the first place.

She was scared to death, trembling on the floor with small tear streaks down her face. Some of the tears mixed in with blood on the left side of her face. She looked innocent as could be and she definitely didn't deserve to be in this mess.

"Dude what the fuck!" He shouted at Chris. "Now she knows my real name! You have so fucked me!" He continued to cure which didn't make the girl feel any better.

"I did not fuck you! Besides it's your fault for bringing her here anyway." Chris furrowed his eyebrows looking back and forth between the petrified girl and his idiotic friend.

"What is happening out here?" Murn came out from one of the rooms and immediately regretted his decision. "We're supposed to be working on the project butterfly case what are you doing Chase?" He asked sternly.

"Oh, now she knows about Project Butterfly!" Harcourt placed a hand on her forehead.

"Well, it's not like I can kill her because she's innocent" The girl's face drained at the mention of death. "and we can't get rid of her because she might tell someone who I am!" Adrian wined out. He was finally right about one thing.

"She also might screw our plan up," Murn muttered trying to think of a reasonable thing to do with this girl.

"Then what do you suppose we do with her?" Economos folded his arms. The girl had been silent the entirety of this conversation but she finally piped up.

"Um.." Her voice caught everyone's attention and they turned their heads to look at her. "I-I can clean and o-organize around here." She stammered. "I can help you guys just please don't kill me." She pleaded. They all non-verbally agreed she had been through enough judging by the look of blood running from her temple and dirt caking her shirt.

"Yeah that honestly could be useful," Harcourt spoke. She looked around the room to only be met with agreeing faces. She let out another deep sigh before Murn spoke up.

"You will work the same hours as us and will get paid a fair amount." He folded his arms tightly over his chest. He didn't ask he just demanded she work.

"I'm also a fast learner and I can help you with anything you need. I don't have a current job so that would be perfect." She tried to look at the bright side of the situation. I can work for money but this is a destructive and hard-core business she pondered. "And since this is a very um dangerous job I just so happened to be trained in medical care." She offered.

"Oh, sweet! That's perfect so now dyed bear can stop doing such a shit job of stitching me up!" Chris smiled.

"Hey!" Economos protested. It was perfectly fine he thought.

"What about my living situation? C-can I still stay In my apartment?" She asked. They all looked around at each other because that was one thing they hadn't thought of. If they let her stay, she could always tell people without them knowing.

"If we let you stay in your apartment, you must realize he" Murn pointed at Adrian Chase himself. "has to keep watch of you? He somehow always knows if someone is doing something they shouldn't be." She nodded slowly. "And if you tell anyone and I mean anyone you will be terminated immediately, do you understand?" He spoke firmly making her hands tremble.

"I understand." She muttered.

"Now that everyone is done with this whole situation I suggest you get back to work," Murn concluded walking back to his office annoyed with the inconvenience.

-

I sat there absolutely stunned at what just happened. I just got myself into a bat shit crazy job. I mean I don't even know these people and one of them literally abducted me. This is not normal.

Project butterfly? Are these guys all heroes or something? I already was aware of Vigilante's existence and somewhat Peacemaker but there's a lot more than just those two.

"Oh my god, he didn't even untie you." The blonde-haired woman spoke in surprise. I didn't say anything because really what was I supposed to say? "I'm Harcourt." She kneeled beside me. She opened a switchblade and sliced through the ropes binding my hands together and then my feet. "Come on let's get you cleaned up. She went and collected the first aid kit from one of the desks on the left side of the room and motioned for me to sit at her desk. "What's your name?" She asked.

"Y/n L/n." I said quietly as I stared into my lap anxiously.

"Come sit Y/n." She said calmly trying to make me comfortable.

I stood up uneasily and almost fell back down. I steadied myself and carefully walked over to the chair and sat down gently. She pulled out a couple of cotton swabs and some alcohol. She poured the strong liquid onto the small ball.

"I'm sorry about him." Harcourt hummed taking the cotton swab to my forehead.

"Hm?" I replied softly.

"Adrian." She looked me in the eyes. "He just isn't all there sometimes." She mumbled. She tossed the bloodied-up swab in the trash and put a bandage over the small cut.

I looked over at Vigilante who I guess was named Adrian. He was talking to Peacemaker and he looked perfectly innocent. Not even an hour earlier he was tossing me into the back of his car. Jesus, what did I really get myself into? Not only does he have to escort me home, but now I have to work with him. He's a psycho!

"She has a point you know." The woman I was pretty sure was Adebayo spoke up. I glanced at her and she nodded trying to make me realize it. "He's a really good guy you just have to get to know him. I get it he basically kidnapped you but he's stupid in everything but fighting."

"Yeah okay," I mumbled softly. I don't care what they say now I can't trust him after what he did unless he really proves he's trustworthy. At least these people actually had the decency to tend to my wounds.

She continued to bandage and take care of every cut I had on my arms and face. I enjoyed her already because she was delicate to me and cared about my feelings. Pretty quickly she finished and put all the materials away.

"Come over here I think we found a box of old clothes you could change in." She led me back into the store and I could feel Adrian's eyes burning into my back.

-

"Dude she's afraid of me!" I panicked at Chris looking him dead in the eye. I waited for her to leave before I talked to my best friend about the whole thing.

"Well, I mean you did throw her in the back of your car. Chicks don't really dig that. Unless they're like hardcore." Okay yeah obviously I fucked up big time but I was under a lot of pressure and I wasn't doing what I should have!

