#how severely overcrowded they are

[fairuzfan]

Zionists/Symathizers who say "Palestinians should be taken by Egypt/Lebanon/Jordan and just live there forever" have no idea what a refugee camp is like.

#you all sit at the comfort of your air conditioned homes #meanwhile people in refugee camps struggle to find their next meal #my family member told me about how she didn't have running water for days #she didn't have food except for bread thyme and olive oil for days #how the concrete houses they slept in were so cold in the winter #how severely overcrowded they are #how terrible the healthcare is #you lot have no idea what that does to a person growing up #my family member can't remember most of her childhood because of that shit #fuck off #you will never know their pain and yet you still make decisions on their fate #their lives are ruined #fuck you #what are they supposed to do now mother fuckers

[ratwithhands]

Hi, Viewer Discretion:

This AU is about a nonexistent fictional mental health condition. There is imagery of straitjackets and other restraints, as well as mention of discrimination based off of health conditions. If you are uncomfortable with this content then please feel free to click off and enjoy something else. Thank you.

Dressing Sketch

Uniform Sketches

League Party sketch

Sketch dump for Battle Addict! This art has been gathering dust for a few months 😭 only just remembered to post it here.

These sketches are from Ver. 3 of Battle Addict, aka Battle Addict Twins, where both of them get the HCCM diagnosis.

The base idea for Battle Addict is that while most people enjoy Pokémon battling, there comes a certain point where one's love/obsession for battle starts bleeding into the rest of their life and becoming detrimental to their everyday life. This is usually called Combative Mania (CM), which is present in a large part of the population (40%-60%) hence why battling is so popular and so many different forms of it are made to keep people satisfied. The extreme form is Hyper-Competitive Combative Mania (HCCM), wherein a person spends so much time and energy for battles that it starts to affect their physical/mental health as well as their social life, since they neglect them in favour of their obsession.

Often what divides CM patients from HCCM patients is what they're willing to give up for battling and the extent of their knowledge regarding battles. CM patients usually only have a casual interest in battling or just enjoy the thrill of battling, but operate normally and have other interests outside of battle. They have basic to intermediate knowledge of battling, and can often partake in research or battles.

HCCM patients will often forgo food, water, sleep, school, work, and relationships in favour of researching and competing in battles. It is the only thing they find interest in and they devote most of their time towards it. Patients often memorize entire charts of statistics and different strategies and counterstrategies for battle, with different patients often having a certain subject they specialize in. Most patients with HCCM are unaware that they have it, they either assume that they have CM or that they are completely normal and just enjoy Pokémon battles. They often go into fields that work directly with researching Pokémon or battles, such as professors, scientists, gym leaders, elite four members, league workers, battle facility operators, and so on.

Ingo and Emmet do not know they have HCCM. They engage with battle and researching battle in a way that they think is typical for a hobbyist. Ingo tends to read on academic papers, textbooks, and study guides regarding the statistics and capabilities of Pokémon, whereas Emmet takes a more hands-on approach in studying Pokémon anatomy and battle strategy. Ingo often charts and studies natures, EVs, IVs, stat spreads, abilities, moves, and their properties. Emmet sketches anatomical diagrams and studies of Pokémon, including skeletal structure, musculature, organ systems, and physical appearance, highlighting pressure points in the body for executing the most damage and for keeping his own Pokémon protected. He also tends to read into psychological studies as well as conducting his own long term tests to predict a person's strategy in different situations. The two feed into each other's interests, teaching the other of their own discoveries and celebrating breakthroughs together. As a result, their total knowledge of battling is immense, which led to them becoming Subway Bosses straight out of college.

The two lived and worked fairly normally; they were very passionate about their work and it provided a way to sate their need for fighting on a regular basis, as well as giving them the space to experiment with different fighting styles and analyze others' strategies. Of course they still continue their studying outside of work, which often leads to them trying different methods or revisiting recorded battles to see how they could improve. The twins still believe their hours long discussions, piles of notes, and stacks of study materials littered around their house are perfectly fine, only stopping to reconsider after a comment from a coworker highlights how they must be crazy or incredibly disciplined to have as huge of a win : loss ratio as they do.

They end up taking the issue to a psychiatrist after dwelling on the idea for a few days, which is where they get diagnosed after a few tests and a description of their lifestyle and interests. Their case is considered moderate but could easily escalate into severe if left unchecked, though the main concern is whether this would make them a threat to other people due to their work and prominence. Obviously they don't want to lose their jobs, but this kind of thing could get them removed from the League Council if it got out, so they have to consider whether they share this information with their employers or not. Ingo thinks it'd be best to keep it under wraps, but Emmet fears that this could be used as blackmail and argues that they need to release this information themselves before someone else ruins their lives with it. Eventually they do take the diagnosis to the League Council and it gets out to the public.

Emmet takes the fall for Ingo, claiming his case is severe whereas Ingo's is mild so that the League Council will be more distracted with him to bother Ingo. That ends up with Emmet getting a new restraining uniform because the League no longer trusts him to handle himself in public based off his diagnosis. Neither of them are particularly pleased about this, but Emmet tells Ingo to look on the bright side. Emmet actually starts to find the jacket to be more of a little challenge than a hindrance, as it adds an extra level of difficulty to battles that he's been looking for, but Ingo still thinks it would be better if he hadn't had to wear it at all. This unfortunately extends to League parties where he has to be restrained to even be allowed entry, which he is much less happy about.

This post is getting ungodly long as it is but there's also a branch off of this concept where Ingo and Emmet land in Hisui together and Emmet's uniform looks like this. He deconstructed the uniform he was given to modify his jacket since by that point he had a bit of a sentimental connection to it and didn't want to just swap it out.

(Bonus fun fact: Ingo and Emmet decided to pull the biggest gag on the Pearl Clan when they first land by pretending to be one person under the alias Eki. Ingo is the polite one in the dark coat by day, and Emmet is the energetic one in the white coat by night. "Day Eki" is more popular with other Wardens and older clan members, whereas "Night Eki" is more popular with the village children and insomniacs.

The whole Warden Eki concept is technically its own AU in the background but it did originate from Battle Addict. Also I already drew Emmet in the Pearl Strait I can't take that back)

Anyways uhhh there's more let me see if I can condense it:

The twins went to a University specifically focused on battle (Champion's University), where they ended up studying subjects in their specific interests. Emmet took psychology of battle and Pokémon anatomy to learn about the weak points in trainers and Pokémon, and Ingo took general statistics and study of moves which are exactly what they sound like

The twins use the Vs Recorder all the time, both to track their own progress and to observe how passengers fight. It's often stuck to the glass windows to catch the Pokémon in the middle of the car, though they have considered buying Rotom Drones expressly for this purpose

Emmet actually has a stack of different studies on weak points in the human body but he doesn't share that with anyone, not even Ingo

Emmet's study of trainer psych has led to him often predicting tactics before they happen and dodging/countering them with his Pokémon. He often challenges himself to predict a person's team, moveset, and strategy based on appearance, gait, and body language, sharing his guesses with Ingo in case he makes any useful observations

Ingo and Emmet are possibly the first instance of causing "learned HCCM" in their Pokémon because after the training that they do together, the Pokémon have developed their own independent bloodlust and have started memorizing the move strategies that the twins have them use

Sometimes to celebrate fully completing a study on a particular set of Pokémon, the twins will eat one. This is mostly as a treat and an inside joke, but they will research what's in season/allowed and go hunt for one. Ingo is usually the one to catch it, and Emmet is the one to cook it. There's some really goofy shitposts about them going after pseudo-legendaries overseas, or Palkia's leg in Hisui

The twins can perform full medical care on any Pokémon and can often grind for hours nonstop since they can heal their teams themselves. They also save a lot on healing items this way

After releasing their diagnosis, the perception of the twins have gone in wildly different directions. Some people treat them as subhuman or as monsters, some people don't care, some people call them psycho yandere boys on twitter. Emmet tends to get more of the negative connotations, Ingo tends to get the more "positive" ones. Emmet also tends to get a lot of stares due to his restraint and status as a crazed fighter, which he pretends doesn't get to him

I think that's everything, I'm going to go collapse. Hope you guys enjoy 👍

#tw straitjacket #straitjacket #tw mental health #tw mental illness #submas #submas au #au #ingo #subway master ingo #ingo pokemon #nobori #emmet #subway master emmet #emmet pokemon #kudari #Version 1 is Emmet being absolutely deranged and Ingo getting him locked in the psych ward out of fear for his reputation and #Version 2 is Ingo being crazy and throwing Emmet under the bus when he almost gets discovered #for those who were wondering. Version 3 is best because they get to be obsessed and they drag each other further in together ♥ #honestly this probably outranks Severed for my riskiest AU so I wonder how this is gonna turn out #hope this won't be the end of my career #anyways fun fact: this song is inspired by an old submas song! #Maniac Man led to me making the first version‚ then eventually I kept sketching until we got here #oh I just remembered‚ there's one scene from this AU that I think would be really funny to draw #The subway gets an overcrowding warning one day because they're holding a special event and passengers keep coming in while the twins are o #they were STARVED for battles that day though‚ so they call a Code Indigo and essentially turn the Multi lines into a 2 on 6 to get through #more passengers faster. They were absolutely exhausted by the end but damn if they didn't have fun messing around with the passengers

[fawnpires]

hi! if the requests are open could you please do sex pollen with Simon Riley? if you don't write smut, that's fine. thank you for your time and I wanted to say that ur blog is rlly pretty<3

ʚ LUST FOR LIFE. ɞ — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: sex pollen, car sex, porn with some plot, tit-fucking, size kink, manhandling, praise, unprotected sex, loads of dirty talk, missionary position, eye contact, cum play.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ notes: omg i've done a sex pollen fic with simon before and it was literally so fun to write for, i would def write for it again. (and tysm angel! you’re literally the sweetest, ty again for requesting. <3)

The assigned mission had gone in several directions — one being the fact that a majority of your team had split up directly after being ambushed by the enemy with smoke grenades filled up with this sour yet saccharine-smelling powdery substance which had not yet been identified by the general public. For seconds, you had somehow ended up slumped in the cramped backseat of a hijacked pickup truck on the outskirts of a well-camouflaged forest right alongside your brooding, composed lieutenant who had unfortunately been impacted with that same substance a great number of your other team members had been affected with too — including yourself.

And you don't know how, but somehow you ended up with your military uniform torn off of you and discarded onto the flattened floor of the truck with only the white lace of your panties encompassing around the curves of your anatomy — laying on your back against the plush of the backseat's leather while your head rested against one of the locked, closed truck doors. Your skin was clammy, head overcrowded with incoherent clouds of thoughts while that swirling aroma of that substance lingered within your nostrils and never seemed to vanish away despite being impacted so many hours ago. Those doe eyes of yours were angled upwards, taking in the rare sight of your lieutenant's naked and brawny statuesque frame towering right above your more vulnerable figure.

"You're drivin' me fuckin' crazy, doll. Keep those pretty eyes on me now." he pants out between heavy breaths spilling past his parted lips, his body now slanted over you which caused his shadow to envelop you in its entirety.

Those tactical jeans of his were left to be undone and forgotten at his ankles alongside the cloth of his boxers while the softness of your bare breasts engulfed the pulsating, girthy length of his kept cock as it thrusted between the flesh. His hands and arms of exposure, now bulging of some veins and hardened muscles, kept a firm yet gentle grip at your breasts — kneading them in calloused palms enhanced of faded scars, some new and some fresh; most hard to recognize beneath the provided lighting of the truck's dimmed dome light. Aroused sighs and moans of contentment were drawn from the deep backs of your throat, flowing out in undetermined intervals. Your thighs were pushed and rubbing together as it creating some sort of friction and a distraction from the substance's strangely arousing side effects while you were basically getting off on the sight of his cock fucking right amid the valley of your breasts.

Your eyes never wanted to leave his, something about them was so entrancing in the moment. Each thrust at the flesh left you in a puddle of a needy mess, the blunt head of his cock peaking out between the tops of your breasts while his thrusts grew more desperate and sloppy to reach his initial high. Suppressed grunts were pronounced from past the darkened black fabric of his balaclava, the corners of his eyes twitching as he threw his head back; large hands continuing to maintain a hold on your breasts, tweaking your nipples while he fucked them with a ferocity that left him panting like a dog in heat. Slick began to drool past your panties, running down your inner thighs in a line of fluid while your jaw hung open to discharge those sounds of ecstasy. The atmosphere of the truck smelled of sex, the panes of the windows beginning to fog up in a hazy mist.

"Gonna cover these pretty lil' tits all full of my cum, lovie. I can't believe I've never given this pretty body a chance. " he gets out while a loud groan comes from him, the more he desperately moved his hips through the sensual simulation your breasts provided him — the more his climax got onto the verge of spilling out of him.

"Lieutenant, please..." your voice had the slightest hint of a whine to it, almost pleading him in a more high-pitched tone of voice.

"You sound so good f'me right now, sweet girl. Just hold on a little longer for me, baby. Almost there."

With that, he gives one last and particularly vigorous thrust between the mounds of your softened breasts; his hands traveling down to either sides at your waist, fingers depressing upon the skin as his head slanted a little more further back in pleasure with satisfied groans no longer being held in. His seed jetted out in fervent pulses onto the smooth stretch of your chest, adorning the skin in a sheet of pure and sticky fluid. As his head slanted forwards again back in regular position, his pupils appeared to be more dilated — giving him the look of some sort of rabid animal, seeking out for a way to quench his hungering lust. (In this case, using your body would be that designated method for appeasing that hunger - thanks to the substance's effects on the man.)

In a craving manner, you find Ghost briskly pulling up the lower edge of that skull balaclava he almost always sports on the physical features of his face; head lowering towards the supple flesh while his tongue eagerly laps at the liquid, brushing over either one of your nipples periodically — drawing one of those needy and pent-up whines from you. A hand is felt dragging down between your thighs, parting them from each other as his index and middle finger formed circular motions at your pantie-clad cunt, your body slightly shuddering at the contact towards your wet and sensitive area.

"God, you look even better with my cum all over your tits," Ghost chuckles lowly against your breasts, suckling and licking at them with his exposed lips. "Didn't know you were this desperate to be touched like this by a superior."

"Can't take it, Ghost, please. I need you inside me already."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. Just a little bit more, I promise. Acting like a needy lil' thing, aren't you?" he responses in a breathless vocal tone, his accent more accented with each gravelly word spoken.

His fingers slip around the waistband of your panties, the wet article of clothing worn around your curves before it was yanked down your legs and left to be abandoned with the rest of your uniform. Ghost lets out a deep grunt at the sight of your naked figure, his lips granting both of your breasts subtle little kisses before straightening himself back up and imposing right over you. He was moderately leaned over you, his hands adjusting your legs to rest on top his shoulders before drifting down to settle at both sides of your waist. His now solid cock rests at your lower abdomen, kisses being pressed into your right calf while his body slowly grinds against the perspired surface of your exterior skin.

The precise, kept movement of his raw hips had your head rolling back against the door of the vehicle — right in a state of an almost overwhelming, yet such raw ecstasy — in addition to more sweat trickling and trickling down onto the leather beneath where you laid at. His mouth stayed attached to your calf, advancing and pressing those gentle kisses of his onto the clammy limb, (Despite his rough, cold-blooded presence out of the field; he was the most gentle towards you, almost in resemblance to a lover.) Your teeth bit into the flesh of your lower lip, gnawing feebly at it while your cunt throbbed excessively in unrhythmic patterns. His teasings were going straight to your aching head as the aftermath of the substance, now well-acknowledged to be running through the course of your veins, only seemed to worsen without relief.

Fortunately, he took notice of your practically pleading exterior on display just for him; causing him to lean back a few inches from your body before steadying himself over you, eyes never faltering from yours as his cock angled right at the entrance of your sopping cunt as he slowly inched himself inside the warmth of your walls accompanied with a squelch audible throughout the vehicle. His free hand was left to press up against the fogged pane of nearest window, a prominent cast of his palm being left there. His other hand held at your hip, beads of sweat outlining at his cloth-wrapped forehead while it trickled down past the visible eye area of his balaclava — combining with that black, smeared eye-paint gracing around those dulled brown eyes. A distinct grunt came from him at the sensation of your cunt engulfing him, and a whimper of a reached relief sourced from the initial contact of his hips pressed against yours.

"There you go. Such a good girl, taking me in so well." the lieutenant cooes from above you, his voice hoarse and slightly strained while his hips sustained a pleasant rhythm.

"Mmm— fuck, Ghost... feels so good." you moan out, eyes nearly closing to fully indulge in the sensation.

"And your pussy feels like damn heaven, Jesus." his words were spoken through a grunt, his hand at the window smudging at the fog. "Keep those eyes on me, want you to look me in the eye — know who's fucking you, making you feel this good."

The smallest smirk is held at one corner of his lips at your words of praise, his hand at your hip using the thumb to gently stroke at the skin while his thrusts increased in speed. Shamelessly, soft moans and various noises of pleasure were being pulled out of you now as his each pump of his hips into you was shaped into the interiors of your cunt. Your nails dug into leather below you, legs trembling out of bliss on-top of his sturdy and muscled shoulders tensing from the vast mass of euphoric feelings the both of you were undergoing. With each passing thrust within you, his motions quickened up through you, the head of his cock kissing right at your cervix repeatedly without stop.

Arousal was the only thing, the only emotion that your body could be running on at this exact moment — your inner thighs stained with your slick, leaving a small pool of fluid under you; evidence to how good he really made you feel when fucking right into you. Resonates of skin-against-skin and more noises of sexual matter filled up the once silent truck, the windows nearly curtained and blocked off with fog sourcing from the both of your bodies continually pressing up against each other. His hips angled in different kinds of ways, just to aim his cock right against the spots that would cause your back to arch off the seat and your hips to slightly raise in the air. More sweat began to form at your skin, glistening underneath the dim lights.

Your legs were more spread apart, nevertheless still perched on his shoulders as the positioned of your body arched off the seat raised body gave him a better approach to pound into you. His sweat mixed in with yours, cock drilling into your pussy at an pace that could be almost considered violent by the looks of it. He had his hand pushing down a little more into your hip, his build tilted over your own. Moans of his title — of his military title — were being moaned out from you in a head full of rapture where you saw stars in your vision, which fueled that arousal just about leading to his climax once he heard that angelic tone of yours speaking his name.

"You fuck me so good, sir." you whimpered in a fragile voice, that built-up tension in your stomach almost at its high.

Those words of yours were almost enough to drive him over the edge, but his composure was held onto just for a little longer.

"That's right, lovie. I'm the only man who can fuck you like this, nobody else, yeah?" he pants out, the violent pace of his beginning to stutter just at the slightest. His composure was slipping off now, without a doubt. "Can feel you squeezing me — shit, — let go for me, angel, come on."

With his words basically giving you the permission, your body stiffens while a series of whimpers and moans are mainly heard from a clear volume. Your cunt clenches around his cock while it remains still up against your cervix as he gives into a climax the same time as you do, his near-animalistic groans merging with your much softer moans. Ghost gives a single, last thrust before hot waves of pleasure spill from him as he fills your cunt to the brim with the warmth of his seed. Heavy breaths of almost exhaustion come from him for a few moments longer before he slowly pulls out of you, your weakened body vaguely at the feeling of it. His eyes sweep down from your eyes, to the rise and fall of your breasts, to the perspective of his seed spilling out from the puffy lips of your cunt and onto the splattered material of the seats.