"Dude I didn't know what else to do." I whined

"I mean you just gotta make things right with her I guess. I don't know I usually don't have to apologize to girls." He shrugged his shoulders. Great okay how am I supposed to do that when she's obviously afraid of me? Fuck. "Listen when you walk her to her apartment just be like 'Sorry for kidnapping you in my shitty car that was a pretty bad thing to do!' or something like that." I let out a heavy sigh. This is never going to work.

-

I came back out to the main room in a sweatshirt with the video store's logo on it and sweatpants that were longer than my actual legs with the same logo down the side of it. I held my original clothes in my arms and I was quiet.

What do I do now? Go home? How am I supposed to feel safe in my own home when I know that guy is watching me?

"Listen." Harcourt grabbed my attention. "You can take as much time as you need before you go home. I know that was probably a traumatic experience for you so let me know when you want to leave." She spoke as if she had read my mind. I nodded. "Also we have your address so we can get you home easily." Okay well, I told her my name and that was all it took to find out where I lived. Spectacular.

"What are my work hours?" I still can't believe I got myself to work for these people.

"Just don't get here any later than 8. Hours are different every day. Since you now work here I guess I should tell you who everyone is." She pointed to Peacemaker and Vigilante who were still chatting near the corner of the room "Chris and Adrian ." Then to the other man in glasses. "Economos." The guy in the other room that I could see through the glass. "Murn." Finally, she pointed at the last girl which I already knew. "and Adebayo."

I stood around for not too much longer before very anxiously describing to Harcourt my wishes to leave. She understood fully and went over to Adrian to make him take me home. He looked at me with some sort of care in his eyes but I just couldn't look at him so my eyes fell back to the sight of the floor.

"Come on kid." Harcourt motioned with her head to leave out the door with the man. I walked out the door and the cool air hit me as the sun started to sink down below the horizon.

One car ride and then I'm home. This time I got to sit in the front seat of his car instead of being thrown in the back like a doll. I secured my seatbelt and then just slumped against the car door. All I could really do was pay attention to the passing cars outside and the quiet buzz of the radio.

I also noticed the pleasing smell of his cologne that filled the car or how he hummed along to the Taylor Swift song on the radio. Someone like him is a swiftie?

"I'm sorry that I kidnapped you." Adrian broke the silence between us in an attempt to apologize. I ignored it and kept looking out the window. It was a long day and I genuinely couldn't tell if he was being sincere or was just trying to make me feel like he cared. "Please talk to me. I know I fucked up." I glanced over at him; his eyes flickered between the road and me. "Hey." He reached for my hand and flinched away with wide eyes and a quickened heartbeat.

His eyes lit up in sorrow. He looked like he felt bad. He backed off and for the rest of the car ride, he didn't talk anymore. There was so much tension in that car I felt like I was going to suffocate. I could barely look at him. I was still scared of his guts.

Every turn and stop made me think over and over about the events that occurred today. It was nauseating.

Finally walking through the door of my apartment left me with this feeling I couldn't describe. All of the events that happened today were fucking unbelievable.

The book I was planning to read was on my bed and was quickly tossed on my side table with a small thud. I sprawled out on my bed not bothering to do anything else tonight.

What. The. Fuck.

-

It's my first day on the job and my teammate already hit someone with a car. A van actually. I got to the disguised video store a bit after seven and Murn described the plan to me. Since I wasn't significant to the plan I just stayed in the car with a first-aid kit just in case things went south. And oh they did.

"Is he dead!?" I stood in the van looking at Economos dumbfounded. He didn't reply at first he was just making shocked quivering noises.

"I... I don't know?" My eyes widened as he started to get out of the car holding a crowbar tightly in his hands. I left the kit on the seats (since I had been fidgeting with the latches the whole ride) and followed him for support or something like that. Maybe I thought I could help. He inspected inside the car which he had hit fully force.

Judomaster was crawling on the ground in front of the car slowly. Economos inched closer and closer to him holding the crowbar. He whacked him once over the head and jolted backward then his body went limp. We waited and sure enough, he kept crawling. He hit him again and he still was moving. I slapped a hand over my mouth as he repeatedly hit him on the back of the head. He poked him a few times like you would a bug making sure he wasn't moving.

"Oh my god." He let out. "Fuck yeah!" He turned around to high-five me. I lightly returned it. "Don't worry he's not dead." He said sensing my shock. "They're hardcore it takes a lot."

"Well, what do we do with him now?" I looked at Economos for ideas. We ended up tying him up and throwing him in the back of the van. I watched him intensely. When would this dude wake up? I really hope not any time soon. Murn radioed us and let us know that they would be coming back soon with of course Vigilante. Economos drove us back to the spot we were supposed to be in and awaited their arrival.

"You're pretty cool." I complimented him. He was taken aback by the positive words.

"Well thank you." He adjusted his glasses with a bright smile.

We waited for 15 minutes until they finally arrived and loaded themselves into the van. Everyone looked untouched besides Harcourt's messy hair, a couple cuts on Peacemaker's face and Vigilante crying about his bleeding toe. I grabbed the medical kit I had set down on the seats just minutes before and rushed to Adrian's side.

I motioned for him to move his foot up to where I needed it. He hesitated for a moment but then proceeded to lift his foot into my lap. I scoped out his injured toe and I pulled out the needed materials.

Yikes. I was definitely glad that I stayed in the van. Adrian’s foot jerked in my lap as I tried to get some alcohol.

"Hold still!" I complained to Adrian trying to hold his leg down from wriggling under my grasp. From the looks of it, this man had managed to get half of his pinky toe cut off. That is such a bizarre thing for torture.

“It hurts so bad though!” He wined when I took the alcohol to his foot. He had obviously had worse happen to him but this?

“It could have been worse,” I said. My hold got tighter on his leg since it kept jolting side to side.

“Pft yeah, this was nothing!” He lied as if he hadn’t been complaining two seconds ago. “I’ve gone through worse in DND.” A small smile appeared on my cheeks. DND huh? Who knew the big strong Vigilante was a total nerd? And a swiftie...

“One of my characters got their arm bitten off by a bear so I’d say you’re okay,” I said. His eyes lit up at the mention that I had played before." Just sit still it's about to get worse." His eyes clenched shut.

"Oh shit!" He screamed out making everyone irritated in the van. I shushed him gently with a soft hand on his leg. He shut up very quickly but his body still tensed occasionally with every sting. I held his foot carefully as I bandaged it up thoroughly.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I asked. I still didn't dare to look him in the eye.

"Yeah, but I can wait until we get back." He tried to act tough but I could hear the pain in his voice. I noticed a couple of holes in his shirt. Maybe I could fix his shirt while I'm at it. God am I being too nice?

I mean I'm trying to think of the bright side of what happened yesterday and honestly, it didn't seem so bad anymore. He saved my ass and I'm having a paying job. I can only imagine the pay is fantastic for what these people have me doing. I sat next to Adrian. I was feeling a little less scared of him now when I thought about him like that. Even through the visor, his eyes were peeled onto me. It felt like since I got here they never left.

Getting back to headquarters I couldn't get Adrian to get out of the van without making a scene. I dragged him quickly into the store so he wouldn't draw any attention from people lurking around In the streets. I pulled him by his hand and made him sit in the closest chair I could spot. He whined and moaned obnoxiously loud. I knew the stories and new articles about the man. He was tough and put up a big fight, he never lost against criminals.

I grabbed the larger bandages from an area Harcourt showed me just this morning and also some more alcohol.

"Show me where you're hurt." I looked at him curious about what else had happened to him. He pulled off his chest plate and revealed the deep stab wound in his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt clearly revealed the bloody mess it left. My eyes widen. "You kept this from me until now?"

"I could handle this. The toe I'm not entirely sure." I cleaned and bandaged the wound with intense concentration. I was careful and sure not to cause any more harm after this long night. "Thank you." He said softly. I just nodded and didn't reply with anything else.

-

The days passed as we worked on this project and the days were long and there was a lot of work to do. I didn't have almost any free time anymore so it was hard to make time for friends I actually wanted to talk to or things I really wanted to do. Adrian continued to try his hardest to earn my trust and befriend me.

I started to warm up to him crazy enough. He did little things for me I thought were sweet. Sometimes he brought me breakfast or he would try to learn about things I liked so he could talk about them with me. I started to trust him more and more as the mission proceeded because he was really good company. He would talk and I would listen.

A couple of days after the whole 'Adrian getting his pinky toe almost cut off' situation he got himself arrested. I didn't even know until Harcourt talked to me about it and what Adebayo said to him. I felt bad for him because as much as I thought I disliked him, I hated to hear he was where he was and how Adebayo literally manipulated him into doing it.

The night he got out he showed up at my apartment because he still needed to check up on me and since he hadn't been able to. For the first time, I felt comfortable enough to hug him. So I did, I wrapped my arms gently around his torso and gave a small squeeze. We stood like that for a minute before he quietly wished me a 'goodnight' without any further words. That was the kindest moment we had ever shared with one another

Then the next day we had another mission. Since all this time has passed, I had been informed on what a Butterfly fully was. At first, it was entirely confusing until I realized these were tiny alien butterflies here to kill us. I know it sounds like something straight out of a sci-fi movie.

I had to sit through a whole meeting in the morning next to Adrian where he (the whole time) joked with me. It felt sorta nice honestly. He never stopped being friendly and I just kind of started to accept it more.

And the whole mission went by quickly.

"Oh my god." I blurted when everyone arrived back in the truck. Peacemaker and Economos were fully drenched head to toe in blood, Harcourt had a good amount on her, and Adebayo and Adrian had little to none on them.

"We fought a fucking gorilla!" Adebayo exploded with astonishment. Jesus, sometimes I wish I didn't sit in the car the whole time.

"Economos is the fucking man." Peacemaker clapped him on the back with a proud grin. I did miss a lot if those two are now getting along.

"All the blood is the gorillas right?" I asked startled for a second considering the amount.

"Yeah we're all fine," Harcourt said tiredly.

"At least no one's arm got bitten off, like your DND character right?" Adrian nudged me in the side and sat down next to me. Sure I had only told him a few days ago about that but it still made me happy that he had remembered that tiny detail.

"Right." I smiled. Chris sat in the front and started playing music like he had at the beginning of the ride. I sang along with the rest of my team members to 11th Street Kids and I actually started to enjoy my work a little more.

I looked over at Adrian who was dancing like a dork. He looked so adorable? He was playing air drums and making up random dances as he went. I don't know why but I started to not hate him anymore. I started seeing this more personal side of him. Not Vigilante but Adrian.

"C'mon dance," Adrian whispered in my ear and nudged me again. I started to sway along with the group.

Later that night Harcourt made a group chat with all of us and sent a photo she had taken in the van. I set the book down I had finally got to reading beside me on my bed and picked up my phone.