By now, the influence of the substance has sufficiently gone down considering the quantities of alleviation that you and Ghost had managed to release off of each other. (In the most intimate, non-expected way possible — and during a full-on mission.) He cautiously lowers his hand at your hip to dip between your soaking thighs, the heel of his palm rubbing at your raw, delicate flesh dripping of both of your sticky releases. Your mind finally goes conscious for the first time since both you and him had temporarily hid out in this truck; a faint flush coming to rise at your cheeks once the realization hits you — you fucked a superior, your literal lieutenant.

It’s not like the either of you were to blame, you think.

He then leans down to you, palm still rubbing at your folds as you shakily sigh out, a kiss being pressed into your forehead. It was abnormally sweet, especially coming from someone like him. But you weren’t complaining, — as long as he wasn’t pissed about fucking a subordinate, such as yourself, or had any regrets about doing any of this with you; drug’s influence or not. You can’t help but allow your face to flush lightly at the kiss, a small blush blossoming around your cheeks. He then wholly lowers back the edge of his pushed-up balaclava, his full face now concealed like always.

“You regret any of this?” you asked quietly, not out shame or sadness, but a genuine curiosity to hear from his side. Your breaths were still coming out shaky from his rubbing palm.

It’s dead silence coming from him, before he then speaks up with a slight unpredicted chuckle.

“Regret this?” Ghost repeats back to you, his head cocked to the side as his eyes find yours once more. He looks at you as if you told some kind of joke to him — or just said something really stupid. “No way in hell would I regret doing something like this with a girl that has your looks, or your sweetness, sweetheart.”

“Good, but you better not be saying that because of the stuff we got hit with.” your said more teasingly.

“Nah. I only speak truth from my cold, dead heart, love.” his deep voice responds back to you, the corners of his black-smudged eyes crinkled in an indication of a grin.

#. ˚ ʚ — ꒰ simon riley. ꒱ #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x female reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 fanfic #female reader #.୨୧ fawnpires

[theoddest1]

Let's Actually Talk About The Issues With Vivziepop

Okay, first off, hello you beautiful people! Sorry about this foreboding title, but I needed to catch y'all attention on this so I can break down the issues that I and many have with "Hazbin Hotel" and "Helluva Boss" creator, Vivienne Medrano. Now I am sure you all on here are already aware of at least a couple of the controversies that revolve around this particular creator and if you have seen my posts floating around already, some have been greeted with the problems surrounding her social media presence and just her overall as a person. I know seeing another callout on her seems very very tiring at this point, but I felt that a lot of the current callouts missed key details that were not at all addressed or properly delved on. I plan on shedding light on my issues with her and I hope you get where I am coming from when I say that she sucks.

BULLYING

Okay, I am starting off with Vivienne's blatant use of bully mentality, her agreeing or encouraging her fans to call people who see flaws in her works sub-humans or harass those who find issue or simply jest about her works trademark cussing and and overcrowded designs. She has had this issue for YEARS and refuses to grow up and act her age despite many telling her, even her own fans at times, that she shouldn't be acting so unprofessionally. Clearly, she doesn't care and thanks to her fanbase caring more about her feelings than her being better she feels as though she doesn't need to change or do better. This goes for her friend group as well, who defend her tremendously and act as though she is never in the wrong. Name one time a friend of hers called her out for acting childish, I'll wait.

Now, you're probably wondering, "Wtf could they have done to warrant such a response?"

Criticism...That's all they did. (White Text is random peeps they would speak with or maybe mutuals)

Keep in mind...they used to be a fan as well. They were also a minor at this point

But, Viv doesn't care, this person's critical yet harmless tweets about her shows is what lead to her painting them in a horrible light and making them out to be someone who has attacked her personally and as "nasty".

Rich coming from Viv since she is completely fine doing exactly that for "Ava's Demon". Not only does she criticize it, she takes a shot at the creator as well, but GOD FORBID others do the same towards her.

And according to someone who knew her well, it's all cause they felt creeped out by her.

Her hatred for criticism is so prominent that Ima makes that a section of its own. But let's get back on the topic of bullying.

Vivienne has a fanbase filled to the brim with pushy and overall annoying individuals who have harassed, threatened, disrespected, and wished harm on many people, all cause someone had a negative thing to say about Vivziepop's mid af show. One of the earlier known instances is the one revolving around a MEME of all things.

This was what started it all, and it led to both parties blocking each other and people being mad pushy and calling them an idiot and the like over their opinions. Now look, their take and you're opinion on said take is fine so long as you stay respectful and humane about it all, but don't dogpike someone all cause they think HH sucks. And while Viv can not control her fanbase, for they are not a hivemind (some of y'all act it tho, ima keep it real) she is seen here ENCOURAGING the behavior. Tell me how someone who doesn't even like your trash ass show has the sense to tell people not to harass others, someone with a smaller following, but not your grown damn near 30 year old ass?

Oh, but people wanna act like she can handle criticism, is a sweet person, and grew from her past experiences. Fam, she was 27 in this screenshot [December 16, 2019] and has shown no change from 2013 to fucking 2024. Over a decade of the same petty ass behavior, and keep in mind, according to several of her old friends and workers, she is worse behind close doors. WORSE. She's already acting like she got no damn sense out in the open, imagine behind closed doors.

Last but not least, a glimpse into her outright blatant slander towards Dollcreep, a once good friend of hers that she even visited and spoke with frequently!

She stated that they fetishized pedophilia yet according to the victim and friends of the victim who were once friends with Viv as well, Viv actually threatened to end their friendship if he hadn't drawn NSFW art of her character and his character having sex [Addi was 15 at the time this was drawn]

On top of that, she liked the post, something she didn't need to do. The art also depicted things she had regularly drawn on her own. Addi being tied up forcefully, being sexualized, being harmed to some degree through bondage, etc. The claim that she forced DC to draw this out is backed up by her own art depicting similar elements. Also, if my memory serves me well, Viv and Doll were 17-18 years old [Doll was 17 Viv 18] and have a 1-year age gap. The way Viv frames things here is as if DC was way older and imposed some sort of power over DC, which sources say otherwise. If anything, Viv had a LOT of control throughout all of this drama, which deserves its own section.

I'll be making posts that talk about the different issues regarding Viv, so one post isn't too long (this one is already lengthy enough) and that you can just pick at one post targeting certain issues around this creator.

#vivziepop critical #vivziepop criticism #vivienne medrano #vivziepop critique #anti spindlehorse #anti vivziepop #viv get a grip #vivziepop #hazbin #hazbin hotel #call out post #analysis #creator analysis #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel critique #hazbin critical #hazbin critique

[tastesousweet]

⭒ the girl with the tattoo (iii) - pt 1 pt 2

matt sturniolo x fem!oc / reader

summary : no one frustrates and confuses y/n more than matt

warnings : smoking weed, alcohol/drinking (i headcannon everyone 21+!), tension, sexually suggestive

mickey speaks : THIS IS LONG AS SHIT!!!! ngl im not obsessed w this part but u guys r the sweetest thank u for loving this story so far and for ur patience. part 4 definitely won't have as long of a wait.

THIS IS PART THREE GO READ THE FIRST TWO PARTS NEOWW

MATT hates hosting parties.

now that he and his brothers have hosted three of these "get together"s to promote the warehouse, he’s realized just how much attendees dont give a shit about respecting the space they're in. he found it to be a cool concept for sure: give out free tiny tats along with food and drinks for more exposure and networking. nick came up with it and it sounded perfectly easy way to build their brand and get to know people in LA.

except the first one was a complete mess, with chris constantly promoting the party (he mentioned it to almost everyone he talked to, encouraging them to bring friends along), frequent instagram posts dedicated to the event, and natural word of mouth the warehouse was suddenly overcrowded and trashed within the first hour of being open. matt barely got through that night without losing his temper or calling the cops to shut down his own party.

that’s not to say matt hates attending parties as severely as he hates to have his own. he’s more than willing to go out when he has a set time to leave and good enough company. he’s trained his anxiety to behave within those spaces so that he's not ruining his or anyone else's time. now it seems his anxiety only spikes when it comes to (what feels like) hundreds of people surrounding him in his space with no intentions of leaving until well into the morning. at that point he’d prefer to be at home, completely alone.

just as he does now that nick has dragged him out to a nearby liquor store to buy “goodies” for the event later today.

matt’s face carries his typical dry expression as nick stands next to him, hands resting on his hips, eyeing the various vodka bottles.

“nick, it’s alcohol not the fucking newspaper,” matt grumbles.

“i know that! i just don’t wanna choose the wrong one.” he defends.

“if they don’t like something i think we have more than enough to choose from at this point,” matt sarcastically nudges his arms that hold onto a wide selection of alcohol that nick has impetuously given him with quips of ‘okay, hold this one.’

“matt, i wouldn’t have brought you if i knew you’d be such a buzzkill, jesus.” nicks tsks.

“alright, don't say that like i was begging to come here, nick. i had no choice and-"

nick cuts him off swiftly, noticing a few girls have joined them in the aisle, “matt, move." nick guides him backwards with his hand, "you’re like, in the way.”

matt turns his head to see what exactly he was blocking, before turning back to nick and scowling, “‘m literally not in the way at all.”

“they might need to see all the options,” nick shrugs, going back to narrowing his options down while matt stands in slight annoyance, zoning out.

until he overhears the two girls call, “yeah it’s over here, y/n! come!”

and matt can’t help but turn and look (at an embarrassingly quick pace that he’d blame on his brain's pristine sound recognition and not that he wanted to see you, necessarily).

and sure enough your frame comes into view (clad in a sweatshirt and small pair of shorts), confirming that he did not mishear and you unfortunately were in fact the y/n called for. not wanting to deal with small talk, he immediately turns to nick, “the second one is best, nick. alright, let’s go.”

nick looks over to him, throwing his hands up loosely, “ohh, now you wanna be helpful whe-" he closes his mouth when he sees you over matt's shoulder, "did you know y/n's here?” his eyebrows draw together and he swiftly grabs a tall bottle of Absolut and places it in matt’s arms before walking around him (ignoring his hand’s poor attempt to hold nick back).

you’re too busy discussing which vodka tastes best with a few of your friends to notice nick walking up to you guys. you only look over once you hear a snap followed by a hushed “matt!”

you host a tender smile when you recognize the two tattooed boys, “nick? what are you doing here?” you glance from nick to matt who seems to be holding a full bar's worth of liquor while nick holds nothing but a tote bag and sunglasses he enjoys fidgeting with.

“y/n, i have a party i’m hosting tonight why would i not be here? now the real question is why are you here at 11:30 AM?” he jokes, squinting his eyes at you.

“same reason as you,” you shrug then realize you haven’t introduced your friends properly. “oh! and these are my friends; i texted you about bringing along, remi, erin, and andrea.” they each wave slightly as you gesture to them.

after an exchange of greetings and smiles (though you could tell matt’s was so phoney), nick backtracks, “okay but actually why are you here?”

“did you think i was joking? i’m getting drinks for your party!”

“i mean this in the kindest way possible: why?”

“i wasn’t gonna show up empty handed! it’s common courtesy to bring you guys something whether or not you ask.” you insist and matt fights the urge to roll his eyes.

he knows you have no mal-intent but god damn do you make yourself look so fucking pretentious.

“yeah, we’re trying to figure out what would be the best kind to bring right now,” erin chimes in.

nick immediately agrees, “oh my god, tell me about it. i was just struggling with that too!” and he turns to matt to validate, see! it’s not stupid to care about possibly buying the wrong thing!

matt just rolls his lips into his mouth, trying to give anyone a fucking clue that the conversation should be wrapping up by now.

“we’ll probably just end up getting pink whitney,” andrea reaches for the bottle on a nearby shelf.

matt can feel your eyes on him but he chooses to keep looking down at nick's ugg boots as if they’re the most interesting thing he’s seen.

you shift your eyes back to nick who’s still talking to andrea before you begin to speak, “well, i’m sure you guys are busy, you know, party planning.”

suprisingly, matt speaks up to agree with you, "yeah, you’re right actually. we are pretty busy."

nick cuts in with a shake of his head, “well, we’re actually not doing much before the party starts, honestly. we’ll probably just drop this off at the warehouse and set up a little, then go home, right matt?” nick shrugs to his brother who's eyes only widen with a look of question, “oh that's so true, matt!" he turns back to the girls with a smirk, "if you guys want you should come hang out with us now!”

matt wishes he currently had a free hand so that he could slap it over nicks mouth and drag him away before he sells his own kidney next.

"oh that's okay, we still have some stuff at home to do before we even think to get ready, but we'll be there tonight," you smile and look over to the girls who each agree.

"okay, we'll see you around then." matt tilts his head to the side encouraging nick to follow as he walks away.

"you have my insta so just dm me if you need anything. okay, bye! don’t forget swimsuits!" nick smiles and waves before rushing to catch up to matt who has already left the aisle.

౨ৎ

“i still can’t believe y/n was there, like what are the odds?!” nick giddily sighs and looks over to matt as the two walk out of the store.

“yeah, how fuckin’ weird," he murmurs, adjusting the brown bags in his hands to reach for the keys hanging from his belt loop. "small world, i guess.”

౨ৎ

“how the fuck are you so calm?” you ask in shock from behind the bat squishmellow you hold while sitting on nick’s baby pink couch, legs crossed.

“y/n, it’s like the teeniest, babiest tattoo ever,” andrea almost laughs as she takes another bite of a miniature rice krispy treat.

this “get together” at the warehouse has been a hit as far as you can tell. when you and your friends arrived it was already rowdy with people everywhere, music pounding, and bottles of alcohol scattered on the counters of a kitchenette (where you placed your own bottle of pink whitney, tied with a dainty white ribbon). you all found nick early on dancing in a crowd of people. he gave out hugs and easily convinced andrea and remi to let him tattoo them. after looking over the flash sheet nick made specifically for tonight, the girls decided to get matching cherry tattoos.

nick’s work area was so soft. he had bright hues of berry hugging his walls in the form of posters and paintings and faint creamsicle colored pillows to keep his couch company. when you all first walked in he explained how much he enjoys when clients bring in a friend so he had to make sure they had a comfy place to sit. you found nick so endearing in that since, he’s very caring and thoughtful despite his attitude at times (a far more understandable attitude than matt’s).

“it’s soo small,” nick adds, “i still think you two should get one,” he smirks looking over to you and erin huddled on the couch.

“hell no, i think i'm good for like another year," you shake your head and look over to erin while you gently run your fingers over your tattooed lower hip.

"yeah, absolutely not. i'm not even close to drunk enough to do that shit right now." she laughs.

౨ৎ

matt finds joint rolling to be the most satisfying part of smoking. the precision needed to perfectly fill, wrap, and burn makes him giddy in his own matt-kind-of-way.

after working on his last client (who wanted a somewhat abstract piece for the lowkey means of a “free tiny tats event”) and successfully sneaking through the crowd to grab a snack then sneaking back into his work area, he wanted nothing more than to get high alone.

he begins to gather his spare weed, grinder, and rolling papers from a spot tucked away in a drawer. he stops by his desk to turn his speaker back on, playing hushed kendrick lamar thorughout the space.

he taps his fingers along to the beat before sitting in a chair and displaying the items in front of him. he begins to grind the weed while humming, only to be interrupted fairly quickly.

"matttt!" chris peeks his grinning face through the curtain before taking it upon himself to walk in, "what are you doin' all alone in here?" matt pauses his movements with a sigh.

"no way you were rolling up and not planning to share? what the fuck?" chris pries in jest, rolling a chair over to sit in front of matt.

"dude, 'm so over this fuckin' party. i was planning to just smoke this and go nap on nick's couch or something." matt explains as he carefully lays the weed in the paper.

"you were barely even out there! got all your clients to text you whenever they got here." chris mumbles a scoff. "that is not the fuckin' point of this by the way, supposed to be meeting new people." chris rolls his eyes leaning himself so far into the chair that his back has practically met the seat.

"at least i'm doing something, you've only given like a tat or two all night," matt mumbles, slowly filling the white paper with weed.

because chris knows he's right he deflects the conversation to the reason he even came searching for matt in the first place. he clears his throat, playing with his fingers, "nick wants to take the girls up to the hot tub."

"thought we weren't allowing randoms up there anymore?" matt smirks at the memory of nick just hours before lecturing the both of them on what ground rules needed to be set so people don't demolish their shop for the fourth time now.

"obviously if they're with nick they're not just randoms." chris shakes his head, "pretty sure it's y/n and some friends she brought along. you remember that girl, right? she was-"

matt stops sealing the blunt to respond, "uh huh, i remember her."

chris lets out a breath, causing matt to finally look up and make eye contact with his brother (after spending their entire conversation too focused on rolling) in surprise at his pause in speaking.

"yeah, she's cool." chris yawns.

"i guess." matt says while finishing off the joint.

matt then lifts his hand up to give chris a view of his rolled joint. "stellar." chris smiles and matt hands it him, "swear you have a gift for this shit or somethin'." chris holds it in different angles near his face.

matt just shrugs and reaches for the tiny red lighter in his back pocket, "light that bitch up," he encourages chris.

"wait, no, let's save it for hot-tubbing."

"no? let's not? i didn't roll it for anyone but myself, let alone a group of barbies."

"be nice, matt."

"give me it, chris," matt rolls his eyes and signals with his fingers for chris to hand it over. “also who says i’m joining you guys in there?”

chris hands the joint back over to matt who’s immediately putting it in his mouth and bringing it towards the lighter’s flame, “nick wants the both of us up there, he thinks it’ll be fun.”

matt’s words come out quieter now that he’s speaking with smoke held in his lungs, “is he shit faced?” matt exhales the smoke as he speaks, “you know he thinks anything is ‘fun’ when he’s drunk.”

he takes another hit while chris explains, “no he’s actually really fuckin’ coherent, hasn’t had anything compared to me.” he smirks knowingly.

“not too much of this for you then,” matt exhales and passes the blunt over to chris. “so who’s gonna be hosting this party if we’re all on the roof?” matt asks squinting at him while playing with the soft edge of his graphic tee shirt.

chris’ face hides behind the smoke he releases, “we have dontae and claire working tonight too, they know how to deal with shit. i’m not too worried.”

“cool, so nick has contradicted himself twice already tonight, what happened to ‘one of us three should always be keeping an eye out’?” matt questions.

chris shakes his head, handing matt the smoked down joint, “literally how am i supposed to know why that kid thinks the way he does?”

matt licks his lips with a smile at his brothers comment then goes to hit the blunt once more.

“but i do know you need trunks on asap, brother.” chris lifts himself up, feeling a little looser now that he’s quite faded, and begins to dig through matt’s backpack in the corner of the room.

“why the fuck are my trunks just casually in my bag?”

“i put ‘em in there knowing you wouldn’t listen when we told you to pack them.”

“because i’m never getting in the pool at a party, that sounds terrible.”

“you think everything sounds terrible,” chris rolls his eyes throwing the plain black swimming trunks at matt’s chest.

౨ৎ

“‘kay so the game is just called, “i dare you…” but we’re gonna play it like drink or dare,” chris explains before taking another sip of his pepsi (he’s attempting to ‘sober up’ before playing a drinking game). “assuming the crowd knows what drink or dare is..?” chris looks around to everyone to confirm. there’s quite a lot of people in the spacious hot tub: you and your friends, the triplets, asha, and two of the triplets’ friends nathan and cameron.

when everyone nods in understanding chris explains something about the order to follow and how to discard any used cards, but you only loosely pay attention. instead, your eyes keep an unfaltering stare on matt who sits across from you with the shadows of his face highlighted light blue from the water below and a warm amber from the outdoor lighting above.

he wears his hair messy and his signature silver chain that reflects in the water harshly. you find yourself focusing on his tattooed hands (large in proportion to the joint he’s just finished rolling), and his pink tongue that has slipped out a number of times to lick at the joint and secure its shape.

he’s so into his own task he hasn’t even acknowledged your presence really. somehow that bothers you and attracts you to him at the same time. his face is so neutral as well, it’s not easy to find matt without a resting bitch face and an foul mood to match.

you feel andrea’s hand guide up your back, carrying water in its trail. you still continue in your curious trance until she leans down to your ear, “don’t start drooling now.”

you immediately look up towards her (as she’s sat on the ledge of the hot tub, cautious of her new arm tattoo). she barks out a laugh and you try not to laugh as well, punching the side of her leg instead.