Everyone was dancing in the van but on the right side, you could see me looking at Adrian with the sweetest smile on my face. The chat is filled with different emojis. The only number I had was Harcourts but from the merman emoji, I already knew it was Adrian. I liked his message and sent a fitting emoji to match the others.

I set my phone down and continued reading with a big smile. I never seemed to stop today.

-

It was the final day of the project and I wasn’t allowed to go. I wasn’t entirely complaining since this job was so bizarre but I was also disappointed. I mean all this build up and I don’t even get to go. They said it would be safer for me and of course, I understood.

But as the night carried on and the morning came through I was nervous. I had no texts or word from anyone. Sure, they still could be busy and have to do some other stuff before texting me but what if?

I heard a rushed-sounding knock on my door which threw me off. I ran to my door since the person decided to not stop knocking.

"What do you want?" I hissed as I threw open the door but I was only met with Adrian. My eyes soften upon seeing him. Oh, thank god he’s alive. "Adrian. Hi." I paused when noticing he was in a pair of shorts and a nursing gown. "Come inside." I ushered him in with wide eyes and closed the door quickly behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"Listen I jumped out of a hospital building to be her so-"

"Adrian!" I scolded him for being careless. I had started to really enjoy him I didn't need him being so careless all the time.

"Shut up. Sorry, but I need to tell you this." I stared at him silently with folded arms awaiting what he was about to tell me. "Okay, so after almost dying, I know what you're about to say please just wait. After almost dying, I realized had more feelings for you than I have ever had for someone and that's like a lot for me." He stepped closer to me. "I had to tell you those feelings just in case I actually died sometime. But now I'm scared if you reject me because of the whole kidnapping thing when we first met and usually I would be okay with rejection but I don't feel usual with you." He rambled and his hands made several confusing gestures along the way.

Everything about him told me he was being truthful. His hands were trembling with nervousness, He literally came from a hospital to tell me this and he just had that look on his face.

The feelings from the other day came rushing back. I really enjoyed being with genuine Adrian. The time we spent together over the course of this project was enjoyable. I noticed small things about him like the way he always made sure to keep an eye on me and was careful not to get me into anything super dangerous. He had become almost like a personal guard.

He even taught me how to use weapons, and also never overstepped my boundaries. So yeah maybe I developed a crush on my kidnapper co-worker.

"Why are you looking at me like that I'm like really nervous right now." He asked.

"Because I feel the same way. Even though you did totally kidnap and traumatize me." I nudged him smiling but he didn't return it. "Adrian I was playing with you. But I really do feel the same way." He let out a long breath. I was quite sure he had stopped breathing for a little while.

"Oh thank god." Adrian stepped closer and picked me up in his arms as he kissed me deeply. I've kissed a couple of times in the past but never did it feel as amazing as this. I held him close to me as if he would slip away again. He pulled away to look closely at my face.

"Just because you kissed me doesn't mean I won't scold you for almost dying." I glared at him but he just smiled kindly and kissed me again.

"If I keep. Kissing you then. I won't. Get yelled at." He said in between kisses making me start to laugh.

“Don’t scare me like that again Chase.” I shook my head kissing him passionately once more. I could get used to this feeling.

[scoobydoodean]

A Fic About Dean's 45th Birthday

~3k words | slight angst with a happy ending

Dean never says anything about his birthday.

Sam has weird hang ups about holidays like Halloween and Christmas, and January 24th isn't just Dean's birthday—it was Jess's birthday too. So Dean's never made a fuss. He's asked for Christmas, but he's never asked to have his birthday celebrated. There are many years he can think of where he wouldn't have even wanted to celebrate his birthday anyway—where the idea of it would have felt hollow.

He's said before in front of Sam and Bobby, "I don't like being singled out at birthday parties, much less by God" and he figures maybe Sam has always remembered that, and probably told Cas too (if Cas ever asked).

Right. It all makes sense.

So he has no reason to expect Sam to realize that Dean actually wants to celebrate his birthday now—that he has wanted to for... the last three years, ever since Mrs. Butters insisted they throw a birthday party for Sam.

He can't stop thinking about Mrs. Butters saying they shouldn't celebrate Dean's birthday—or... rather, that she thought he wouldn't want to celebrate his birthday because he's old... and just... fuck that.

The truth is, the older Dean gets, the more his birthday feels... important. For one, he's officially spent more time not in Hell now than he spent in it. For another, 45 just feels... important somehow. It isn't 50—but it's another half a decade? He thought he'd be dead by now (well—he supposes he has been—but it hasn't stuck yet) and he doesn't know—it just feels like... like something to celebrate. He's 45 years old, and he isn't dead. He's alive, and he's happy, and things have been good lately.

He keeps thinking about it every year that passes better than the last. He keeps wondering every year. He keeps hoping every year—even though he knows it isn't rational when he hasn't said anything. He hasn't asked. He hasn't told anyone that anything's changed. He can't expect a birthday party if he doesn't communicate that he wants one. At the same time, asking for one feels weird. It feels... whiney. Nobody else is asking.

Dean's done birthday meals for Sam the past couple of years without Sam asking (stooped to making a caesar salad with grilled chicken for Sam's birthday last year with minimal grumbling) but it doesn't seem to make much of an impression. Sam is just... not much of a birthday guy. He's quiet, and to be honest, Dean's pretty sure he prefers celebrating with Eileen if he's going to do anything. She usually swings into town around Sam's birthday to take him out drinking. Well. He'll be celebrated whether he likes it or not—at least a little—at least with a meal.