“what did i miss? what are we giggling aboutt?!” nick excitedly asks as he climbs into the hot tub and sits in the empty spot to the left of you. you turn and greet him with a smile and he immediately hands you one of the many beer bottles he holds, “here, take one, pass it down.”

“oh it was nothing, thank you.” you reply when handed the final bottle.

nick nods before swatting at chris who still stands in the middle of the hot tub, “kid, you can sit down now, i think we all got it.”

chris looks over to nick, “you go first then, nick. i’ll queue up a few songs.” he shifts a floaty that holds a set of cards in it towards nick before taking a seat next to erin (you can overhear him introducing himself even though your attention is on nick as he draws).

“who’s the bright one who chose a game with cards to be done in water?” nick jokes finally looking at the card.

“i’m sure you can guess,” asha laughs next to him.

you watch as nick’s face welcomes a large grin upon reading his dare. “okay…i’m reading this out loud, right?”

“i thought ‘we all got it’?” chris jokes and watches nick deadpan, “yes, nick just say it.”

“this one’s easy, ‘i dare you to make one of the group members crack a smile in less than a minute.’” nick adjusts himself to face nathan, “nate look at me.”

“oh come on nick, nate laughs at everything when he’s drunk.” matt talks despite his lips closing over the joint he’s just about to light.

“i don’t!” nate says before looking over to cameron, who elbows his side, making nathan giggle and cover his face. “no! for real, try me nick.” he adjusts his expression to be serious but just as nick opens his mouth to speak nathan explodes in sudden laughter causing the rest of the group to laugh as well.

even matt laughs into his arm as he passes the joint to remi, next to him.

౨ৎ

as the group continued playing the dares leveled in dirty extremity. asha nibbled on cameron’s ear like a hamster, nathan texted a friend asking to have a threesome, cameron licked sugar off of andrea (who very much enjoyed it), until finally it was matt’s turn.

matt’s been far more sociable and charismatic this entire time spent in the hot tub than you’ve seen him before. but you can’t tell if it’s the weed and alcohol or even just the fact that he’s surrounded by a group with some of his close friends that’s bringing this out of him. you’re shocked the only nagging he’s done was to break up a small argument between his brothers and of course make fun of you, mouthing “you scared?” after you denied hitting the joint for a second time. you mouthed back “no” and rolled your eyes at him but his playful smirk never left.

matt hangs his head and stifles laughter after reading his card, “i dare you to bend over backwards and let the rest of the group spank you, chose who’s best.”

“oh my god!” chris’ laugh is higher in pitch now that he’s extremely high.

“guys i really don’t wanna,” he sighs.

“matt, don’t be lame! you’ll be the first one who’s drinking,” asha encourages.

“fuck this game,” he mumbles under his breath before adjusting himself to lean over the hot tub, everyone laughing at the sight. it was fun to see matt so unserious for once.

after taking turns to hit matt’s ass, he decided the fourth person’s was the best, per his dare’s request, and nathan celebrates with a throw of his hands in the air.

remi then performs a trust fall with the person she trusts least in the group, cameron (who she told there was no hard feelings since they’d only met today), making it now erin’s turn.

she blushes at her card before reading aloud, “i dare you to give a lap dance to the hottest person in the group.” she bites her lip in embarrassment but nonetheless leans over to chris and requests a song in his ear.

chris smiles and taps his phone as erin adjust herself to standing. “this is gonna be hard to do in water,” she messes with her hair.

“you’ll be fine!” you encourage with a smile.

“alright, you ready?” chris looks up to erin and she nods in response.

body party by ciara begins to play sensually through the nearby speaker gaining a few “oouuu”s from the group.

what you don’t expect is for erin to lean herself in front of matt. and matt definitely doesn’t expect this either, but he’s not too mad about it.

“oh shitttt,” cameron grins, he and nathan occupied in their own awkward-laughing fit while watching with wide eyes.

she moves slowly and hovers matt in a straddling position to “grind” on him. you take a heavy sip of your drink while watching in an attempt to hide your odd feeling about this. it was like watching a car crash. you watch as matt’s eyes gaze up and down her body, not daring to touch her but unashamed of his attraction.

asha laughs and whistles in support when erin turns around to give matt a view of her ass. nick dramatically ducks behind you yelling, “i actually can’t watch this! oh my god!”

you laugh and to mess with him whisper, “don't worry, it’s over now.”

nick looks back and immediately goes back to covering his eyes and laughing with you, “you bitch!”

you look back to matt who tilts his head back with wide eyes and lips puffing out in humor. and finally, after it feels like the two have dry humped for hours, erin stands back up and bows. matt claps with a wide smile, everyone else joining in.

when erin sits down you look up to andrea who just stifles a laugh with a sip of her drink. “well how the fuck am i gonna top that shit?!” chris exclaims while grabbing a card.

“real question is how the fuck will matt recover from that?” you joke causing matt to look over to you.

“oh don’t worry about me, sweetheart. i’m sure i’ll recover fine. chris,” he lifts his head gesturing for chris to begin his dare.

your tongue travels along your teeth to stop yourself from ruining a good time with your confusing feelings.

“i dare you to give a hickey to the person to your left.” chris bites his bottom lip and blinks slowly before looking over to andrea who just smiles and playfully flutters her fingers at him.

“you’re cool with this right, ‘m not tryna make you uncomfortable or any-”

“chris, shh.” andrea says.

“'kay, where do you want it?” he smiles.

“let’s make this fun,” she adjusts her bikini top and presses her manicured fingers along her right breast, “right here.”

nick is extra dramatic when it comes to watching chris suck harshly on his new friend’s tit, “okay, why the fuck did we choose this game?!” he turns away.

when chris is finished andrea shows it off to the group as proof and pushes chris’ cocky face away with a laugh, “nice job, stupid.”

afterwards, andrea gets a dare to expose her search history with the group, which she does without a problem.

it’s finally your turn to pick a card. “i dare you to lick whipped cream off a person of your choice.”

“oouu who’s it gonna beee?” nick nudges into your side.

you look around the hot tub, wanting to pick someone unpredictable, “ashaaa, you haven’t had much to do yet?” you look over to the girl who now has wide eyes and a growing smile.

“okay, yeah let’s do it,” she shrugs. “nate could you go get whipped cream, please?”

once nathan’s back you move closer to asha and decide to put whipped cream on her shoulder. “it tickles,” she giggles when you lick the entire dollop off of her easily.

you both laugh and you lick your lips as you head back to your seat.

౨ৎ

after another round it’s finally matt’s turn again, he draws a card that reads: give a kiss anywhere, on the person you’d “take home to mama.”

matt slowly stands and rubs his chin with a devious smile. “ummm,” he draws out, giving multiple looks at everyone before he walks over and hovers over you. you’re shocked by your body’s ease when his wet hand lifts to hold your face and his lips connect to yours. the kiss isn’t sloppy, but rather needy. you were just getting used to the taste of the bitter beer he’d just been drinking when he pulls away and steps back, unfazed.

you blink and wipe your fingers around your lips as matt wipes a hand over his eyes while laughing to himself.

“mom, would love y/n,” chris adds, calling back to the initial dare that led to that stomach turning kiss.

“'course she would, she’s a fucking saint.” matt sighs.

you squint your eyes and tilt your head, “i wouldn’t say that…”

“yeah, shit, my bad.” matt spreads his legs across from you, “forgot you have that little tattoo. i’m sure you’re not such a good girl anymore.”

you’re fucking annoyed now. you hate that he thinks you're inferior to him in any way. “hey where’s that ashtray, chris?” you ask, adjusting your seated position.

“uh, here,” he reaches behind him and places it on the same floaty as the cards, along with the lighter.

“you guys are cool to keep going,” you say and take the abandoned joint in your hand to relight it.

matt watches in spiteful anticipation.

“take it slow, and hold it” andrea explains to you in a whisper, knowing you’d never smoked in your life.

erin begins her dare to prank call a customer service line and dirty talk them when you take a hit of the joint.

matt eyes never leave your bothered figure as you inhale and cause the tip of the joint to light a bright red. he can tell you’re trying to prove a point which makes it more amusing to him when your eyes begin to water after you shakily exhale and attempt to hold back a cough.

“don’t hurt yourself.” matt quips under his breath.

౨ৎ

the group hadn’t realized just how long they’d been in the hot tub nor how drunk they all are until they struggled to get out and back to the main floor of the warehouse.

though, lots of giggles and piggyback rides helped them all stay together as they traveled back, cold and still damp. all partygoers were gone at that point, leaving the warehouse empty yet a mess.

nick (being the self-proclaimed good host he is) led the mass of drunk people to the bathrooms and brought extra graphic tee shirts and sweatpants to change into from the many boxes of merch sold in their tattoo shop. the boys had insisted that everyone just sleep at the warehouse due to their abundance of couches and chairs and their fear in sending anyone home in an uber at close to 3 AM.

matt is throwing pieces of trash in a large black trash bag when you step out from the bathroom near the colorful kitchenette of the warehouse.

he glances up when you approach slowly, feeling yourself sobered up quite a bit after peeing and washing your face.

“hey,” his voice is rough in tiredness.

“hey, do you have any water over here?” you ask politely, your lips taste salty when you lick over them.

“in the fridge,” he replies, crumbling wrappers and adding to his bag.

you notice how red and puffy his eyes truly are now that you’re this close to him and in better lighting. you walk past him to get to the fridge, almost completely empty after a long-lasting and full party.

“are you sleeping any time soon?” you ask, opening the water bottle.

“i don’t know.”

“i can always help you clean this if you need me to.”

“‘m good.” he analyzes a glass bottle to decide whether it’s worth keeping.

you nod your head, “cool.”

“you should probably sleep.” matt suggests looking over to you.

“i think i can decide that for myself, thanks.” you drink more of your water.

“you’re right i can only suggest. i’m suggesting you to go to sleep. and if you do stay up i'd suggest you don’t spend your time talking to me.”

you finish off your water and move closer to matt, placing it in the bag. “you truly know how to piss a girl off.”

“it’s my specialty.” he whispers and looks over your face now that you’re so close.

he’s so fucking hot that it genuinely upsets you at this point. you just back up and turn to go find the couch andrea’s decided to sleep on.

“goodnight, sunshine.” he calls after you, going back to his cleaning.

you're not too far away when you hear the bathroom door open and once again matt is greeting someone, only when you look over your shoulder you see erin approaching and matt leaning on the island counter with a smile.

you turn the corner with irritation. and you find yourself in the unfortunate position of having a problematic crush on matt while wanting nothing to do with him at all.

꩜⋆ ˚｡⋆🎱˚

#this got sillyyyyy #NEXT PART GETS SILLIERRRR #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets fan fiction #sturniolo triplets smut #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo fanfic

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Nothing major yet, some minor Honkai: Star Rail spoilers. Word count: 4.6k.

Nexus index.

On the planet Eris, in the city of Perianth II, night reigns, for there is no star close enough to challenge its rule. 

Deep within the bowels of the metropolis lit only by manmade contraptions, sits a bar known as LOTUS-EATER, carved into the cragged terrain as if it’d always been there. It had not, in fact, contrary to local legend. Had the IPC not run into issues with overcrowded prisons, this planet they now consider a scourge would never have had the means to limp on. 

Easy solutions cultivate the conditions for worse problems to develop later on. 

This is what your mother — a shrewd woman to her core — instilled in you. 

Grimacing, you reread the words on your screen for the umpteenth time. 

… You wish she had instilled some business management skills instead. 

“Miss Exalted-One-Ma’am, when are you coming back inside? This client is refusing to leave until he can speak with you. Lear is running interference, but that’s going as well as you can imagine,” a feminine voice calls out. 

You glance up fast enough to assess her expression. Despite the severity of her words, she’s smiling, amber eyes crinkling by the corners. Her chestnut-colored hair is worn in a braid that extends down the length of her back, meaning she hasn’t clocked out yet, or else it’d be loose. You have some wiggle room, then.

“Nona,” you beckon her over, “What do you think this means?” 

Inquisitive creature she is, she doesn’t waste this opportunity to poke around in your private matters. Her eyes flitter back and forth as she takes in the contents of your phone. Interlocking her hands behind her back, she hums. 

“Looks like we’re due for a visit.” 

“That’s what you gathered too?” You murmur. “What a mess this is turning into. The last thing we need is for the hounds to start sniffing around.” 

“I dunno what you’re frazzled about, exalted one. The locals wouldn’t cough up info to the IPC even if their life depended on it.” 

“Therein lies your answer — the locals won’t, but our clientele is vast as the universe is infinite. Someone looking to score quickly could put in a tip. The hounds are just itching for an excuse to put an embargo on Eris again.” 

She shrugs. “Outsiders bribed and snuck their way in last time, they would now too. Benefits of a quality product.” 

You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose. Nona means well, but if she thinks in such simple terms, her training period won’t ever end. Or perhaps you’re being a tad too harsh on the girl, you haven’t slept since receiving this text message two cycles ago. If it weren’t for how scarce this technology is, you would’ve smashed it to pieces for causing you such prolonged strife. 

Alas, as a native of Eris, there are two things you intrinsically cherish above all else — any object that emits light and the special nectary cradled within the planet. 

“I’ll take your input into—” 

A shrill shriek cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. 

“The hysterical client, I reckon,” Nona dryly remarks. “Now, can you please come in before Lear gets stabbed? If it isn’t already too late.” 

You don’t bother dignifying her macabre speculation with a reply. You enter through a back door accessible only to LOTUS-EATER staff, weaving around boxes of cargo that need to be sorted. A heady, aromantic scent clings to the wood, yet its temptation is long lost on you. Where the clients indulge, you abstain. The livelihood of yourself and your workers relies heavily on your psyche’s clarity. 

Emerging from the back rooms has you standing on the building’s second floor, an area known as The Lounge. Here, the spherical, gravity-defying emitters of lights standard in this region are set dimly. This latest model even allows you to adjust the dimensions, ranging from small enough to fit in the palm of your hand to the size of a room. There was supposed to be one more on this floor, but while unpacking the order, it slipped from Lear’s hands and met an early demise. Great cooperation was needed to locate the glass that floated to the ceiling. 

You check the status of occupancies. Two private rooms are in session, the other eight are empty. By your design, it had been a slow night. You gave orders to the receptionist, Thalia, to only book appointments for influential customers, just in case the omen floating over your head comes true. You walk down the hallway which leads to the first floor, only to notice cool colors set in a square array by the digital lock. 

The sight doesn’t sit right with you. You consider taking a detour to investigate, only for the commotion downstairs to encourage otherwise. 

“Sir, if you’d please calm down—”

Lear’s gentle voice is cut off by another. 

“I demand to speak with her,” it heaves. “The mind witch. Where is she?” 

The electronic curtains that lift for those put into the LOTUS-EATER’s database part in a magnificent flurry of scarlet hues. You feel each set of eyes that glance your way. It’s a typical ensemble present — affluent travelers, political emissaries, and well-to-do merchants. Some drink at the bar, others watch the live entertainment playing soft music. Everyone aside from the heaving interloper is dressed in the formalwear expected of the establishment. 

The click of your heels against the dark wood floor reverberates throughout. The man’s reaction to your appearance is delayed, though he eventually turns his head to see where Lear is looking. Resentment contorts his face upon spotting you. You recognize him. Jay R. Alister, a client who gave Thalia a difficult time due to his demands to have a Synalink booking today. You thought you smoothed over the matter by granting him access to the first floor, The Club, and placing him on a priority list for next time. 

Copious amounts of alcohol must’ve unraveled your hard work. 

“Shall we take a moment to collect ourselves, sir?”

“No one— no one understands,” he insists, swaying ever so slightly. It’s a peculiar sight. One message from a handful of the individuals present would be enough to spell doom for Alister, this charade likely already has him blacklisted across multiple star systems. To be a client at LOTUS-EATER is a privilege. Everyone adheres to the unspoken rule of the honor system, eliminating the need for security inside. 

“I’d like to, Mr. Alister, if you wouldn’t mind explaining to me outside.” 

He’s drunk, but a low-level link can be established, you surmise. It isn’t an option without risks. As a recurring client, he could catch onto the invasive feeling and grow further agitated. The eyes fixated on you grow heavier. Some are curious, others bemused, and a few pass silent judgment, comparing your capabilities with the previous Exalted Arbiter. 

He blinks slowly. “My Roze… she’s upstairs. She’s waiting for me. I can’t— can’t be late…” 

“You won’t be,” your voice takes on a concerned lilt, “Let’s go meet her elsewhere. Follow me and I’ll take you to her.” 

A white ring forms around his pupils. 

“You… will?” 

“I will. Come, now, we wouldn’t want to waste any more of her time, would we?” 

The ring goes from opaque to solid. 

The low-level link has been made manifest. You feel the thread connecting you to the essence that makes Jay R. Alister himself. 

You stride past him and he immediately scrambles to follow. Out of the corner of your eye, you note how Lear’s shoulders relax and give him a reassuring nod. He did a good job stalling until you could personally see to this matter yourself. If this had occurred any other time, it would’ve been your top priority, but a far more sensitive issue threatened to ensnare you in a worrisome web. 

One after another, the pairs of eyes fall, like a flying pest in its final moments. Conversation resumes and the music increases in volume. 

Cool air embraces you once you’re outside. This particular region is well-lit, a testimony to its prestige. Restaurants, boutiques, and other fine shops have been built with walls of dark stone naturally found on Eris for better insulation. The once rugged streets are smooth, painstakingly cobbled together by a city planner many Amber Eras ago. Any crack has molten gold poured into it so that when it dries, the ground beneath your feet is a never-ending sea of ebony and gold. 

You wave over the closest security guards. The rest can be left to them, Mr. Alister has damaged his reputation enough for you to consider his dues paid. You’ll tell Thalia to take him off the registered client list for LOTUS-EATER and that’ll be the end of it. You’re preparing to head back inside when a pervasive, overpowering influence freezes you in place. It’s reminiscent of an electric current.  

The taut link between you falters. 

Straining…

(He’s reaching into his pocket). 

Fraying…

(His hands wield a sharpened implement).  

Until it snaps. 

The subjugated lunges at the subjugator. 

You try to re-establish the link, but there’s a fortress around his mind that wasn’t there moments prior. Imposing and unbreachable. Where did this surge of mental fortitude come from? You need to think, you need to act. There must be a way for you to regain control, your technique is unshaken even in the face of imminent demise. In the three seconds it takes for him to close the distance, you make seventy-four attempts, each ending in failure. 

Has the last grain of sand fallen to the bottom of the hourglass, cementing this choice to believe in your abilities as the wrong one? 

This can’t be the end. Who will take care of—

Metal clashes against metal. 

The being in front of you is a shade. Tendrils of agony untold slither up from his thigh and squeeze around his neck, constantly choking him, yet refusing the sweet reprieve a crushed windpipe would give. This is a person acquainted with every suffering a living creature could ever endure. The prismatic shards that detail his countless tragedies aren’t just broken, they’re eviscerated, an indecipherable mess. Some scattered to the wind and others forcibly scratched out. 

This nightmarish presence eclipses your would-be killer. 

His eyes meet yours and the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

“Don’t bother,” is all he says. 

He could sense you trying to poke around in his head? Has he come into contact with Arbiters before? That can’t be possible, you’re familiar with everyone on the LOTUS-EATER registry. You cease your ministrations without verbally acknowledging him. His hollow expression burns into your retinas, invading your mind’s eye. The sword he saved your life with holds a similar weight. It radiates such intensity that you needn’t use any techniques to get a better read on it. 

Walking up the steps in a casual manner is the last person you wanted to see — Kafka of the Stellaron Hunters. She spares the now subdued Alister a glance then turns to face you. 

“Fortunately, I had the foresight to send Bladie ahead,” she smiles. You resist the urge to scoff. “Otherwise, our meeting would’ve been far less pleasant.” 

So that man’s with her, you think. That’d explain why I couldn’t make any progress. 

If the defenses surrounding Alister were comparable to a fortress, the minds of the Stellaron Hunters are like a deflective shield. Any extensive attempts at trying to gain access end up backfiring and causing you damage so long as they remain up. The only other being capable of a similar feat was your mother. Now, in the few years since her death, you’ve encountered three more with similar capabilities. 

Are your abilities growing dull? Or are other species simply evolving? 

You order the guards to deal with Alister as they see fit, he’s no longer your primary concern. 

There’s a far worse headache forming on the horizon. 

“... I suppose you’ll follow me inside whether I invite you or not?” You question, just barely managing to maintain the smile painted hastily on your face. 

Kafka doesn’t reciprocate your hostility. She never does. Instead, she motions in the direction you were planning on taking them to avoid any unwanted attention. The guards won’t be an issue, since they’re on your payroll. You don’t want to risk lingering and being spotted by someone without an allegiance to you.

“I won’t overstay my welcome, Exalted Arbiter. You have my word.” 

By essentially showing up uninvited at your front door, she’s placed you in quite a precarious situation. The man who parried Alister’s attack hasn’t dropped his vigilance for an instant. His posture is that of an animal poised to pounce. You lack the means to fight them off should they choose to utilize force. 

Your gut instinct tells you it’s a bad idea to get involved any further. Your mind reasons you can only play the cards you’re dealt. 

A sigh passes by your lips. “Very well. Let’s get on with it then.” 

The duo follows wordlessly behind you. Kafka remains close, whereas the swordsman lingers further back, taking care to avoid well-lit areas and remaining hidden. Had you not already been alerted to his presence, he could’ve easily slipped past your detection.  

The Stellaron Hunters are a formidable group indeed. 

During the short journey, you recall the text message that pushed you into this vat of strife. 

It was accompanied by an animated emoticon of the magenta-haired fugitive blowing a kiss. 

You’ll be in need of me shortly. See you then xoxo 

“Absolutely not!” 

An exclamation of unrivaled proportion leaves you, accompanied by your palms slamming against your desk. Old-fashioned writing stationary clatters noisily in the aftermath. She stops the doomed descent of one pen and then looks back to you, unperturbed. 

This woman is a shadow that follows her target persistently, devising fresh torments and sowing discord wherever she steps. To fight her is to do battle with a phantom, no attacks will land. The hopeless charade serves to tire you out. Still, your pride is wounded and without a balm to assuage the tender gash. It can’t scab over to heal. Again and again, it’s reopened, fresh blood washing over what had just dried. 

“I haven’t finished my proposition,” she hums. She sits in front of your desk, legs crossed, her eyes shining an eerie shade. “I wouldn’t dare to ask so much of your resources if you didn’t stand to benefit as well. Our current arrangement has helped you cut down on costs, yes?” 

You drum your fingers over the wood’s lacquer finish. “The word ‘arrangement’ implies cooperation, I believe extortion would be a better fit.” 

“I’ll stand by my original phrasing. The IPC has abandoned all pretense of slowly creeping up rates on shipments to Eris; what they’re charging now will look generous in a few short Trailblazer Years. They want this planet dead and their past misdeeds to die alongside it.” 

“Our current projections estimate we have at least two medium-length Amber Eras before we get to that point, by then, we’ll have countermeasures in place,” you droll out. These details have been drilled into your head ever since you became the head of this quadrant. “What proof do you have that the IPC will make such a drastic move? The other factions will lodge complaints, many of them use our… exports.” 

You wince at the awkward phrasing of the word ‘exports’, knowing full well she’ll pick through any vulnerability like a vulture does a corpse. 

Kafka leans forward. “By ‘exports’, you must mean Eris’ most sought-after natural resource. The tonic of the nectary.” 

“I’m not allowed to discuss such sensitive material with outworlders.” 

“You needn’t say anything, just listen,” she pulls out a vial from inside her jacket. The familiar sheen of glimmering gold within causes your breath to hitch. “Here I have a sample of the latest synthetic developments into the tonic, courtesy of Silver Wolf. The IPC is discreetly channeling funds into the Genius Society to revitalize the research effort.” 

You bite back a laugh. “That knowledge is nothing new. They’ve been trying to replicate the tonic for ages; it’s a money pit. The last I heard, the closest they could get after investing billions of credits is a 14% match.” 

“Try 70%.” 

She sets the vial down and nods, encouraging you to take it. You don’t. 

“... You can’t be serious,” your voice sounds far away, as if it were coming from another room. “You’re bluffing.” 

“You don’t have to take my word for it. Have your alchemists examine it and come to your own conclusions.” 

As a disciple of Destiny’s Slave, she’s confident that this will suffice to convince you, and loathe as you are to admit it, she’s right. The repercussions of this allegation could be disastrous. It’d be irresponsible on your part to not at least run it by the appropriate channels. 

“What does this intel cost me?” 

“Nothing, consider it a token of good faith. There’s a more pressing matter I hoped to bring to your attention, now that that’s out of the way.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “More pressing than the future of my home?” 

“That’d depend on who you ask,” Kafka dances around your apprehension to a rhythm no one else has ever composed. “It has to do with my companion. I didn’t bring him here to take in the sights, he’s to stay on a job until further notice.” 

The mention of that enigmatic man brings with it a resurgence of the feelings you experienced earlier. It hit like a tidal wave, concentrated and suffocating. What would someone have to endure for their psyche to be saturated in such wretchedness? 

“Alright. I’ll arrange for accommodations somewhere more discreet.” 

“I think it’d be best if he stayed here, at the LOTUS-EATER.” 

…

…

…

“What?” 

Kafka has made many requests in the time she’s known you. Normally, she uses you as a point of contact to meet influential individuals or a warehouse of yours to store important items, but this is an entirely different beast. Those endeavors fester outside your purview. You give the push necessary and wash your hands clean of the implications. 

To host a Stellaron Hunter in your most lucrative establishment could very well be the start of the end. 

“After the events that unfolded earlier, you should see the potential advantages. You’re in a precarious situation. The IPC can’t place a bounty on you in an official capacity, but there are ways around bureaucracy. That attempt today won’t be the last.” 

She lowers her voice to an enticing whisper. “And we both know you’re not financially sound enough to hire competent help. Take him. He’ll be yours if you permit him.” 

How her melodious voice can invoke such a raw desire to argue is unknown, and yet, each fiery word fizzles out to ash on your tongue. In the same way you’d establish a link for the first time, you take the pieces of information at your disposal to test where the edges might align. The unusual fees on shipments, the supposed progress on the tonic, and the overall strain that’s been placed on every level of your business — the mosaic it forms is a crimson shade with a metallic scent. 

You can’t die. Not yet, not when it’d cause so many to perish alongside you. 

“This goes beyond ‘a token of good faith’,” you murmur. “Kafka… there’s far more to this, isn’t there? Just what are you planning?” 

For once, the curvature of her smile is genuine. Blatant insincerity would unsettle you less. 

“A gift for a friend.”

Upon LOTUS-EATER’s roof sits your favorite getaway, a secluded balcony. 

There’s nothing fancy about the decor, if anything, it’s worn rugged by the elements. Paint chips off the three chairs and stubborn foliage congregates no matter how often you banish it with your broom. After ensuring you can only be contacted in an emergency, you wipe the condensation off the chair furthest to the right and sit tall. 

Although you aren’t alone, you keep your eyes on the starry sky.

“I would like to apologize for the behavior I displayed earlier,” you take your time with the words, ensuring each syllable has a pleasant ring. “It must’ve been from the shock, although that’s no excuse. Please allow me to thank you properly.” 

An icy wind whistles through. Once it finishes, you fuss over your hair, putting each strand back in its designated place. You grimace when it picks back up again. 

“You can express your gratitude by speaking normally.” 

Your head snaps in his direction. You examine his side profile through narrow eyes, impatience writhing beneath your skin. He pays your poorly masked hostility no mind. One by one, each muscle in your body relaxes, a domino effect you can’t bother putting a stop to. You slump down into your chair and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Have it your way,” you sigh. Your capitulation earns you his piercing stare. “Pretty words or not, I meant what I said. So, um… thank you, and…” 

Despite yourself, you try meshing together a more subtle phrasing, only for those infinite pools of vermillion to act as a successful deterrent. 

“I don’t like being indebted to others, it’s a hassle. So, here is my offer. I’ll perform a Synalink on you, free of charge. Or a waitlist.” 

Blade exhales sharply through his nose. It takes a moment to register that your proposition amused him more than it intrigued him. The perceived affront on your capabilities causes you to bristle. This is a rare opportunity you’re granting him, surely he must’ve heard of your abilities somewhere! People spend years trying to get an audience with you. The other Arbiters you employ are capable enough, otherwise, they couldn’t work here; but you transcend their combined efforts. 

“There is only one thing I’d want to experience, it’s beyond your means.” 

Propping yourself up on the chair’s arm, you scoff. “Hah, try me. Any emotion, scenario, for whatever length of time; tell me what you want to experience and I can make it happen.” 

He doesn’t instantly rebuke you. You share a moment of silence — almost solemn, certainly more meaningful for him than it is for you. There’s a light tug of guilt that pulls at your conscience. Perhaps it isn’t him underestimating you, but not wanting to set himself up for disappointment again. If you’re going to be occupying the same space for an unknown amount of time, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get on adequate terms. This could be the door that’ll open that path. 

You clear your throat to dispense the accumulating tension. “That clothing… you must have ties to The Xianzhou Luofu, or some experience with them. Are you familiar with Immersia games?” 

“Vaguely. An acquaintance of mine plays them.” 

You’re confident you could put a name and face to this ‘acquaintance’. For the sake of cordiality, you keep your opinion to yourself.

“I’ve never been fond of the comparison to my work, but I suppose it’s a decent touchstone. An Immersia grants the player a simulated experience predetermined by developers. There is a degree of immersion, hence, well, the name, but that’s barely scratching the surface,” you explain. 

Reassessing his body language only reveals neutrality. You decide it’s better than blatant disinterest and continue. 

“Traditionally, there are thought to be five senses in advanced lifeforms. These senses don't create the continuity of reality we experience, they just break it down into bite-sized pieces for easy consumption. Forming a Synalink is akin to overclocking a computer, not placing a hard drive in a different system. Your brain finds the stimuli I send it indistinguishable from the touch of your hair against your face, or the woody scent of incense in that jar.” 

His eyebrows crease slightly downward. “A single glimpse into my mind was enough to send you recoiling, and still, this is an offer you’re comfortable making?”   

You purse your lips. It’s a fair point. 

“That was… different. Ideally, any link should be made in a stable environment to minimize disruptions. I had nearly been—” You cut yourself off, finding the sentence to be one you’d rather not finish. “—You know, so I wasn’t at optimal performance. That’s why we have private rooms in The Lounge.” 

Your nostrils flare when he keeps regarding you with that impassive expression. Is his face permanently frozen? Does he need to be unpaused? You almost want to snap your fingers in front of him.

“Hey, you’d be less effective if you had to improvise and fight with, say, a spoon. Would your combat ability be based on that one irregular instance or the total sum of all your fights? Hm? What you witnessed earlier was my irregular instance. If you’re open to the idea, I can make it work.” 

Blade shifts so that he can resume gazing at the sky. Before you can celebrate your victory in this one-sided battle of wits, he speaks up. His voice adheres to a softer creed. 

“You are…” he trails off, taking care to select the proper description, “Remarkably strange.” 

Your eye twitches. 

This has been a miserable cycle. You had to breathe the same air as Kafka, deal with a drunk client that later tried to stab you, and you found out the main export that keeps your planet’s economy from total collapse might be duplicable. All things considered, you should be giving this guy the cold shoulder for the problems he’ll inevitably cause in your future. Altruism gets you about as far as jumping into the air and hoping that’ll transport you through space. 

“Forget it, then,” you get up and twist around. The chair you formally occupied scrapes loudly against the ground. You don’t spare him a single glance while traversing the few steps that separate you from a long, well-deserved rest. Maybe you’ll be extra petty and lock the door so he has to remain here until you wake up. The olive branch has been extended, if he wants to take it and break it in two, that’s his prerogative. 

You raise your hand to unlock the door when abruptly, something captures your wrist. 

Your heart stutters. 

There isn’t the softness of flesh or the warmth that radiates off skin. Instead, you feel the textured surface of bandages graze against you in a featherlight touch. You know the vice-like grip he’s capable of. You saw it in how he clutched the grip of his sword, like it was the only thing he was good for. Gentleness cannot come naturally to someone of his disposition. It’s an intentional choice that requires swimming against the tide. 

Shakily, you exhale, hoping it’ll ease how your hands tremble. 

When was the last time someone touched you? Ah… it must’ve been then. 

You will the thought away. 

Blade doesn’t tether you down for more than a few seconds, just long enough to ensure your attention is back on him. Your skin tingles where he came into contact with you. It’s a prickly, blisteringly hot sensation that starts at your wrist and spreads all over. You squeeze your eyelids shut in a last-ditch effort to recompose yourself. 

He’s looking straight at you when your eyes reopen. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says. You find it strange how quick you are to believe him. “If you sincerely think yourself up to the task, then…” 

There it is again, that swelling of feeling, visceral to a degree every survival instinct screams at you to turn away. 

You find yourself leaning in closer. 

He rewards your burning curiosity with the unprecedented utterance: 

"Show me what it's like to die." 

#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #nexus #my stuff

[undead-supernova]

Masterlist / 18+

Part 1 - Boring

pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

plot: eddie runs into you unexpectedly and you think it's time to have that date a little early

contains: eddie lacking confidence, confident!reader, get to know Eddie and the reader a little better, making out, kids this is a bit more than pg-13 I'll tell you that much without spoiling it

note: sorry guys, I'm not done with this. maybe far from it. they have a dynamic unlike any other and I'm here for it.

wc: 4k

The library was maybe the last place Eddie wanted to be at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. It was always overcrowded, riddled with students running around with coffee from the adjoining Starbucks. 

But Eddie needed a new book, having told himself that rereading The Hobbit the third time this semester was…unnecessary. Plus, his English professor told him that “we can only enact change ourselves.” 

Maybe it was a sign. Because as Eddie passed the large glass windows, he saw you sitting at one of the booths.

You looked different from every Saturday night. No makeup, hardly any jewelry except for a thin gold necklace and several rings. An oversized t-shirt and, from his vantage point, you were wearing a pleated skirt. He even noticed that your high-top Converse were placed next to you, mismatched patterned socks adorning your feet. 

And, fuck, Eddie couldn’t help the excitement rising inside him. It should’ve embarrassed him when he started jogging towards the front door, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. All he could think about was the sound of your voice and your eyes and your touch and your kiss.

He slowed his pace as he walked past the printers and computers and found your head down in some textbook, blissfully unaware.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he asked.

And when you looked up and smiled, he could’ve sworn his heart swelled and burst like a goddamn balloon.

“Oh my gosh, hi!” you exclaimed, jumping up to give him a hug. “What the fuck are you doing here!”

It was only for a few seconds, but he couldn’t resist breathing in your intoxicating perfume and memorizing the feel of you. The curve of your back, the soft fabric of your sweatshirt scratching against his calloused fingertips.

And as you sat back down, he realized quickly why your mere touch was so alluring. It was a reminder that Saturday had been real and, on this grueling Tuesday, you still cared about his existence. You still noticed him.

“I was coming to look for something new to read,” he answered, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and failing. “What about you?”

Eddie couldn’t decipher your now raised eyebrow, watching as you lifted your pointer finger. “Sit down,” you nearly demanded, eyes flickering from him to the booth. His heart hammered in his chest as he complied, eyeing your finger following his movements. 

It was despicable how easy it was for you to get him to do whatever you wanted. Even just fucking sitting down. But he loved it. Every. Fucking. Second.

“I was in the stacks looking at the archives,” you explained. “But everyone in my class took them already.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Such bitches.”

“How rude,” Eddie said, all teasing with an amused smile.

He could tell you liked it, biting your lip slightly before playing along. “I know, it’s offensive.”

There was something he noticed in your expression, placing your lip back between your teeth as you scanned him up and down. Eddie was unable to keep a smile off his face, overwhelmed by the attention you gave him. Like he was a meal, but something to be savored rather than merely devoured.

He couldn’t help it when he returned the sentiment, glancing down at your skirt that was riding further and further up your thighs. It wasn’t the time to think about you like that, spread wide for him as he got on all fours. Having you barking commands at him to do it properly, rewarding him with endless praise once you deemed it good enough.

Your thighs parted just a bit more, head tilting to the side as you gave him a smirk. As if you knew exactly where his thoughts were and wanted him to keep going. And, wow, were you two really just eye-fucking each other in the library?

“Want some coffee?” he asked, trying to distract himself. Practically flinching, pulling himself back from the table. “I was gonna head to Starbucks afterwards.”

The sexual tension broke at the question and he watched as you fiddled with your pen. But you didn’t flounder like he did. He wondered if you ever could. 

“Yeah, I’d love to. I have to finish something up but—”

“Oh, I’ll go by myself,” he offered.

“You sure?” you asked, clearly surprised.

“Yeah, no biggie,” he assured you, standing up.

Expression turning a bit sheepish, you said, “I will warn you… My order is complicated.”

He shrugged. “Hit me.”

And the order wasn’t complicated, per se. Eddie just wanted to know how the hell had you come up with a “dirty iced chai with oat milk and two pumps of cinnamon dolce”. Regardless, Eddie tucked that into his Notes app for later. If there was a later.

After grabbing himself a large black coffee and the concoction you'd asked for, he made his way back over to you. Rounding the corner, he noticed the way you moved back and forth between a book and your laptop, sighing and mumbling something to yourself. But as if you could sense him, you turned and watched him approach, a smile appearing on your lips.

“Oh, a Venti, huh?” you teased, making grabbing motions at him anyways.

He shrugged, sitting back down. “You deserve it.”

“You know what? You’re right.” You took it from his hand, taking a long sip. “I hate Starbucks coffee,” you said, licking your lips. “It’s awful. But this is the best thing on the menu, so thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” Eddie hoped you couldn’t see him blush. "I hate it, too. It's just the only thing we got." 

“God, I know. Also, I can Venmo you or—"

“Absolutely not,” he interrupted, waving you away. 

“Okay,” you conceded, not bothering to argue further. Just took another sip and sat back. Glanced out the window before back at him. “Wanna go on that date today?”

“Today?” he asked, nearly gobsmacked.

Nervousness ran along his limbs, not fully prepared to be with you. Alone. Just the two of you. It’d taken him hours to go to bed after dropping you off the other night. Any time he thought he was done masturbating, it just came with another round. Like a goddamn creep.

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you doing research?” he asked, feeling his face grow hot.

And if you noticed, you didn’t say anything about it.

“Oh my god, I would rather die than look at this shit any longer. I’ve been here since eight.” You paused before throwing a hand over your face. “Unless you’re busy. Sorry I didn’t ask first.”

“No, no. I’m free,” he lied, deciding at that moment to skip his class. He’d catch up on Algebra with his tutor—it’s not like he paid attention anyways. That damn tutor was the only reason he understood a fraction of it. Pun absolutely intended. 