Dean doesn't know when to celebrate Cas. He's asked before and Cas said something about being created before humans or their methods of marking the passage of time existed and... yeah, okay. Dean's favorite local diner sells good pie, and has a nice selection of milkshakes, including a PB&J flavored one. For the last few years, once a year, on September 18th, Dean tries to either take Cas out for one of those milkshakes, or pick one up for him. The date just feels right.

Dean puts the most effort in for Jack, with a full on cake ever since Mrs. Butters. Sometimes, he adds a bag full of Three Musketeers candy bars. Cas and Sam certainly don't raise a fuss. They all silently agree that the kid should get the birthday experience even if the rest of them are too old and jaded to care.

42, 43, 44... every time January 24th rolls around, it's always just like any other day. He thinks maybe when he turned 43, Sam might have wandered into The Dean Cave at night when Dean was watching a movie with Cas and sat for a while, then belatedly said, "Oh. Uh, happy birthday, man," while staring down at his cell phone. That was it.

Dean had brushed him off with a grunt—probably only reinforced for Sam and Cas both that Dean doesn't care just like they don't seem to care. So it isn't rational. It isn't fair. It isn't reasonable for Dean to get upset. But maybe it starts to sting a little, okay? And yeah that makes Dean feel a little embarrassed—sue him. He hasn't said anything... and he shouldn't. It's stupid. It doesn't matter. Mrs. Butters said he's too old for birthdays.

Still, despite his best efforts, Dean goes to bed on January 23rd 2024 wondering if someone will remember—if maybe, this time, they'll do something... because... he's 45. Something simple is all he imagines. They go out to eat, or... someone else makes breakfast (or tries). Sam give him a stupid gag gift. Cas picks up a pie.

As Dean falls asleep, he stupidly imagines the library decorated with a tiny "Happy Birthday" banner. He imagines a stack of pancakes for breakfast with a stupid candle in them. He imagines party hats and Rice Krispie treats. He imagines someone just... wishing him a happy birthday. Just... acknowledge it—that he's 45. That it's important.

Dean wanders into the library in the morning and it's empty and dark. He goes into the kitchen, and Sam is illuminated by his laptop screen. Dean flicks on the light and Sam barely flinches. "Hey," He says, keeping his gaze on his work... and that's it. That's how January 24th 2024 is going to be.

Dean shakes himself out of it—doesn't reply—just wanders over to the coffee pot to pour in grounds and get a drip brew going. Who knows if Sam has even slept—he's been deeply fixated on a cataloguing project for two weeks straight now. It's entirely possible he pulled an all-nighter. He might not even know what day it is anyway.

Dean opens the fridge and drags out the bacon. He considers toast too, but then decides that... well—he can celebrate his own birthday at least by making it special himself. He goes to the pantry and pulls out a boxed pancake mix he picked up who knows how long ago.

Just add milk and eggs.

Dean eyes the half-burnt-out pack of birthday candles in the junk drawer, stored there last May 18th. He closes the drawer, rolling his eyes at himself, and flips his pancakes as they start to bubble.

When breakfast is finished cooking (enough for Sam and Cas and Jack too, of course) Dean makes himself a plate and plops down across from Sam at the kitchen table.

"Big stack of pancakes," Sam murmurs—and Dean could swear there's a vaguely judgmental lilt to it.

Dean's eyes burn, which is stupid. He cuts through all five pancakes and shoves a huge bite in his mouth, staring at Sam across the table stonily as he chews.

Sam glances up and makes a bitch face, but doesn't say anything, returning his focus to his laptop

"What are you doing that's so damn interesting anyway?" Dean grumbles.

"Still cataloguing. Actually, Eileen is coming over to help me. We're gonna drag that last shelf of books into the library from the archive room and scan it all—finally have everything digitized."

Dean's heart sinks. It's gotta be at least 1,000 books.

Sam gets up from his chair. "I was gonna wheel everything in from down there and stack it on the tables before she gets here. You wanna help me?"

"Uhh..."

"Right," Sam scoffs lightly, making his way over to the coffee pot. "No problem."

"Look—I'm glad you enjoy that shit," Dean poorly pronounces through a mouthful of chewed food, stabbing another bite before he's finished this one. "Because someone has to—but moving and cataloguing books is the last thing I wanna do on my birthday."

It slips out without Dean really meaning for it to. He feels like the pancakes he's eaten are crowding his throat. He grabs his glass of water and swallows quickly, watching Sam over the rim of his glass.

"Oh," is all Sam says though—glancing at Dean, then his watch, before pouring his coffee into a mug. "Uh... happy birthday."

Dean looks down at his plate. "Thanks."

Sam clears his throat unusually loudly. "You know—I'm gonna be busy, but maybe... you ought to make a day of it," He suggests suddenly, leaning against the counter with his mug in a way that does not look comfortable or natural.

Dean immediately smells deceit, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "What do you mean?"

Sam opens his mouth then closes it—shrugs. "You know—go out on the town... see if Cas or Jack wants to do something together. I mean—I can't go—can't back out on Eileen, but..." He interrupts himself with a sip of coffee.

Dean narrows his eyes. "Are you... trying to get me out of the bunker right now?"

"What? No!" Sam has always been terrible at lying to Dean—always seems too indignant. "I just—maybe you should celebrate. You're like, 46 or something, right?"

"45!" Dean's voice goes up a whole octave, suspicion momentarily forgotten.

"Whatever," Sam waves him off. "Go get a nice drink somewhere or go see a movie."

Dean glowers.

Sam stares back at him, before opening his mouth and looking up at the ceiling. "Okay, fine. Me and Eileen uh... need the library."

Dean cocks his head to the side a little, processing, before the realization hits. A big grin spreads over his face. "Sammy, you sly dog..." Dean chuckles. "I know what this is."

"Uh...?"

"Yeah you and Eileen are gonna catalogue some books, huh? Heheh..."

Sam scowls and rolls his eyes. "Gross, Dean."

Dean raises his hands in surrender. "Message received. I will uh... clear outta here..." Dean gets up, collecting his empty plate. "And... make myself scarce until say....?" He looks at Sam expectantly.

Sam looks at the floor, the wall, the ceiling—anywhere but Dean, before saying, "...6:30?"

"I'll make it 7:00!" Dean declares, setting his dishes in the sink then striding out.

Jack turns out eager to go do something in town, which bolsters Dean's spirits. When they go looking for Cas though, and find him brushing his teeth in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he says gruffly, "I have judo practice."

Cas has run through a stream of contact sports over the last three years, and so far, he's stuck with judo the longest. He's very good at it, and he takes it very seriously. It's kind of funny but also kinda... well—adorable at the same time.

"Why the fuck did you take a shower right before judo practice?"

Cas spits into the sink. "There is a man attending now whose gi is off white. Off white, Dean. Not because that is the color of the fabric, but because he never seems to bathe or wash his clothing."

Dean stares at him.

Cas shakes his head, seething at his own reflection in the mirror. "I know what he's doing... It's a strategy. He and I are enemies... and I will defeat him without stooping to his level."

"You are bathing before practice as a 'fuck you' to a smelly guy?" Dean clarifies. Suddenly Dean feels offended. "Wait a minute—how come this is the first time I'm hearing about this?"

"He's new," Cas grumbles. "He just moved here, and he smells, and he tries to tell the instructors they're doing things wrong. He's annoying and I hate him. Defeating him at this practice is very important, Dean. I'm sorry. Perhaps I could join you later."

"But it's Dean's birthday," Jack pipes up.

Dean looks at Jack, surprised, but also... touched.

Jack gives Cas a pleading look. Cas looks... put upon. He's giving Jack an almost... warning look, which is weird, but... bad day for Cas, maybe.

"No no—it's fine," Dean waves Cas off, and puts on an excited smile on for Jack. "You know what, Jack? All this means is that the two of us can go fishing."

"I hate fishing..." Cas grumbles.

"Exactly," Dean says. "So you won't miss out. Join us after your practice or whatever if you want. Sam wants the bunker to himself 'cause Eileen's coming over."

Cas tilts his head at him in confusion. "What? What does that have to do with anything?"

Dean gives him a look.

Cas stares back, then realization comes over his face. "...Oh," He says, glancing between Dean and Jack. "Uh... yes... so. Perhaps I'll join you after... fishing."

Jack seems eager to do a lot of activities. It makes Dean feel kind of good that Jack seems to appreciate birthdays, because Dean is the one who made sure they kept celebrating Jack's.

They pack sandwiches and eat them by the river while they fish, and then Jack says he wants to see a movie so they go to the theater, and even though it doesn't matter because it's all the same cash at the end of the day, Jack insists on buying the popcorn when Dean reaches for his wallet.

They still haven't heard from Cas by the time they get out of the movie. His practice should have ended hours ago.

"....What if we go see the world's largest ball of twine?" Jack asks. So okay. They do. Then after that, they go play mini-golf. Dean keeps checking his phone, hoping maybe Cas will call or text for their whereabouts and join them, but a message never comes.

Dean feels not only a little stung, but also kind of worried. He ends up texting Cas.

Dean: Just checking in.

Cas replies about 20 minutes later.

Cas: I apologize, Dean. Sam has roped me into actual research.

However much he doesn't want it to, it puts a damper on things—makes it hard for Dean to keep smiling. Sam just... didn't want he and Jack underfoot? Is that it? He thought they'd... get in the way? It kind of offends Dean. He and Jack are both perfectly competent at researching and Sam knows that. Dean just doesn't like this kind of project. At worst, he would have stayed out of the way—holed up in The Dean Cave or in his room to watch movies. If Sam's goal was getting them out of the bunker so they wouldn't bother him, it doesn't feel fair. It seems... mean.

Dean's throat feels tight. He puts his phone on silent before they get to the burger joint in the evening—tells himself he's jumping to conclusions—he isn't being fair.

At least... at least Jack is having a good time—smiling ear to ear. It's good to see him happy—especially after that upsetting stint as God. The responsibility of it... the weight... thinking about it had twisted Dean's stomach in knots some nights so bad he could hardly breathe, even if he never spoke to anyone about it.

Dean pulls into the garage right about 7PM, determined not to let any disappointment or hurt toward Sam or Cas show—reminding himself again that it's his own fault that they didn't know this day was important to him.

He decided on the drive home he'll say something about celebrating birthdays from now on... around late April, right before Sam's birthday so no one catches on that he's hurt. That'll... it'll make it easier to get it out anyway, Dean thinks—that this is something he wants—if it's first in the context of Sam's birthday instead of his own. He'll say he'd like to start making celebrating everyone's birthday a habit—say it's important to him. He'll ask, and plan a party for Sam, then they'll do one for Jack, then Cas... then, when Dean turns 46... maybe they can celebrate Dean's birthday all together then. Everyone being celebrated... it just feels right. It's something Dean just... wants.