And he swore you nearly jumped up, grabbing your shoes and shoving them on before packing up your backpack, the weight of it starting to look daunting. Book after book, plus your laptop and pencil case and…

Without thought, Eddie grabbed it for you, slinging it over his shoulder. Fuck, it was heavy. “Here, I got it.”

You stared up at him, clearly shocked. “Oh, you sure?”

But Eddie gave you a smile and gestured towards the window with his head. “Yeah, come on. I’ll drive.”

By all accounts, Eddie was actually…sweet. It was nearly sickening how sweet he could be, carrying your backpack for you and opening the car door (despite it being a stalker van). Asking what music you liked to listen to—everything, was the answer. And you didn’t just like every genre, you loved it— Fiddling with the air conditioning and telling you to change it if you get too hot or too cold. Asking if his music was too loud, asking how you were doing now, away from your books.

You were starting to find him ridiculously intriguing, unsure how to take his kindness. It wasn’t a bad thing by any means. You just…weren’t used to a man being so considerate of your feelings. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t think you deserved it—that was obvious every time a man got a little too close for comfort and you had to humiliate them. 

But there was just something that felt new about Eddie. When he’d approached you at the party, you sized him up like every other guy shooting their shot. But he caught your eye immediately when he stumbled over his words. And when a jolt seized your veins at that first touch on his arm, you knew you were hooked. 

You’d gone to bed that night with a smile on your face, softly licking along your lips to savor the lingering taste of Eddie’s mouth. It was tinged with beer, something you used to hate. Something you now loved, thoughts echoing one word:

New.

Eddie helped you out of the car once he’d parked, even insisting that you let him get it for you. It made you feel quite warm in the face, surprised by his assertion. Made you feel like a lady, something you hadn’t ever felt at the hands of a man.

As you moved through the museum, you were quiet, whispering now and then about certain art styles and their importance during their corresponding time periods. And you were glad that Eddie wasn’t a douchebag about noise level inside a museum.

He never interrupted, never poked fun at your intelligence. He’d even asked more questions, all hushed and contained, some even you didn’t know the answer to. Pocketing them for later to ask your professors. 

But Eddie rarely gave up any information about himself, leaving you to tap his foot with yours and ask him questions. Every time, his face got hot and he murmured responses with a shrug, as if he didn’t think it was anything special. 

How was it not? He was still undecided, having dreams of working on video games and helping direct the narratives in new and innovative ways to engage with the player more. You didn’t know much about video games, but you still listened. Still gave him the attention he’d given you. It wasn’t even hard—he was so animated once he got into something he was passionate about. It was endearing, actually.

You ended up sitting down on one of the benches together, staring at an abstract painting by an artist you’d never heard of. 

“Do you like abstract?” you asked him, whispering despite the empty room.

Eddie shrugged, eyes trained on the swirling colors. “I think so? I mean, it’s cool to look at. I just don’t really know what I’m looking for. Or what I’m looking at, for that matter.”

That brought a smile to your face. His statement wasn’t judgmental or dismissive. It was…pensive. Contemplative. 

“I think of it like music,” you said. “The different colors and movements are like different instruments. They’re all separate but they come together to make something magical.”

For emphasis, you leaned in closer to him, your face and shoulder fully pressed against him. Raised your arm to point at the sharp flicks of red hurling towards the top right of the canvas. You could’ve sworn you heard Eddie suck in a breath, having to suppress a smirk at the effect you had over him. 

“That’s like a trumpet, bright and loud. Furious in nature but soaring off the page.” Then you pointed toward the royal blue splatters, more round than some of the other scattered pigments. “And this is like, oh, I don’t know. I guess, a trombone. Low and sultry. Rounded. Keeping everything together.”

Eddie turned his head, your noses nearly touching. You couldn’t help the shiver running down your neck at the tickling sensation you got from his hair. A smile you hadn’t seen before enveloped his face as you made eye contact.

“So, you’re saying it’s like jazz.”

A breathy laugh left your lips, finding yourself intimidated by his pointed gaze. By the way you could study the rich brown in his eyes, all bright and energized despite his calm demeanor. The stubble rising from his pores, all scratchy and wicked. 

“Well, uh,” you murmured, surprised by your inability to form words. “It doesn’t have to be, but, um, I guess this one made me think of jazz. The way it kinda…” your voice trailed off as he seemingly leaned in further, his scent like smoke fogging your senses. “It’s not so rigid. It’s improv. It’s, um…”

“Varied?” he offered, his smile growing. “Unique?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Eddie let out a hum. “I think I get it now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s beautiful.”

For once, you had to look away, back at the painting to try and control your breathing. There were flashes of things you wanted to do, both tender and wildly too inappropriate for the setting. Things you wanted beyond physicality, beyond the limits you’d always set for yourself.

And as if he could hear the pounding of your heart, his fingertips touched yours. Slowly weaved his fingers through the spaces left open. Took a piece of your heart with him.

Eddie might not be exactly forward with his actions, but he knew what he wanted. All you could do was squeeze his hand and hope that one day you’d get to see him in full bloom. 

“Why do you do that thing?” you asked.

Eddie glanced over at you, one hand on the steering wheel. The other fiddled with a hole in his pants, needing something to grasp onto. His heart rate just started to slow down, giving him a chance to breathe. 

There was just something about you that drove him mad.

“What thing?”

“Act like you’re not interesting.”

Sheepishly, Eddie shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know. I guess it’s ‘cause you’re way more interesting than me.”

“Bullshit,” you said sternly, a scoff leaving your lips.

“What!” he exclaimed, looking over at you again. “It’s true.”

You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “You highly underestimate yourself.”

Eddie snorted. “I’m a stereotype.”

“Bullshit,” you repeated, starting to sound genuinely frustrated. “Who the hell told you that?”

He didn’t know where to start. 

Being a loser wasn’t a big deal for him in high school. Grew up with his father’s reputation preceding him. Got through it the best he could with some awesome friends along the way. Finally graduated high school and raised his GPA enough to come here. It was simple. In his mind, he was simple.

But spending the latter half of summer, the one he dared never to speak of, without his friends and then coming here without anyone else… Well, he struggled to find anyone willing to be his friend. He tried. Really, he did. But it never came to fruition.

And what was more embarrassing than joining a D&D club before being told he didn’t belong within the first hour? Him, the DM of Hawkins, hell, Indiana, being told he didn’t belong. That he didn’t play right. That he just didn’t fit.

He spent so much time alone. It was starting to make him miss Hawkins, the nostalgia starting to kick in. Hawkins, the place he loathed. The place he wanted nothing to do with. 

He was a nineteen-year-old Freshman with no friends and an undecided future.  

His silence must’ve lasted longer than he thought because you pointed at the nearly empty Walmart parking lot and asked, “Actually, would you pull in for a sec?”

“Yeah, of course,” he responded, heading towards the very back row, far from any remaining cars. Giving the two of you privacy just in case you started to yell at him for being a loser or something. He didn’t know. You were just so unpredictable.

But once he parked, you were unbuckling your seatbelt and grabbing his chin. Squished the bottom of his cheeks in one hand as you pulled his face closer to yours. He must’ve stopped breathing, hands slipping from the steering wheel.

“You better start listening to me, Eddie,” you breathed, all low and sensual, moving your lips to barely graze his bottom lip. “I really don’t like you talking about yourself like that.”

Eddie could feel sweat collecting beneath his bangs as you continued your torture, raking your fingernails down his throat before wrapping your hand around it. He gasped, earning a small smile out of you.

“I don’t waste my time with boring people, as conceited as that sounds,” you continued, the left corner of your mouth lifting. Eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips, eyelashes fluttering with each micromovement. “But I never claimed to be the nicest person, did I?” Eddie still wouldn’t speak. He didn’t know if he could without moaning. “You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And the nicest, which is probably more than I deserve. You’ve seen the way I treat other men.”

“They deserved it,” he whispered, feeling his cock twitch when your grip tightened. “Every one of them.”

“Yeah, they did,” you replied, raising the pitch of your voice. Like you were taunting him. “But you’re different, aren’t you?”

“I-I am?”

“You’re sweet,” you breathed, giving slow kisses to his cheeks. Giggling when you noticed the blood rushing into them so rapidly. “And you’re a real nice guy, you know that?”

“I, uh, I try to be,” he stumbled as you moved your lips past his jaw and against his ear. Went limp at the feeling of you biting the lobe, fanning your breath over it.

“You do such an excellent job,” you whispered. “So nice and kind and funny. You really get me going, Eddie. I didn’t think I’d be so affected by you.”

When you pulled back to face him, you chuckled. He couldn’t blame you. His eyes must’ve been popping out of his head, mouth agape at your pretty words. What was even more fucked up was how genuine you sounded, like you weren’t just saying these things to say them. You meant it.

“I thought about you a lot this weekend,” you said breathily, removing your hand from his neck to start coiling his hair around your finger.

“Me?”

“You,” you said with a nod.

He licked his lips. “W-what about me?”

“About how interesting you are. And not to get too vulgar,” you said with a giggle, all teasing and devilish. “But I couldn’t help but think about taking your cock down my throat.” Another giggle as you tapped your fingers along his collarbone. “Thought about what it looks like, if it’s half as pretty as you.”

Eddie couldn’t stop the way his cock strained against his jeans, the neverending praise overwhelming him. “T-thank you,” he responded, unable to suppress the whine that he’d tried to contain when your other hand began palming him over his jeans. 

“You, um,” he tried to continue, taking a deep breath through his nose to keep his composure. “I-if you want, you can. Anytime. Any time.” 

“It’d be so easy like this, you know,” you nearly purred. “To ride you, to leave you a blubbering mess and thanking me for taking care of you. I think you’d really, really like that.”

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he groaned, fingers now reaching out to white-knuckle the steering wheel. 

“Am I wrong?”

A tiny scoff left his lips as you nearly massaged his cock, knowing that if you didn’t stop soon, he was going to burst. “You already know the answer to that.”

“I want to hear it, Eddie.” You nipped his neck, causing him to jump a little. But you wouldn’t stop, whispering filthy words as you continued to mark him. “I want to hear you tell me how good it would feel for me to suck you dry.” He continued to nod, each word sending him further into the deep end. “Before getting you hard again, just ‘cause I can, and getting on top so I can milk you with my pussy.” He moaned at your vulgarity. “Which is dripping, by the way.”

Without any warning, Eddie was cumming, an explosive rush that had him twitching and jerking. Panting and dry mouthed. You didn’t remove your hand, merely chuckling and rubbing him through his jeans until he was able to breathe normally again.

Before Eddie could get the chance to apologize for his behavior, you were pulling him in with an agonizingly slow kiss, your fingers damp from the cum seeping through his jeans. 

You tugged at his lower lip with your teeth before letting out a hum. Gazed up into his puppy dog eyes and said, “Good boy.”

After a few moments of Eddie being able to think clearly again, you found your eyes wandering around his console before settling on a pack of cigarettes. 

“You smoke?” you asked, plucking them from the cupholder and shaking the box in front of his face.

He nodded, seemingly quiet despite what transpired. “Want one?”

“Absolutely,” you responded, quick to take two out and hand one over. Watched him roll the windows down. Even went so far as to light both cigarettes for you like a gentleman. 

You knew he was still coming down from that high. It wasn’t like you could judge when the wetness collecting between your thighs was probably staining the carseat. It took everything in you not to beg him to take you right then and there. But you were a lady (of sorts) and as a lady, you were content with saving yourself for another day.

Besides, it was nice to see him so calm now. Like a weight had been lifted, if only for a moment. It was still a moment.

“Post-nut clarity cigarette,” you joked, taking a slow drag and glancing out at the afternoon sun. 

“Was that…not embarrassing?”

That was when you realized what was happening.

“Are you kidding me? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” you said truthfully. 

“I’m sure it’s totally hot,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Ah, yes. You supposed it was embarrassing for a guy to have creamed his pants without so much as a kiss. But that didn’t bother you at all. You knew it would be different once you were alone, edging him until he was begging you for more. Nothing would make you happier.

You ignored him. “You know, if you want us to go any further, you’re gonna have to earn it,” you said plainly, checking over your nails to make sure the paint hadn’t chipped too bad.  

“How?”

“Once you learn to be nice to yourself.” You shrugged before glancing back over at his wide-eyed expression. “I know there’s something more to you than what you think of yourself. I saw it at the party and I’m seeing it now. You just have to see that, Eddie. That’s really all there is to it.”

Eddie’s lips seemed to form a pout before he took a few hearty puffs, the smoke billowing around you. Looked around. Looked down at his lap. Looked back up at you. Mumbled, “So I can’t, like, go down on you right now?”

A laugh surged out of you so quickly that you started coughing. You waved him away when his concern sounded, ending up laughing harder before you could contain yourself.

“As much as I’d love to give you the privilege of eating me out right now, I think it’s best to wait until you’ve shown some improvement.”

“So there’s a chance?” he asked. 

You leaned back in towards his face, opening his mouth with your thumb. Taking another drag, you put your lips to his and blew the smoke into his mouth. Felt him breathe it in before letting it out through his nose. 

You smirked. “If you’re desperate for a piece of me, you could always lap up what I left behind on your car seat.”

He groaned, taking a deep breath while rolling his eyes. “God, you’re a fucking menace.”

“Honey, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

as per usual, thanks to @strangergraphics for letting me use her dividers and looking over my work hehehe

#Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson/reader #Eddie munson x you #Eddie munson/you #Eddie x you #Eddie x reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson x y/n #Eddie Munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie Munson smut

[notroosterbradshaw]

My Father's Eyes - prologue

about: Bradley comes to terms with growing up without a father to guide him while quickly adapting to become one himself… to a child who wants nothing more than not to have him in her life.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: nsfw 18+, language, angst, fluff, smut [...probably]. no posting schedule.

You slipped your phone carefully into your backpack, cursing low. It hadn't stopped blowing up since you took the opportunity to unwind a little with a few after-work drinks. You were generally an automatic no, so giving the affirmative to a question perennially asked just to be polite was met with more confusion than excitement - you weren't sure how it made you feel. Your social skills felt like they were severely lacking (not to mention the pop culture references you were behind on unless it was, of course, Taylor Swift)... You simply weren't social anymore. 

You mostly tolerated your work associates, they were all friendly, smart, and considerate, but come Friday, you were on your time and couldn't wait to get home to start your weekend. You had wine, pizza and TV to catch up on and it would be perfect. Basic in its simplicity and you didn't care what anyone else thought.

"One more drink," your co-workers begged. 

"Let loose, we never get to hang out aside from work," they added.

And while you were having a pretty good night, you had other reasons to be home - 

But the revelry was about to end as hoots and hollers of patrons in the bar overcame a raucous Friday night crew as a group of sailors walked in. Grand in their whites, gleaming, broad grins, covers and sunglasses in the dim, overcrowded room. Your eyes scanned each one like they always did when moments like this materialised. 

Your heart rate elevated, and the hairs on your arm pricked up. Hands clammy - 

The warning signals in your brain were firing louder than an air raid siren. That face you never expected to see again among that crowd, and it was more handsome than you could even recall.

Bradley Bradshaw. Your first... everything. Young and dumb, you fell head over heels for that boy with his head in the clouds and that impish grin. He who dreamed big, much bigger than you ever could imagine.

Tall, broad, tanned, unassuming. He was surreal, it felt like a dream how he’d just returned your life without warning. This wasn’t his hometown, so you knew he was here for work. A nightmare occurred even as you rose from your place at the small cocktail table and started making your apologies for the drink just placed before you, reaching eagerly for your bag and other random belongings you’d whipped out. 

That you had to get home, "Oh, look at the time - " that you had to go - 

You had to just get the hell out of The Hard Deck. You knew better, even if the time to now had been on your side in previous ventures to the joint. 

The crowd swarmed them, and you took your opportunity to try and get out without being noticed. You knew Bradley had no idea you would be there. The beautiful man was immediately surrounded by striking women all vying for his attention, and although he appeared to enjoy it, he was keeping them all at bay. You could see that from your safe distance.

But that last tequila had done you in and you had to get to the bathroom before you got into the Uber - while you weren't feeling the effects of the alcohol, you felt could be ill at any moment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," you hissed to yourself, slamming the cubicle door after you, the safety of the bathroom gave you small comfort but it relieved the feeling of someone standing on your chest in any way. 

Sitting, you had no choice but to overhear the gossip of the sudden arrival of the newly decorated squad who had just entered the place, sending the bar into a tizzy.

“ - Hangman is blonder - " 

" - suave Coyote was - "

"I don't know how Natasha can be around such sexy men all the time."

"Come on, she's as talented, and dear god, she as hot as them. Don't discount her rank because of some guys. I’m sure she deals with pissing contests 24/7.”

You silently cheered for the last person's comment, whoever this Natasha was. Good for her. 

But no mention of Bradley. 

"It's like the Navy put together the sexiest aviators they had - " this person was also right. They always grandstanded like they were in movies. And tonight, even Bradley.

Flushing, you pulled yourself together and made a hasty exit strategy in your brain as you furiously washed and dried your hands. The closest door from the bathroom was also the furthest from the pool table and you were in luck as you heard the roar and the familiar opening keys to Jerry Lee Lewis' Whole Lot of Shakin' Going On.

Come on over, baby, whole lotta shakin' goin' on, Yes, I said come on over, baby, baby, you can't go wrong...

And abruptly, you were young, dumb and 21 again. Falling for this schtick then and, by God, his voice deeper than it was and you could swear, better. Sexier. Older. Bolder. Not your shy, quiet reserved college boy on his summer vacation in San Diego... but look at you now, falling for this schtick again. The way he could sway people on full display as the crowd and his friends/teammates, how were you to know, tumbled over each other at the grubby old piano you’d never seen touched to now to spread the revelry with him.

"My old man listened to this album so much when I was a kid," Bradley said quietly, delicately handing the cover to you as he wandered over to the old turntable he'd mentioned was also his father's and you watched him intently. He could make you listen to white noise or nails on a blackboard and you’d be enthralled with it. "I don't have too much of his stuff," he explained, considerate as he dropped the pin on the record tenderly. "But this song," he laughed quietly as Great Balls of Fire filled his small room of the share house he stayed at that school break. "We sang this song a lot as a family. Please don’t hold it against me, I’m very aware Lewis was a fuckin’ creep of a dude,” and you couldn’t resist your smile as he offered you his hand and danced with him. 

And how often that summer that hand lead you down a garden path of trouble. 

You probably hadn't listened to Jerry Lee Lewis since it reminded you too much of him. And of course, the artist was controversial at best, just like Bradley said but you’d never, ever forgotten the words.

And as you headed towards the door, the need to see Bradley Bradshaw just one more time overwhelmed you. His jacket stripped and sleeves of his crisp, white shirt rolled to his thick golden forearms, the collar on his shirt strained around the thick ropes of muscles of his neck and throat as his cheeks pinked in the hot room. 

Aviators sliding down his strong nose in the exhilaration of being the centre of attention. He was thriving off it. 

He was as handsome as the day you met him. The way he captured your attention as he retrieved the football that landed near your beach bag that fateful day. His soft voice of apology as his buddies teased him down play. He apologised on their behalf and asked if he could make it up to you   The way he handled the room funny to you, your once shy, quiet boy now commanding the group at the bar, singing with him, vying for his attention... singing to just get that small piece of his time. 

Home soon kiddo. Hope you had a good night with Amelia, you texted quickly.

As the song ended and the place erupted again in enraptured applause, you slinked out as more sailors slipped in and took in a deep breath, the humid beach air filling your lungs and you called for the quickest car to get you home safely... to safety. 