He's also cooled off on Sam—convinced himself that Sam probably just didn't want Dean to feel obligated to help on his birthday while Sam was determined to be a bore—thought he'd have more fun getting out of the house. He just wishes Sam had the sense not to rope Cas in too.

Jack pushes open the stairs that lead down into the map room, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin as he hears a very loud chorus of voices exclaiming, "SURPRISE!"

Jack grins widely then, and says, "Come on, Dean!" He races to the bottom of the stairs, motioning for Dean behind him.

Dean can hardly believe it when the library comes into view.

His family is there. Not just Sam and Cas, but Eileen, and Rowena, Donna, Jody, Garth and Bess and their boys, Claire and Patience and Alex. Some of them are wearing party hats, others just smiling. Donna scoops him into a hug first, then Jody.

Dean is overwhelmed by the attention as he trades hugs with so many of their friends. His eyes are drawn to actual decorations. There are streamers hang from the ceiling, attached to brown balloons. There's a banner attached to a wall that says "It Is Your Birthday!"

"Alright—so I left Cas in charge of the decorating while I went to get the cake," Sam admits as he walks up and places a cup of punch in Dean's hand.

"I already told you—the balloons are the color of Scooby Doo!" Cas scowls.

"Oh yeah? And why are they so under-filled?" Sam says back, but he's laughing.

"They're perfect, Cas," Dean chokes, looking at all the effort Cas put in—overwhelmed.

A cake in the shape of Scooby Doo's face is laid out on one of the tables, surrounded by paper party plates and napkins with The Scooby Gang on them. There are... there are actual wrapped presents sitting on the the table further back. Like... a lot of presents.

"You... you did all of this for me?" Dean asks, looking at Cas and Sam.

"We lied so we could stay here and prepare," Cas admits. "Jack was supposed to keep you out of the house while we worked."

Dean glances at Jack then, who beams.

"I'll be honest though. I really thought you had me figured out this morning in the kitchen, Dean," Sam shakes his head, grinning.

Dean's eyes well up with tears. "You're still a bad liar," He croaks.

He doesn't even know if it's him or someone else who starts it, but suddenly they're all in a group hug.

"Happy 45th birthday, Dean."

"You deserve it."

[screamting]

Once again trapped in trying to figure out what Wayne Industries actually Does. "Everything!" yeah sure but they had to get there somehow. Amazon was an online bookstore at first there was a lot of very rapid growth between then and now.

Usually I hear that they started as a shipping business which makes sense when Gotham is 90% waterfront, but at some point they had to transition from just shipping other people's things to shipping things they made as well. I suppose if they started making their own transports for shipping (starting with their own steamboats and later trains and cars) that would make sense. Maybe in the industrial revolution they even bought their own steel mill upon getting tired of having fluctuating prices or a steel shortage and just deciding they were going to get their own damn steel and sell the extra instead. If they chose to manufacture higher quality steel instead of cheapest possible steel that's also laying the groundwork for them to be well liked by their customers. Not railroad barons but making the steel to lay the railroad and build the trains. It's the 1800s so they have a couple patented medicines by then as well that are.... not really medicine but no one has officially noticed yet. They ship their own chemicals out west for a good time.

In 1880s Alan Wayne makes the building that becomes Wayne Tower?? Which I think is much too early, but apparently we were building sky scrapers in 1888 so business must have been booming I fucking guess. This is also the man that has them go corporate.

Of course the railroads start to fall out with the growth of cars and car lobbying. They are still used along with boats for transport but with railroads not being built as much and not being maintained and the union wars, Wayne Industries has to make a pivot somewhere to stay in the race. The family can have a lot of personal money but the business itself is still going strong in Gotham even before Bruce takes over.

I guess if they're already in shipping, they're probably importing as well by then. They may have started with steamboats but then in WWI and WWII all steel factories started producing things for the war efforts, surely they made a couple big ships by then capable of crossing the Atlantic, if they weren't already in oceanic shipping by then. It lets them ride out the great depression because of government maritime subsidies that were a little out of control until the new deal kicked in. That would've also presumably kept WI employees working in the depression and cemented them harder in the city as smaller businesses closed around them.

The patented medicine starts shifting to actual generics that are a little less Heroic post 1918.

Maybe at around that point was when WI started manufacturing... sort of everything. You get your ships, and all the things on board that you need to run a ship. You get your ovens and stoves and big pots and your radar and hell your sailors can even buy their boots and uniforms from us.

When WWII ends they shift back to transporting other people's goods but also maybe more luxury vehicles as well. Cruise services. Some nicer kitchen installations. Kitchens on land even. Get a nice WI electric mixer. Get your waterfront boots. Get your generic ibuprofen.

At that point we're closer to Martha and Thomas' era and they're just... Along for the ride I guess. Thomas is a figurehead CEO. He's off doing medical school and mostly just shows up for formalities, while Martha works in the Wayne Foundation (either the only thing Thomas really made or opened in the 60s to try and get Gotham really booming) as a charity liason. They're still not really celebrities as much as a charismatic couple in high circles. WI doesn't need them to function. It's basically just funding them as they do their own things.

And then the murders happen

And then Bruce, over eighteen, shows up having inherited the figurehead CEO title and his entire family's controlling stock in WI, and announces they're going to be doing things his way now.

The CEO/Board of directors is supposed to do things in the best interest of their stock holders.

If Bruce is the controlling stock holder, they do what he says his best interest is.