"Hey," you heard the voice behind you. You were so fucking close to the car... so close to escaping without a trace... but just like the old days, his voice warming you to your bones. But you couldn't bring yourself to look at him, even as he gently took your wrist and guided your body towards his. "Holy shit," you heard the small flutter of laughter in a bubble against his lips. “It is you.” He was clearly as shocked as you were. 

The softness in his rough rasp. It had haunted the better part of the last 14, 15 or so years. Dreams, nightmares. 

You were so close to breaking free of the bar without him seeing you - but that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. In his quiet calm, he was always watching. 

...bringing yourself to raise your eyes to him was the hardest thing you’d ever had to do. To his warm, humoured honey ones, his grin just melted you like it always had. So much about him had changed, the moustache you were perplexed about. Some faint scars marred his handsome face that you didn’t recall but they certainly didn’t look new (even if new to you). They gave him a light ruggedness, maturing him. But you could only compare him to the senior in college, eagerly awaiting his acceptance into the Naval Academy. 

And he was big. Taller, broader, stronger. BIG. 

And white certainly was his shade. He chewed his lower lip, and you were reminded of the charming boy who left you all those years ago. The man now before you who didn’t even know he had changed the course of your life.

"Hello, Bradley," you finally said, and he stood to height, the recognition in your voice as you tried to keep his gaze. His tongue tracked his upper lip and he finally smiled, not the smug arrogance on display as he and his team ponied in earlier, but the sweet genuineness that was simply Bradley. 

"Hi," he swallowed. "Been a long time," he reckoned. 

"Yeah," you agreed. 

"Looks like time has been good to you," he said, low, appreciatively.

And you laughed as he visibly relaxed, the flirt enough to break you. You weren't sure if he was trying anything, but the air was finally making it to your lungs. 

"You still livin' around here?" 

You gave a soft nod. "Yeah." 

"I'm just in town a few days," he admitted as you nodded. "I - my team and I - were just promoted. Lieutenant Commander."

"This why you're all dressed up - or were?"

"My whites?" he asked.

"I saw you come in."

"And yet you tried to sneak out before you said hi," he teased.

"I'm sorry," you admitted. "But congrats on your promotion. Kind of a big deal?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "Kind of." 

Hearing the knocks on the glass, his attention was demanded back inside. Relief swept through you as he shooed them away with a swift flick of the bird and they howled inside but left him to his devices.

"How about coffee this weekend? It would be great to catch up," Bradley pressed. "Find out what you've been up to. Husband, family, work. All that stuff."

"Ha," your voice faltered. "I'm pretty sure it's nowhere near as exciting as yours," you forced a laugh, and he really didn't seem to take the hint. His pout at your near rejection only seemed to spur him on further.

"One coffee and I'll get back on the boat and be out of your life forever," his lips quirked, and you remembered how you felt when he made that face without the moustache. He could get away with a lot then, just like he was getting away with it now. "Look... here's my number," he urged, holding out this hand as you sighed and unlocked your phone to enter the digits. You saw how he'd saved it.

Bradley Bradshaw (a big deal?). You had to laugh as he winked, relieved for the smile that crossed your features but you weren't sure if he was offended or not when you didn't offer yours in reply. 

"Kind of a big deal," you confirmed with a giggle, those nerves bubbling under the surface rapidly now. He shrugged, the cheekiness of the boy you knew still evident in the man before you.

"Text me if you wanna catch up. I wanna hear about what you've been up to since graduation all those years ago. I fly back to Virginia Tuesday."

"Fleeting."

"Very much," he agreed. Sighing (with relief, but Bradley would never catch that), your Uber was right before you. He moved around you to open the passenger door. "Been a long time..."

"Longer than you know," you admitted, slipping into the car and he carefully closed the door behind you as the driver recalled your address and you left Bradley Bradshaw for what you hoped was the last time. 

Your fingers itched to delete his number, but all you had to do was get through the next few days without the temptation to text him and it would be fine. 

Life would go on and he's sail off into the sunset again like he promised.

Home ten or so minutes later, you made a beeline for upstairs. The bedroom door closed and silent from the other side. You pushed your way in quietly, the room dark, and you sat on the side of the bed, your hands drifting to the mess of dirty dark blonde curls splayed across your daughter's pillow as she read on her phone with her earphones on.

"Hi, sweetheart," you whispered, gently pushing back a tendril on your daughter's forehead. "Bedtime?" you suggested as she shrugged. Ahh, teens. You kissed her forehead before standing and leaving her room, your beautiful girl protected under the snuggly covers. 

You didn't know how you were going to tell her that you saw her father tonight. After all these years and radio silence, doing what you could to protect her from the hurt you knew you'd caused by keeping this very real secret from Bradley. 

"Shit," you muttered, wandering the hallway to your bedroom, your nerves shot, hot tears threatening and everything you'd done so well protecting to now... about to shatter into a million pieces with the return of Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw.

masterlist.

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

#my father's eyes #rooster #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw #dadley dadshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster fanfic #rooster imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #top gun rooster #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #the bradshaws #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun #notroosterbradshaw

[fdelopera]

Exactly, Anon. Exactly. This is why the Ivy League Universities being turned into Hamasnik terrorist bases is so horrifying. Especially with Jew-hating students attacking Jewish students and professors on campus, with the Universities' sanction. The Universities could shut these Jew-hate riots down. The fact that they don't shows that they want them to continue. They're trying to chase away the Jewish students and professors from these schools. That's always the first step. That's what the Nazis did first, too.

This article is taken from the US Holocaust Memorial Museum website. I highly recommend that everyone read the whole article. But even if you read the first paragraph, you'll see the parallels to what is happening on Ivy League campuses today:

.

After Adolf Hitler was appointed German Chancellor in January 1933, the new Nazi government began an effort to completely reorder public and private life in Germany. 

The Nazi regime quickly targeted German universities—among the most elite in the world at the time—for restructuring according to Nazi principles. While the Nazi Ministry of Education initiated reforms, local Nazi organizations and student activists worked to bring Nazi ideals to German campuses. These forces, along with increasing antisemitism under Nazi rule, transformed everyday life at German universities. Throughout this period, students, faculty, and staff made individual decisions that both upheld and opposed Nazi ideology.

With the passage of the "Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service" in 1933, most Jewish professors in Germany were dismissed from their positions. Others, such as Professor Eugen Mittwoch, were able to keep their posts temporarily only due to the political value of their research. After purging Jewish and "politically undesirable" faculty, the regime then targeted the student body with the "Law Against Overcrowding in Schools and Universities." As German authorities continued to "Aryanize" German universities, Jews increasingly lost the opportunity to teach or study. Many non-Jewish Germans sought to benefit from their persecution. 

The daily business of university life continued in the wake of these new policies, but political concerns increasingly influenced the way professors and students worked and studied. The practice of denunciation, as demonstrated by the "Request for the Investigation of Professor Hans Peters," illustrates the danger posed to both students and faculty if they failed to follow new ideological norms. Those willing to voice support for the new regime—whether out of enthusiasm or practicality—often received promotions or other rewards. Meanwhile, many others quietly accepted the new policies and passively benefited from the persecution of their Jewish peers. Very few, such as the small student group in Munich known as the White Rose, took any significant action to resist the Nazi dictatorship.

The Nazi government and its supporters manipulated several aspects of the country's traditional university system to turn German higher education into a crucial source of support for the new regime. For example, the German student population had been largely male long before the Nazi rise to power, and German campuses were dominated by fraternities.  Those organizations maintained traditional military discipline and dress codes, and their alumni groups exercised significant political power both before and after 1933. Fraternities—often working with the Student Council and Nazi Student League—served  as a powerful and violent force for implementing Nazi principles at universities, often going beyond the party platform in their radicalism. A Report on the Camaraderie House for Female Students of Göttingen shows how Nazi student groups used the format of traditional student organizations to train both men and women to become the next generation of Nazi leaders.

Although the regime could rely on many committed student activists, the Third Reich also sought the support of German professors to lend legitimacy to their policies. Because German universities were state institutions, professors' academic careers became vulnerable to the whims and wishes of the Nazi state. While only a small minority of professors had been Nazi Party members before 1933, several prominent professors quickly voiced their support for the Third Reich. In the new German university, political loyalty was valued over academic ability in the assessment of students and in the selection and promotion of professors. Authorities infused university classrooms with Nazi ideology—as shown in the document, "Foundation of the Advanced School of the German Reich". But prioritizing politics over academics affected the quality of German higher education. 

Nevertheless, professors—even enthusiastic supporters of the new regime—often spoke out against some aspects of Nazi policy. The case of Eduard Kohlrausch shows how his opposition to  student-led book burnings caused his removal from the university administration. Dissent against individual policies, however, did not give rise to any concerted resistance movements. German universities as a whole formed a solid base of support for the Nazi regime, contributing valuable knowledge to the development of technology for the war effort as well as logistical support for the Holocaust.

The Nazification of universities overwhelmed the daily lives of students with new requirements, including mandatory lectures, physical exercises, labor duties, and political assemblies. Many students resented those requirements, even if they supported the Nazi Party. In Heidelberg, for example, where the daily life of students was dominated by political instruction and mandatory physical training, large numbers of students withdrew from the university in search of other educational opportunities. As illustrated in the "Memo Regarding Maria-Elisabeth Koch," students also showed varying degrees of enthusiasm for the labor service that was often required of them in territories occupied by Nazi Germany.

The Nazi government's project of remaking German universities was broadly successful, but it produced unintended consequences. The quality of education suffered significantly as classes were regularly cancelled for political assemblies and students' schedules became filled with ideological and paramilitary training. Moreover, purging Jewish faculty deprived German universities of valuable expertise. Within a few years, many observers in Germany and abroad became deeply skeptical about the quality of German higher education in the Third Reich. Propaganda efforts such as the Carl Schurz tour for American professors and students—documented with a slickly produced video—did not prevent protest. The 550th-anniversary celebration of Heidelberg University met with opposition in Europe, even while prominent American universities such as Harvard accepted invitations.

With the defeat of the Third Reich in 1945, Allied forces occupying Germany began a long-term effort to remove the influence of Nazi ideology in German society. Many German academics who made significant contributions to the Nazi war effort fled to the United States, where they lived comfortable lives and their expertise was highly valued by American universities and the US military. In postwar Germany, many faculty and students who had benefited from the Nazis' discriminatory policies without being especially vocal or enthusiastic supporters of the regime sought to cast their dissent or their silence as forms of political resistance to obscure their own complicity. Although many Germans denied having supported the Nazi regime, antisemitism persisted in postwar Germany. The case of Hermann Budzislawski shows the difficulties encountered by the relatively few German Jews who decided to return to Germany after World War II.

Sources in this collection document the choices facing students and faculty pursuing their everyday lives in the shadow of Nazism and the Holocaust. Over the course of this period, as antisemitic discrimination escalated to mass murder, the higher education system proved to be a source of support—rather than opposition—to the party's project of remaking German society.

#jumblr #jewish history #the goyim are trying to speedrun the 1930s #goyim have always naively asked “How could the Nazi regime have murdered 6 million Jews??” - and now they're giving us the answer #Jew-hate makes you stupid #NOTE: I report and block antisemites. Any antisemites who comment on this post will be reported and blocked. You have been warned.

[musingsofalovelymillenial]

Non and Kru Keng!

Dead Friend Forever Ep 7 - extended opinion ( long-ish post)

Trigger Warnings : Sexual abuse, sexual coercion, grooming, etc. 

Since episode 7 aired I have been appalled at the number of posts I have seen regarding Non and Keng and Non’s behavior. Before I dive into ( and yes this is me letting out my anger regarding things I have seen) I want to provide some background that is also a basis for my personal opinion.  I also want to state that while I truly believe everyone is titled to their own opinion there are certain things that are wrong and should not be romanticized/glossed over.

My professional background is in psychology, social work and human service ( dealing with abuse and domestic violence)

My personal background also makes what is happening to Non even harder to watch. Episodes 5, 6 and 7 took me a while to get through and resulted honestly in needing to detach for a while. I grew up attending middle school and high school in an area where most of the students attending my schools were wealthy. During that time I and my friends experienced severe bullying for being poor and for not living the way everyone else did. For context we lived 20 minutes away from our school where almost everyone lived surrounding the school and we lived in a trailer park and even though our bus was overcrowded all the trailer park children rode one bus. We as a group were constantly in trouble even when we did nothing wrong, our vice principal called us trailer trash to our faces on our bus and the kids at school were cruel and treated us like we were disgusting and not good enough. When we were “lucky” enough to be invited to their houses we were watched more than the other kids and we were not treated the same way by the parents compared to their fellow friends from the same income level.  We were taught by everyone around us that we should be and were inferior ( we were not!).  During this time there was also one of my bullies who everyday would not only verbally harass me but sexually harass me at my locker and the worst part at the time was that there were either the kids that ignored that it was happening or the kids who laughed. I can't speak for my few friends at the time but what made all this worse was because school was not the only place I had problems. At home my father was an alcoholic and on any given day my house was a cocktail mixture of verbal abuse, emotional abuse, and domestic violence. After a while I not only started feeling sick a lot but I eventually stopped going to school and would stay home “sick” to avoid school ( both my parents worked so I would be alone during the day). Around this time was really when I developed anxiety, depression and for the first time battled with suicidal thoughts. This went on for a long time. When things finally had their culminating point of me finally opening up at least about what was happening at school. My mom was the first person to ask me and later as an adult in therapy my therapist also asked why did I never tell anyone what was happening to me? The answer was truly simple, complex but simple. I did not want to burden anyone. I told my mom she already dealt with so much because of my father and how he treated us that I did not want to add one more burden to her already full plate. I felt that if I could just handle it on my own it would be fine, eventually it would stop or these people who were cruel would just give up. I also felt ashamed and disgusted by what was happening. I also told my therapist (as an adult looking back on that time) that why would I tell anyone when the kids in the hallway made it clear they did not care and the adults ( teachers and office staff) who I should have been able to trust made it clear they did not like us either simply because of where we live and our income level.  

Now back to Dead Friend Forever

Here are the definitions for Abuse of Power, Sexual Coercion and Grooming.

Abuse of power is when someone misuses their authority or higher position in a hierarchy to take advantage of, coerce or harm other people. And it can lead to different types of abuse, such as psychological, physical, financial and sexual abuse.

Sexual coercion is using pressure or influence to get someone to agree to sex. People can knowingly coerce others into sex, such as learning manipulative pick-up artist strategies, or unknowingly, such as assuming the other person is OK when they're not.

Grooming is a tactic where someone methodically builds a trusting relationship with a child or young adult, their family, and community to manipulate, coerce, or force the child or young adult to engage in sexual activities.

More information about grooming:

Because they were groomed, children and teens who were abused often feel that they were in some way responsible for the abuse. This is especially true for teens who feel that they went into the situation willingly and thus in some way it was their fault. This shame and guilt then prevents them from reporting, as they fear that no one will believe them. In fact, many teens who have been groomed are confused as to whether what happened to them actually constituted abuse as it didn’t follow the stereotypical pattern of a violent rape. In many cases this confusion can prevent or delay reporting for many years.

Non was groomed and then sexually assaulted regardless whether it seemed like he consented. Let me say it louder for the people in the back! 

Kru Keng sexually assaulted Non! He did not ”cheat” on Phee. Did he lie to Phee yes, but he did not cheat in the stereotypically what we as a society view cheating. 

the signs or steps of grooming with examples from the episode: 

Make you feel like you owe them. Because you are in a relationship, because you’ve had sex  before or because they give/spend money on you or because you go home with them they are owed for these behaviors.

We see Keng offer Non a ride home and he then offers him money to get out of his situation. We don’t see him doing these things with other students.

Victim Selection: abusers often observe possible victims and select them based on ease of access to them or their perceived vulnerability. 

Keng clocks that Non is vulnerable the first time he is in the study class and even looks back at him after scolding Top and asking Non for his name. We see this through the several times he brings up how Non is having friend problems or how he doesn't want to work with Tee, and Non unfortunately mentions how just knowing someone cares makes him feel better which makes Keng even more aware of how alone Non seems to be. 

Gaining access and isolating the victim: abusers will attempt to physically or emotionally separate a victim from those protecting them and often seek out positions in which they have contact with minors. 

Keng has perfect access as a math tutor/teacher to have contact with minors.  Also he always has Non come to his office or meet him alone despite the fact that his office is in a seemingly more isolated place than the classrooms.

Trust development and keeping secrets: abusers attempt to gain trust of victims through gifts, sharing secrets, etc.

Keng not only praises Non as a student but also then tells him things like I want to help you anyway I can, I noticed that you are sad, I can give you money to help you because I view you like a brother, I now know your secret regarding Tee and the money so I am someone you can trust.

Desensitization to touch : abusers will often start to touch a victim in ways that appear harmless and later escalate to increasingly more sexual contact. 

Keng touches Non’s shoulder seemingly to comfort him, the next time he is holding his hand, then he is holding his hand on his knee and rubbing the back of his hand. All these on their own could be innocent and seem like comfort or being friendly. Until Keng kisses Non crossing that line and leading directly to assaulting him. 

Attempt by abusers to make their behavior seem natural: to avoid raising suspicions. For teens who may be particularly close in age to the abuser it can be hard to recognize grooming tactics. 

I feel for Non because we see how he is not happy and is actually crying when he hugs Phee the first time when Keng kisses him and then we see him come down to meet Phee. Also Non is trapped in a situation where he is being manipulated and being taken advantage of and sees little to no way out of this financial mess with the money laundering. We, as an audience, saw the fight with his family after where his mother says she is embarrassed because of him and says to Non’s father that if he weren’t a loser then Non wouldn’t be one too. Non very much is receiving a message whether she meant it or not because emotions were high is irrelevant. Non is receiving the message that he is a burden and an embarrassment. Non is aware of his family's financial situation as well. We see him say it to Phee several times about how he wants to solve his own problems and he does not want to burden people. I do not think Non lied to Phee because he wanted to, I think he did it because not only would it put another thing on Phee’s shoulders after he already went to his dad once for Non but also puts Non in a vulnerable position. I personally was asked many times by people oh are you okay? Are you sure everything is good because you look upset? And everytime I lied because I didn't want to be a burden but I also never wanted to look at myself as a victim or admit that I was a victim because that bit of fragile control on my life was one of the only things I could control. And as an adult I have had the chance to talk to some people I knew at the time and they all told me they knew I was lying about being okay or even though I cried and then would say I was fine, I wasn’t. But they all felt like if they pushed me to talk I would never tell them and my one friend said point blank at least I could make you forget about it for a while even if I didn’t really know what you wanted a distraction from. I 100% feel this is exactly what is Non’s perspective. He cannot control how Por, Tee, Top, Fluke and even Jin treat him. He cannot control how his parents view him. He cannot control Phee or Phee’s decisions to love or help him. He cannot control Keng. He cannot take back getting involved with Tee and the money laundering or the consequences of that. What Non can control is how he feels or what he takes control of. Non can control whether he views himself as a victim. He can also control whether he finishes the movie that he wrote the script for. The movie and script are something he did, they come from him and are something at the end of the day regardless of anyone else he Non can be proud of. I think while we may not view his staying with the group healthy and it's not, or his lying to Phee about things that are happening good cause it’s not; it makes sense to Non. Because again he is a teenager who is vulnerable and easily exploitable and has very little control and teenagers whose brains are not fully developed are making not only decisions they think are best or worst at the time but also making decisions based on what they know at that moment.  Seeing people who are watching this show and who are hating on Non or do not understand what happened between Non and Keng infuriate me. Should we all feel bad for Phee? Yes. He wants to be there for Non, he loves him and wants to care , on top of knowing that Non is being bullied and seeing what Keng did has to be heartbreaking and frustrating. Also without context to their conversations Phee as a fellow teenager may not be aware or understand fully what Keng did to Non is not on Non. 