[bumblequinn]

Hi quinn! I just wanted to tell you that I love your music for Super Lesbian Animal RPG. I think it's really innovative and interesting to listen to. I'm not ashamed to admit that I look up to your accomplishments and the bold artistic decisions that you make.

I'm curious, how do you make a living as a musician? It's clear that you put a lot of heart and soul into your music, and I imagine that making a living as an artist can be challenging at times. I would love to hear more about your journey as a musician and how you navigate the music industry. How are you making a living? (Any tips? Tricks?)

Thank you for sharing your talent with the world. Your music has brought me joy and inspiration, and I look forward to hearing more from you in the future.

hello neighbor! thank you for the kind words. :)

i'm afraid to say that if i'm honest, i haven't actually started making a living from music yet. at present, the biggest part of my income by far comes from bobby and i splitting the sales revenue for SLARPG through steam and itch. so i suppose it would be more accurate to say my living, for now, is as a game dev.

that's not to say i don't make any money off my music! selling the OST, both online and in physical form, hasn't been insignificant, and i'm incredibly grateful to everyone who has supported my work directly in that way. but at least for now, that alone isn't enough to live on.

while i can't speak from my own experience, one word of advice i've heard countless artists and freelancers impart is that making a living through creative work is largely about having a diversity of income sources (commissions, contract work, streaming, revenue shares, patreon, merch, etc etc).

so, my goal this year is to do just that! behind the scenes i've been working toward making the music side of things more sustainable (mostly in the shape of "hire me to make music for your project oh god please"), but it would hardly be honest to say i've gotten that off the ground. i expect it will be quite the challenge, but i'm determined to make the effort!

rest assured, if i figure it out, i'll be sure to share what i learn. until then, you have all my encouragement. 💓

with care, bee 🐦

[subwaytostardew]

▽ Subway to Stardew - Adoptable Joltik ⚡️

This would play after Emmet's 8 heart event and getting Joltik up to 8 hearts as well.

I released a separate mod specifically for adopting Joltik, so you only need to get them up to 8 hearts to adopt them! You can do it right now!

Adoptable Joltik Mod Link: https://www.nexusmods.com/stardewvalley/mods/21002

And of course... Commentary under the read-more.

Joltik's adoption event sat in the drafts for quite a while. It took me whole a day to implement and I didn't let myself sleep until I finished everything. (It's 1 PM now...)

The event ended up wildly different because of how extra custom pets are implemented. You would think that they would be added in the same way as you get your cat/dog that you select during character creation. No. You have to buy a license. Only Marnie is authorized to sell them.

Here's the original script for Joltik's adoption event:

[Joltik Adoption Event]

Emmet: @! Joltik likes you verrrrry much. They want to stay with you. I'm letting you adopt them. Yup. I filled out all the paperwork. The Joltiks are legally documented now. 

I never gave ours a name... Galvantula wouldn't let me. She is verrrry picky about it. But that's okay. Joltik is yours. You should name them. She came along for approval. So. What name should I put on the adoption form?

[Name input box like Marnie's adoption thing...]

[Galvantula pauses for a moment to think and then offhandedly agrees.]

Emmet: Galvantula didn't shock me for that. That name is okay. Yup. I will file that with the Ferngill Republic. Don't worry about it. Make sure you take verrrry good care of our little Joltik!

[Joltik jumps and heart emotes]

◇──◆──◇──◆

The whole naming portion was a source of much more frustration than it should have been. In events, the name input box is brought up by the "catQuestion" command (which applies to dogs chosen at the start, too...

If you refuse, then Marnie also shows up no matter what you do. Farmhouse positions are also tricky and made even harder to find reference for after 1.6 added the farmhouse being moveable. Joltik kept spawning where Emmet was supposed to be so I had to use a move command just to get them to spawn one tile to the side. Galvantula was fine. I didn't get to updating her vanilla portraits yet so she's staying quiet.

The catQuestion command also only adds the pet you pick during character creation. There's no fields to target the usage. You have to buy a license. It's the only way to get another pet. I didn't want Joltik to replace a cat either since in-story you would have to earn the trust of both Emmet and Galvantula... There's no way you can do that by the first 25 days of spring. It's immersion breaking and you lose a cat.

I did find the license aspect funny though. It was oddly fitting for the mod's lore of Pokemon being pretty much banned from the region. Emmet is a threat to Stardew Valley's ecosystem. Not the best guy for the task of combating anti-Pokemon xenophobia.

Pet sizes are apparently hardcoded so I had to make a new spritesheet for Joltik as if they even need a 32 x 32 pixel area per frame. I did end up making new sprites for them while I was at it. I tried to base it off of the cat's behaviors so I have less animation fields to edit (I was tired). The cat loafs a lot. Trying to convey that in a tiny spider posed quite the challenge.

After everything was done, I figured that the whole adoption portion of the mod could easilly be taken apart to be its own mod as a demo of sorts for the expansion. So I went and made a content pack to post.

Bringing up your starter pet's friendship level takes quite some time, so it would be awkward if I let the event play with no preconditions. Because of that, I ended up including Joltik as an NPC and locking their adoption behind their heart level.

We actually only had two lines per day of the week (not including season) for daily dialogue. That shot up to six lines per day of the week for a full 0-2-4-6-8-10 in spring because I was determined to publish a mod. (I've been modding for nearly a year nonstop and I don't have anything playable... humiliating...)

Anyways! I hope you're all having fun with 1.6! It certainly brought new challenges and opportunities to the modding scene!

▷ Station Steward Thylak