You can feel bad for Phee without victim blaming Non.

Non made poor choices regarding his trust with Phee or his ability to trust Phee but none of those things mean that he deserved what happened or that because it seems like he consented that it is all just fine and he cheated on Phee and had sex with Keng. 

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk!! 

#dead friend forever #dff the series #barcode tinnasit #be on cloud #copper phuriwat #dff spoilers #fuaiz thanawat #jj chalach #jjay patiphan #mio athens #bl series #ta nannakun #bump pawat #jet jetsadakorn #us nititorn #pheenon #dead friend forever the series #dff

[beskarandblasters]

Looking Out For You

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Summary: You rarely help Din grab his bounties but this time is different. Din’s next bounty brings him to Coruscant to the Outlander Club where he might require your help…

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, established business relationship between you and Din, creepy guy at the club, fingering, vaginal sex, semi public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, slight degradation, possessiveness, jealousy

“No. Absolutely not,” Din says, folding his arms. 

“Aw come on. Why not??” you protest. 

“Do you really think I’m going to willingly put you in a dangerous situation?”

You sighed. Din just got his next bounty from Greef Karga. This time you were on Coruscant and you would be going to a nightclub. And not just any nightclub, the Outlander Club in the Uscu Entertainment District. The bounty is a bartender there so a Mandalorian in full beskar strolling in there would not be discreet. So you offered to lure the bounty away from the bar where Din would be waiting to strike. 

“Din, if you go in there your intentions are going to be extremely transparent. You need to go a more inconspicuous route,” you say shrugging.

He lets out a long, modulated sigh, sounding exasperated. 

“Fine, but I’m not happy about it,” he says, lowering the exit ramp of the Crest and stepping out onto the docking bay. 

“So… if we want to make this believable I’m going to need some clothes that are more believable,” you say, gesturing to your t-shirt, cargo pants and lace up boots. You know, clothes that don't really scream nightclub. 

“Alright, we’ll get you some new clothes. Let’s take a turbo lift down to the Lower Market District and see what’s there,” he says. 

He led you to the edge of the docking bay towards the turbo lift. You both step inside and start descending several levels, looking out at the vast sea of skyscrapers, people and speeders around you. You don’t know how you feel about Coruscant. It’s a marvel of technology and breathtaking at night. But it’s also overcrowded and full of nefarious activities right under the Republic’s nose. It’s a complicated place.

You reach your stop at the Lower Market Districts and step out of the turbo lift onto the busy street. The Lower Market Districts are full of people hustling, looking to make a quick credit, cutting deals and just trying to make ends meet. They sell just about everything here from clothes, creatures, and food down to illegal goods. There was even a droid spa. You and Din were weaving in and out of the different shops and stalls, looking for clothes and dodging aggressive salesmen. Finally you stumble upon a shop that sells women’s clothes. You gaze at the shop window, looking at all of the short skirts and dresses they sell. 

“I think this will do?” you say, turning to look at Din. 

“Whatever you want. I’ll wait out there but take these,” he says, handing you credits.

“Thanks. I won’t be too long,” you reply. 

He gives you a slight tip of the helmet and with that you walk towards the shop door. It automatically slides open and you step inside. You start to glance around at your options. They’re beautiful dresses for sure but nothing you’re used to wearing typically. The woman at the back counter looks up from the holo-pad in front of her and notices you.

“Ah hello miss! Is there anything I can help you find?”

“I’m just browsing but thank you,” you respond.

She comes out from behind the counter and steps towards you. 

“Shopping for any event in particular?”

You didn’t really know what to say. It’s not like you can tell her the truth; that you’re going to act as bait to help your bounty hunter partner. 

“Girl’s night out!,” you lie. 

“Well then let me show you our selections over here,” she says, leading you to a rack of clothes a little past the back counter. 

“I think you’ll find something here. Let me know if you need any help!” she says before returning to the counter. 

You thumb through the different dresses hanging up, mentally noting a few potential options until you find the dress. It’s a little short but that was to be expected. It has thin straps and gathers at the waist, fanning out slightly at the bottom. It’s the perfect color to compliment your eyes and your hair color. And it has pockets. You decide that you’ll get it and some strappy sandals you see on the shelf behind the rack. You go up to the counter to pay and the woman says “What great choice! This is definitely your color. Have fun tonight!” You give her a small wave as you leave and head outside to meet Din. 

“Ready?” he asks. You give him a nod and the two of you start walking back to the turbo lift. After the trip up the docking bay, you walk to the Crest and step inside to start getting ready. You hop in the refresher and do your hair and makeup. Once you’re ready you step out of the refresher to find Din holding a comlink. 

“Here-“ he starts before cutting himself off. You see the visor on his helmet trail up and down your form before snapping himself out of it and continuing his thought. “It’s a comlink. It’ll always be on. That way if something goes wrong I can come right to you,” he says, holding it out to you. 

“Thanks,” you say, slipping it into one of the dress pockets and feeling a blush creep to your cheeks. 

“Let’s go over a plan. You’re going to go into the club and head to the bar. His name is Maro. Order a drink from him and talk him up. Karga said there will be a shift change. After he gets off his shift lead him outside to the back alley where I’ll be waiting.”

“Sounds good. Are you ready to go?”

He nods and you head down the exit ramp and through the docking bay, making the same trek you made earlier except this trip would be longer to get to the Uscu Entertainment District. The journey was silent. You could feel the glare of Din’s visor practically burning a hole into you as he snuck quick glances at you. 

Finally you arrive at the Uscu Entertainment District. A seedy place full of people and neon lights. You start to feel nervous for a second. This type of place isn’t your typical scene but you know it’s only temporary; only to get the job done. 

Before you come upon the Outlander Club, Din stops you and places a hand on your shoulder. 

“You’ve got this. I’ll be in the back alley listening the whole time. As soon as you get him to the back alley I’ll take it from there.”

“Got it,” you nod, the braveness you were feeling before subsiding. 

He rounds the corner and you watch him disappear into the crowd. You take a deep and head towards the club, stopping to gaze at the sign above it written in Aurebesh. You go inside and it's an instant sensory overload. It’s packed full of people drinking, dancing, betting on pod-racing and grav-ball, and dealing drugs. You can feel the music vibrating every bone in your body. The smell of smoke and alcohol hangs heavily in the air. There’s a plethora of creatures of various species everywhere from workers and clubgoers. You spot the bar in the middle of the club and head there, dodging dancers and drunk people in the process. You hop up on one of the bar stools and scope out the bartenders. There’s two men. They’re both wearing name tags but they’re too far away for you to read them. One of them must’ve caught you squinting because he starts making his way towards you.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

You read his nametag, also written in Aurebesh. Maro. That’s him.

“Uh yeah. Can I get a Bespin Fizz?”

He looks down to the low cut top of your dress and then back up at you. Ew.

“Anything for a lovely lady like you. Be right back,” he says, with a wink.

Ugh. It’s going to be so hard to flirt with him. 

He comes back with your drink, a deep red color with a cloud of steam.

“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip.

“So, what does a pretty girl like you do in a place like this?”

“Uh, I was supposed to meet some friends but I think they bailed on me,” you lie.

“What a shame. If I had plans with you, I’d never bail.”

“You’re too kind,” you say. He doesn’t seem to react much answer so you turn up the charm.

“Let’s see how tonight goes and maybe we can make those plans happen,” you say, smirking before taking another sip of your drink.

“I like the sound of that. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

You give him a vague story about how you work as a mechanic at a docking bay here on Coruscant. At least it wasn’t a complete lie. He tells you about his life, born and raised here on Coruscant, just started working as a bartender a few months ago. It makes you wonder what he did before he started working here. Surely, something that warranted a bounty being placed on his head…

“I’ve had such a great time talking to you and I don’t want it to end. My shift is done in forty minutes if you want to take this elsewhere…” he says, an eerie tone to his voice. 

“Yeah sure,” you smile.

He smiles back at you and leaves to tend to other customers. You take a deep breath. It’ll all be okay. As soon as you get him to the alley Din will take over. 

You watch him mix drinks for other customers and every time he catches you looking at him, he smirks or winks at you. Ugh. You can’t wait for this to be over. You pass the time by ordering more drinks, figuring you’ll need off the alcohol you can get to get through this. You think about Din in the back alley, listening to all of this over the comlink. You wonder what he’s thinking. He was against this idea in the first place.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when you feel a presence behind you, whispering against your ear.

“Ready to leave, gorgeous?” Maro asks.

You were so lost in your thoughts you didn’t even notice him leave from behind the bar. 

“Sure, let me just pay.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s all taken care of,” he says, placing a hand on your thigh.

“Thanks,” you say, hopping down from the stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

You walk to the front of the club and leave, with Maro slipping an arm around your waist; his hand getting dangerously low…

You start walking towards the corner you left Din at; the one that leads to the alley behind the club. You let him paw at you and squeeze your waist as you walk. Once you come upon the corner that leads to the alley you stop.

“You want to do it here?” Maro says, gesturing to the alley. “I’m not going to complain.”

You ignore his comment and grab his hand, leading him further down the dark alley and hoping to find Din soon. Without warning, he presses you against a building and starts making out with you. He’s annoying but at least he’s a good kisser. You feel his hand graze up your thigh and an involuntary moan slips out of your lips. He deepens the kiss more and grabs one of your hands and places it over the bulge over his pants. 

But before it can continue any further you hear the sound of something being knocked over. Both of you stop and search for the source of noise. You see a trash can by a dumpster lying on the ground. Still not comfortable enough to resume kissing, Maro scans the alley even more looking for the cause of the fallen trash can. Din steps out from the dumpster and before he can even pull out his blaster Maro is sprinting for his life away from you shouting about how he was set up. The kid was actually pretty fast. And Din was standing there doing nothing, not bothering to pursue him.

You turn to Din and shout, “What did you do that for?! We almost had him!”

He’s silent, taking a step towards you. You fold your arms over your chest. 

“Well?! Why did you do that?” you press further.

“...I was just looking out for you. I didn’t like where that was going.”

“You could’ve just grabbed him. I had him distracted.”

“I don’t care about the bounty anymore. Just you,” he says, taking another step towards you so that you’re pressed against the building again.

“Don’t you understand how hard that was; to listen to you two flirt with each other while I couldn’t do anything about it.”

He hand grazes up your thigh under your dress, getting close and closer to your center. His gloved fingers trace your warm sex, which was rapidly getting wet.

“I bet only I can make you wet like this,” he continues, parting your lips with his fingers and working circles around your clit. 

“Oh Din,” you moan. That drives him crazy.

“Yeah that’s it, mesh’la. Say my name.”

You moan his name again and spread your legs slightly. He takes the opportunity to plunge a finger inside you, pumping in and out. The skirt of your dress rides up more, leaving your thighs exposed. More small moans and whimpers slip out of you as he slides another finger in, applying pressure to that perfect spot inside you. Your orgasm washes over you as your pussy clenches and convulses around Din’s fingers. You feel the heat swell inside you as you come down from your orgasm. He pulls his fingers out of you and slips his cock out of his flight suit, already hard. He slides your juices from his hand up and down his cock. And in one swift motion he’s picking you up slightly, pressing you against the wall and sliding his cock inside you, splitting you apart. The sensation has you going fucking insane because you practically cry out Din’s name. 

“Better be quiet unless you want someone to catch us,” he growls before slamming into you once again.

You physically can’t make yourself be quiet. Your moans grow louder and louder, as he slams his hips against you, his cock practically hitting your cervix. 

“Din. Din please I can’t be quiet,” you moan against him and he relentlessly fucks you against the wall.

“I bet you watch someone to catch us you filthy girl. You want someone else to see how good you take my cock??”

You’ve never seen him like this at all. But you’re not complaining. He slams into you more as he drives his cock further and further into. You feel like you’re being split open at this point. But it feels so good. You’re entirely blissed out, getting drunk off the feeling of his hard cock pressed against your g-spot. Your moans are becoming incessant and it’s making Din absolutely feral. 

“You like that, mesh’la? You like when I pound you like this?”

All you can do is whine. One of his hands makes its way to your hair and you say, “Yes, Din. It’s so good. I’m getting close,” you moan, near tears at this point.

“Let me have it, mesh’la. Let me feel that pretty pussy cum on my cock.”

The combination of him saying that and his cock plowing into you sends you over the edge. You feel your entire lower half tense up and then release, sending you into pure euphoria as he continues to fuck you through it.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. Ride it out for me.”

Your pussy flutters around Din’s cock, also sending him over the edge. His cock convulses before coating your inside in his warm release. He continues fucking you through it until he goes soft. He slides out of you and sets you back down the ground. And at this point you’re a sweaty, trembling mess.

You’re both silent for a moment, catching your breath and coming down from your high. You speak first, “Was someone jealous?” you say, a smirk evident in your voice. 

“He was trying to take what’s mine,” Din says, visor gazing down at you. “I couldn’t let that happen. I had to show you who you belong to.”

“But what about the bounty?”

“Who cares. We’ll just get another one from the guild…”

He’s silent again, gazing down at you before he whispers against your ear. “We’re never doing that again, understand? You’re mine and I’m never using you as bait again. This is for me and only me,” he says, hand gripping your chin.

“Y-yes, Din. Only you,” you say sliding the skirt of your dress back down. 

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the alley saying  “Come on, let’s go back to the Crest so you can be as loud as you want.”

You smile to yourself as you walk, excited to take his cock in multiple ways on the ship and sleep like a baby after.

End note: I had a lot of fun with this! Did y’all notice the drink from Star War’s Galaxy’s Edge in Disney? 👀 As always let me know your thoughts! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. And send me any requests you have!

Tag list: @leithatnight @readingfan @harriedandharassed @babygirlrex0504 @dreamingofdaddydin @bearsbeetsbeskar

#din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x fem!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian smut #din djarin imagine #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #Star Wars #mandalorian imagine #mando x reader #mando x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #no use of y/n #mando x you #mando x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #mandalorian x f!reader #mando x fem!reader #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

[promptthebear]

Edmund Pevensie, Soulmate AU

Part two of this

CW: Some violence but nothing super graphic. Some swearing. Serious enemies to lovers vibes. Telmar!Reader, so some physical description to match that sorry.

Cair Paravel was a testament of shining marble, fine tapestries and golden fixtures. It was the envy of many a nearby kingdom, most of whom had tried and failed to imitate its beauty. The same, however, could not be said of the dungeons.

The moment the dank, frigid air rose from behind the barred door, Edmund realized just how appealing his empty bed suddenly was. Everyone swore this part of the castle was haunted and though Edmund personally didn’t believe in such foolishness, he very much understood how those sorts of rumours came to be. He tried to stand tall and play at being courageous and stoic as he walked alongside the young guard down the winding steps, but his heart just wasn’t in it. Before long, Edmund found himself jumping at every distant sound and balking at every shadow cast in the flickering torch light, even when in fact said shadows were none other than his own.

Despite the fact that his young guard had been so anxious among the fine tapestries and clean rushes of the upstairs halls, the young man seemed completely comfortable among the dripping walls and dirt floors that created the bowels of the castle. He strode beside Edmund with an easy confidence, his grip on the torch he carried not wavering once, even when a rat ran nearly beneath his boot and announced its arrival with a piercing squeak.

When he managed to recover some of his wits and find enough voice with which to speak, Edmund asked the guard about it, more than a little curious on how such a skittish man could remain so calm in a place that left greater men shaking. By way of response, the youth merely shrugged and said “Everything that could hurt a fellow down here is already locked up, and the rats never bothered me none. S’far worse out in the forests”

While Edmund could see the guard’s side of things, he personally would have much rather been out in the forest tonight. He’d been riding those trails since he was a boy, and in that time he’d communed with all manner of creatures, magic and mundane alike. However, in his many years, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything quite like you.

Opposite to the castle in every way, the dungeons were incredibly small by the usual standard. They consisted in their entirety of three cells, while the rest of the space was mostly used as a recreational area for the various guards to play cards and the like. Usually, any prisoners awaiting trial were spread evenly between the three cells to avoid overcrowding and the potential for fights and disease to spread. That was not the case tonight, however.

Someone had taken the liberty of placing every inmate into the leftmost cell, and despite still having some room to move about or even lie down, the people locked inside had all crammed themselves into the back corner like bees in a hive. Edmund nearly thought the first cell was empty, until he caught a glimpse of several wide, fearful pairs of eyes that gleamed back at him in the ruddy torchlight. When he approached the cell to have a closer look, he was met with an eerie silence rather than the usual sighs, shuffling and coughs that occurred when you had a small crowd of people together. While Narnia was not known for housing a particularly nasty sort of criminal, the bulk of which were pickpockets and street hustlers, they were also not the type to scare easy.

Whatever was making these people frightened was bad enough that the guards had felt the need to keep the middle cell completely empty. This provided around ten more feet of space between the leftmost cell and the right most cell. Edmund stared between the middle cell and the occupied one on the left, trying to puzzle out what was so awful it had everyone this nervous. Even the guards seemed tenser than usual. They played hands of wist in almost completely silence, and had barely given Edmund a glance since he’d arrived. Normally, every soldier within spitting distance would be tripping over themselves bowing and trying to greet him.

Half expecting to find a dragon or an ogre, Edmund took a deep breath and approached the last cell. His boots made a hollow, tapping sound on the floor as he walked, each one an echo alongside the heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When he reached the padlocked door he stopped, and peered between the bars into the gloom. He could barely make out what was inside, if there was anything to begin with. An oppressive sort of darkness clung to this corner of the dungeon like cobwebs, making it nearly impossible to see anything farther than arm’s length away.

The torch that hung on the wall between centre and left cell had long since gone out. It sat, cold and forgotten in its sconce as though nobody had been willing to risk coming any closer to light it. Though it had been many years since Edmund had feared the dark, the sight of the blackened torch wasn’t a comforting one either.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the surrounded darkness, he caught his first glimpse of you. Edmund was immediately struck by the fact that, for whatever reason, someone had gone through the trouble of binding you up like a Christmas turkey. A pair of steel manacles had been clamped around your wrists, with a matching set around your ankles and a chain that looped between both so that you couldn’t sit upright properly, or move much at all really. There was also a rope twisted around your body in such a way that it bound your arms firmly to your sides, and forced your own legs to rest parallel with the legs of the wooden stool beneath you.

This set up alone would have been enough to hold back a drunken Minotaur, let alone a mere slip of a girl. Whichever one of the guards had shut you up in here clearly thought immobilizing you completely wasn’t good enough. A gag of rough spun cloth had been shoved between your lips and tied so tightly about your face, that it was tugging the edges of your mouth back towards your ears.

A bubble began to expand in Edmund’s gut, something that turned icy cold and burning hot in waves and made him feel as though he was about to be sick on the dirt floor. Memories came to the forefront of his mind, as though he had slipped into a waking nightmare. He could feel a gag against his own mouth, ropes biting at his wrists and the faint sounds of a war camp in his ears. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he had to rest his head for a moment against the cool metal bars to steady himself.

In the dark, Edmund could just make out the faint outlines of your face. He couldn’t read your expression, but he could tell that you were watching him. For a moment, he thought he detected a bit of sympathy in your eyes, a softness he didn’t expect. Then, you blinked and tossed your head in a haughty sort of manner, as though you didn’t give a shit if Edmund dropped dead right then and there.

Whatever he had seen in your eyes was quickly replaced by a steely sort of rage that seemed much more appropriate, given the circumstances. Disgusted with the situation and with himself, Edmund took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the guards.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice echoing about the otherwise silent room in a kingly fashion “You have her tied up as though she were some sort of wild animal!”

The guards stared at him dumbly, as though tying up young women was not only an ordinary occurrence for them but an entirely acceptable thing to do. Edmund took another deep breath, and bit the inside of his cheek to force back the frustrated scream that wanted to push its way out. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, it was a day that ended in y after all, and on those days, the guards always acted as though they hadn’t been born with any sense. Thankfully, the Captain stepped forward before Edmund began tearing his hair out in fistfuls.

“She may as well be, your majesty” he said, tugging at his beard while he spoke “She’s done nothing but raise hell and cause trouble since we picked her up by the docks. Screamed like a banshee the whole way down, and then flew at us like a little wildcat the second we opened the caged wagon. She’s a biter too, look what she did to one of my lads.”

From the corner of his eye, Edmund saw a young man leave the card tables and quickly approach, though the Captain had not officially summoned anyone. The soldier could have been the twin of the other guard who’d escorted Edmund from upstairs, save for the thick white bandage in place where his left ear should have been. Already, a large, dark red blotch was forming against the white cotton, and it was all Edmund could do not to flinch in sympathy.

“G’on boy, show his Majesty what’s happened.”

The boy shuffled nervously back and forth for a moment, before reaching up to unwind the bandages. It was slow work, parts of the fabric had stuck together with dried blood and with each new layer shed, the young man seemed to grow weaker and more pallid. When there was nothing left but a coil of stained cotton on the floor, Edmund took a deep breath and forced himself to have a proper look at the wound. After only a few seconds, he had to look away again, his stomach churning.

“Bloody hell.” he muttered under his breath.

The Captain gave a stiff nod in response, before placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder to hold him steady. Any colour in the boy’s face had completely drained by this point, his skin was as white as the bandages had once been and there was a sheen of sweat upon his brow. If it wasn’t for the Captain supporting him, Edmund truly doubted he would’ve been able to stand at all.

“You asked me why I had the girl locked up, your Majesty. Well, there’s your answer. Mark or no mark, I will not stand idly by and let some Telmarine harlot rip decent Narnian citizens to pieces.”

The mention of the word “mark” made Edmund’s ears prick up, but he tried to feign an appropriately sombre countenance and turned his attention to the matter at hand. Before he gave you any more thought, he had a tetchy captain and a young soldier ending the night with one less ear than he started with to worry about.

“Captain, believe me when I say your concerns are taken with the utmost severity and I will do everything within my power as Kings Justice to make sure any Telmarines remain mindful of whose land they’re docking their ships on. As for this young man, he will be given all the proper recognition and honour…once he’s been seen to by my personal physicians.”

For a moment, it seemed as though some colour returned to the lad’s cheeks, though that also could have been the torchlight playing tricks. At the very least, he managed to give Edmund a wan smile and a soft “Thank you, your Majesty” before he slumped against the Captain’s side and fell silent.

“Captain, have two of your men rouse Lucy and Tumnus. By happy circumstance, they are both here in the castle tonight. If they have any misgivings about the matter, tell them they are being summoned at my personal behest.”

The Captain gave a stiff nod in Edmund’s direction, before turning his head and letting loose a sharp whistle from between his teeth. The sound was still echoing against the stone walls when two more guards appeared. Without a word, they each slung one of the wounded soldier’s arms over their shoulders and guided him towards the exit. The Captain followed suit, stopping briefly to give some hushed instructions to another guard nearest to the door before he disappeared up the stairs.

With their direct superior gone, Edmund felt the eyes of the remaining guards immediately fall on him. As much as he wanted to let his chest drop back and slump his shoulders to regain a little comfort, he knew he must keep standing with his back rigid and his head held high. In his heart, he may have been nothing more than Edmund, a man in much deeper and much more frightened than he cared to admit. In the eyes of everyone else, however, he was still the King and would be expected to handle the current situation as such.

Sighing, he turned to the guard standing watch by the leftmost cell and cleared his throat to get the young man’s attention. The guard jumped slightly at the noise, as though Edmund had just woken him from a half sleep. It seemed an odd place to try and nap, by Edmund’s standards, but he supposed one could sleep anywhere once you were used to it.

“Your majesty?”

The guard’s voice betrayed his age, and it was all Edmund could do to keep his eyebrows from shooting up towards his hairline. If he managed to get through this without ending up in the infirmary or worse, then he’d have to have a word with the Captain about the youthfulness of his recruits.

“The keys around your belt, young sir. Give them to me, if you please.”

Despite his few years, the guard knew well enough how to take orders. Without protest, he unclipped the ring of keys from his belt loop and handed them to Edmund. They were heavier than Edmund expected, and somehow the weight of the metal in his palm was strangely reassuring.

Squaring his shoulders, he turned once more to face the rightmost cell. There hadn’t been a sound from you this entire time, and Edmund wasn’t certain if this meant you were subdued or simply lying in wait to ambush the next person stupid enough to try and approach. He only hoped that, no matter what happened, he’d be able to greet the dawn with all his extremities still attached.

You hated this country. You hated its people, it’s stinking cobblestone streets covered in horseshit, its passionless music and the bland, disgusting mush it tried to pass off as food. Most of all, you hated its idiot King and the stupid way he was looking at you.

You’d made it clear, or so you thought, that the next Narnian fool who came near you did so at the risk of his own well-being. And yet, here sat the King, no more than a foot or so away from you, hunched over on a simple wood stool and studying you like you were some sort of oddity in a menagerie. You glared back, wanting nothing more than to wrench free of your bindings and claw at his eyes so the last thing he’d ever see was the rage on your face. But those thrice damned guards had tied you up so tight you scarce had room to breathe. Not only was this a country of fools, but cowards as well, it seemed.

“I’m going to take this gag off your mouth now, and then we’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

His words were a command, but the way he said it implied a question, as though you would give him an answer even if you could. It was all you could do not to roll your eyes. Even those with absolute power were spineless here, issuing their commands as though they required permission for them to be followed. If such a man tried to rule in Telmar, they’d be knocked on their arse and trampled by someone more capable who’d take their place in the blink of an eye.

When the King reached to remove the gag, your eyes immediately locked on his hands. You watched them with a frevored sort of intensity, preparing to use all the agility dipping into pockets and running cup and ball scams had taught you in your years on the street. As soon as you felt the knot around the back of your head loosen, you struck.

Your teeth closed around the flesh of the King’s wrist, and you clamped down hard on his forearm so he could not wrench free without causing further damage. You were rewarded with a yelp, a loud clear sound that reminded you of a pup being kicked. The taste of blood, thick and coppery, filled your mouth but you held fast despite your stomach twisting in disgust. It was only when the King brought his fist down sharply on the crown of your head and made white stars dance across your vision that you finally released him.

He staggered backwards, clutching your gag to his wounded arm and staring at you with wide eyes that betrayed a different sort of wound inside him. You wanted to laugh, but the bile in your mouth turned any sort of noise into a half choked gurgle. Clearing your throat, you turned your head to the side and spat onto the stone floor. The King’s blood turned the grey flagstone a pretty shade of pink.

“You vicious little bitch”

Surprise, fresh and delightful, tingled down your spine. Now that was unexpected. When you betrayed the King’s trust, at the least you figured he’d draw back and sulk like the Narnian dog he was. Instead, he was paying you back with the same coin, striking at you with his words as you had struck him just now. Perhaps there was more lion in him than you thought.

“Why would you do that?”

The commanding tone he’d lacked earlier had finally appeared. Despite the fact that he was dishevelled, bleeding and standing as far away from you as he could in these cramped quarters, this young man was actually starting to resemble someone you could recognize as a King. The fact that you’d managed to goad him into such a state so quickly pleased you immensely, and you couldn’t help but grin widely back at him.

“Because I hate you” you replied, almost cheerfully.

“Yeah, I gathered as much” he shot back, royal courtesy completely forgotten “But I’m only trying to help.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for it, and you’re a stranger who’s touching me without my say while I’m in a vulnerable position. Anyone else would have done the same.”

What the King said next made your shit eating grin falter slightly in place. Narnians had always confused you, but it seemed this one was playing a different game entirely.

“You’re…you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without your consent. Are you feeling alright? How’s your head? I’m sorry I struck you.”

You stared at him as though he had sprouted wings and a tail. You were the one who had bitten him, hard enough that he was bleeding through the strip of fabric he was clutching to his arm. He must be hurting terribly, and yet he was asking after your welfare, and apologizing no less.

“I’m…fine.” you said, flatly, keeping your eyes trained away from his face “I’ve…you didn’t hit me that hard.”

“The fact that I hit you at all is unforgivable. May I have a closer look? If you’re injured, you really should be seen to by someone.”

You nodded, forcing your expression into a stern mask so as not to betray your confusion. This sort of treatment was completely alien to you, in your world kindness was for those who didn't have to worry about having crusts of bread snatched from their open mouths. It was a luxury only afforded to royalty and their ilk, like spices and fresh fruit.

When the King came to approach you again, he did so with slow, measured steps. At first, you thought it was because he was trying to avoid jostling his arm around. But, as you watched his lithe frame move through the ring of golden light from the torch he’d brought in earlier, realization hit.

He was frightened. Of you.

Immediately, your heart shot into your throat and your stomach dropped into the bowels of the Earth. You swallowed, hard, and turned your face away, pretending as though you were fascinated by the flickering shadows on the far wall. They danced like living things, their movements smooth and natural, and a part of you wished you could somehow join them.

You wanted nothing more than to slip your bonds and melt away into the shadows, but it was the stone in your gut you wished to escape, not the chains about your wrists. On the Talmoren streets, feelings were another luxury that you had little use for. Guilt was as new to you as kindness, and right away you misliked the acrid taste it brought into your mouth. In your twenty five years on the Talmoren streets, you’d stolen, lied, and cheated all in the name of survival. Those sins weighed no more on your heart than a raindrop would on the ocean. You’d done far worse to better men, and yet this Narnian wretch who you’d known for maybe an hour or more had your mind twisting itself in knots. Why?

The sound of the stool scraping against the stone floor drew you from your thoughts. You watched as the King righted his stool from the floor, and set it down across from you, though closer than it had been. He sat upon it with a deep sigh, and began to wrap his wounded arm with the linen gag.

The closeness allowed you a better look at the injury, which had already started to mottle purple and red with bruises around the edge. It made for a stark contrast against the King’s creamy, pale skin. An angry red flower on a field of snow.

You’d seen many similar hurts in your lifetime, some which you’d caused while others had been inflicted on you. Almost always, they resulted in a scar, the phantom outline of teeth remaining long after the open sores had closed up.

“You’ll need an apothecary for that, and a potion of honey and turmeric.” you blurted suddenly.

The King looked up at you, not even bothering to hide his startled expression. Something about the way his brown eyes widened and his lips formed a sort of rosebud shape was oddly endearing.

“Turmeric? I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. This was a country of idiots, after all.

“It’s a root, from a plant. Usually it’s sold in a powder, but fresh is best. Turmeric draws any illness from a wound, while the honey helps it stick and will keep your skin from scarring. I have a sachet of it in my bag, provided your guards haven’t taken it for themselves.”

The King nodded in response. If your jab at his guards upset him, he didn’t show it.

“Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll make sure we retrieve that for you, and I may want to have you speak with Lucy about this herb and it’s uses. I’m sure she’ll find the information very helpful in treating that young man you attacked.”

“Who is Lucy?”

“One of my sisters, the younger one actually. I have two, you’d know them as the Queens. There’s also Susan, she’s older than both of us.”

You turned this information over in your mind, silently comparing it with the little Narnian history you knew. Prior to now, the only King here you’d known about was the one they called Peter. His face was familiar to you, simply because it was stamped on one side of the copper coins you’d stolen from drunken sailors in the dockside taverns. Nobody in Telmar had ever spoken about any other Narnian royalty, though a healthy hatred of Peter was as common as dirt.

“So…who does that make you?”

The young King seemed to find this funny, letting out a wry chuckle before he finished tying the knot in the bandage around his arm. He did so quite skilfully, you noticed, and you wondered how much practice he’d had patching up himself or his men on the battlefield. Most of the Telmarine emperors could not boast of such skills. Matters of the body and healing it were considered beneath them, and tasks of those nature were left exclusively to apothecaries and sorcerers. Perhaps less soldiers would die fighting if their leaders took the time to help them.

“I’m Edmund,” the King said, his voice oddly gentle “What’s your name?”

You told him, and he repeated it a couple times, as though he was trying to taste the sound of it on his tongue.

“It’s very pretty,” he said, finally “Now that we’ve been properly introduced, will you allow me to have a closer look at your face?”

You nodded, knowing that if you opened your mouth you’d most likely say something vicious again. Of course he could have a look, it wasn’t as though you had a lot of choice in the matter being tied down as you were.

Edmund’s fingers were soft, softer than the hands of any man you’d ever known, though you could feel some callouses on spots where his sword hilt would chafe the skin. He probed your face cautiously, going across your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose with the practiced touch of someone who had done this many times before. For the most part, his expression remained neutral as he focused on the task at hand, but you did notice his eyes narrow slightly when he came across your split bottom lip.

If he had asked about it, you would’ve quickly implicated the guard you’d bit. Though he’d had a boyish and seemingly innocent face, he’d struck you hard enough to knock your teeth together when you’d spewed a string of curses at him during your arrest. The ones directed at his mother seemed to sting in particular, but he’d quickly lost his bravado after you’d torn his ear off when he tried to slap a pair of irons on you. It had taken three other grown men to subdue you, which was hardly a fair fight even if you’d fought like a hellion. Your chest still ached terribly from where they’d pinned you down by sitting on you, and you knew you’d sport a fresh crop of bruises in the morning

Eventually, Edmund moved his hands from your face and pushed them into the curls at your temples. He went slowly, not wanting to miss even the slightest bump or cut. After a short moment or two, he’d worked his way up to the crown of your head where he’d struck you earlier on. As his fingers brushed over a sore spot, you winced in spite of yourself, which made Edmund draw back as though he’d been burnt.

“I’m sorry. You’re certainly going to have a fair sized bump there tomorrow. It shouldn’t be too serious, but I’d like to have Lucy take a look anyway, just to be safe. I shouldn’t have struck you so hard.”

You shrugged, the chains about your arms clanking as you did.

“I bit you. I suppose we could call that even.”

Edmund smiled and something long dormant in your chest fluttered. You cast your gaze downwards, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t notice the burning in your cheeks. That was when your eyes alighted on something peeking out from the edge of Edmund’s collar.

“What is it?”

He may not have caught onto your blush, but he certainly didn’t miss where your eyes had gone. You really shouldn’t have been as surprised by this as you were. Narnians were known for their skills with swords, and the ability to be observant would have been part of that training.

“You have a…there’s something on your chest.”

Edmund blinked at you in surprise, and glanced down at himself.

“Oh. My mark. Here, let me show you.”

You watched with interest as his fingers opened the line of buttons down the front of his shirt. Each one revealed another inch of clean, white skin dusted with freckles and a healthy amount of fine, brown hair. You squirmed slightly in your seat, your cheeks feeling like an inferno.

At first, you’d thought what you’d spotted was a tattoo. Only now, that you could see it in full, unobstructed view and highlighted by the nearby torch did you realize you were wrong.

What decorated Edmund’s chest was by no means a tattoo. Rather than the black or brown ink you were used to seeing, the image was outlined in a shimmering gold. Though you had never took a needle to your own skin, you had a feeling even the most skilled of artists would not have been able to recreate such a rich colour. The way it sat on Edmund’s flesh was as natural as his freckles, as though he’d been born with it.

“And the purpose of this?”

Your voice echoed around the dungeon, which had somehow grown silent save for the sound of Edmund’s breathing and the faint crackle of the torches. From the look on Edmund’s face, you had a feeling you’d asked something incredibly unusual, which only served to confuse you further. Was this a Narnian custom? The longer you looked at the mark, the more it bothered you. There was something about it that tugged at your memory, like an itch you couldn’t quite reach.

“It’s my soul mark,” Edmund said slowly, as he began to button up his shirt again “Everyone has one. Even the centaurs and ogres and merfolk. You get one when you turn eighteen. Eventually, you’re meant to meet someone who has a mark identical to yours and that person is your soulmate.”

You shivered slightly, suddenly feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over your head. This wasn’t a story you knew, but it felt as though you had heard if before anyway, like the echoes of a dream after you’d just woken up.

Your birthday had never been a celebration back home, not truly, but you’d been luckier than most to know the actual day upon which it fell. Usually the most you’d ever done when it came around was vow to live long enough to see your next one, though around seven years ago, something very unexpected had happened.

“I…Edmund…I think I have-”

The sound of his name on your perfect, full lips made Edmund feel lightheaded. There was a slight accent to your Narnian, which caused your voice to lilt in a way that was almost melodic. He was so entranced that he nearly missed what you were saying.

“You have a mark?” Like mine?”

You nodded, solemnly and bit your lip before speaking.

“It just…appeared one day. Around my eighteenth birthday, like you said. No one else in Telmar had one and I could never figure out what made me so different. When nothing else came of it, I forgot about the whole thing.”

So the guards had been telling the truth. Edmund brought a hand up to his forehead and massaged the crease that had appeared between his brows. He’d long since become accustomed to the idea that he’d be alone for the rest of his days. To have that changed so suddenly, especially by someone as complicated and unpredictable as you, he didn’t know what to make of it.

“May I see it?”

Some part of his mind still thought that maybe, this could be a trick. He’d open your shirt and find that the guards had talked you into letting them draw a donkey or something even more obscene on your skin for a bit of coin. But if that was the case, why had you attacked them? It seemed like an awful lot of trouble for a bit of sport.

“If you’d like.”

Now, it was Edmund’s turn to blush. You’d given your consent, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a little bit perverse as he reached to undo the top button of your collar. When you didn’t flinch away or try to bite him again, he continued, his hands shaking all the while. Your skin was warm beneath his touch, and softer than anything Edmund ever felt. Each opened button revealed another inch of smooth, bronze tinged flesh, along with a cream coloured shift and the tops of a pair of fair sized breasts.

The sight of those almost had Edmund running back upstairs to the safety of his room, when his eyes alighted on the tell tale golden lines just below your collarbone. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he reached out and gently tugged down the edge of your shift to get a closer look. He silently prayed that none of the guards took this moment to walk in, especially not the captain. He’d have a hell of a time finding a good reason to explain why he was practically peering down your shirt. It suddenly dawned on him why you may have given that young guard such a hard time, and any sympathy he’d had for the lad was pushed away by disgust.

“Aslan’s teeth.” he breathed

Sure enough, there it was. A lion, standing on its hind legs, mouth open in a snarl and a pair of crossed swords over its head. A perfect twin to Edmund’s, in size, colour, and location.

“Batshit and buggery,” he said again, parroting a favourite phrase of Peter’s.

You blinked at Edmund, trying to understand where this was coming from. He was staring at you as though every secret of the known universe had been writ there on your skin, and perhaps for him, it was.

“So, what does this mean?” you asked, hating how stupid you sounded.

“It means,” Edmund said, rising to his feet and reaching to tug at the knots that bound the ropes around your body “You and I are going to have a lot to talk about.”

#easter askbox event #edmund pevensie x reader #edmund pevensie x you #edmund pevensie imagines

[ckret2]

Chapter 21 of honestly everyone's just sorta used to Bill being the shack's prisoner now (title tbd): Stan & Ford have a birthday party! Bill is not invited. He still manages to find a way to be fiendishly evil.

Also featuring: Wendy deciding what she thinks about "Goldie," the shack's mysterious secret "guest."

####

Mabel slid a piece of paper across the gas station front counter, listing a dozen scratch card serial numbers spread across three different games. "I'd like these numbers in these cards, please!"

The cashier gave the paper a dubious look, then looked at Wendy. "We're not supposed to sell the scratch cards outta order."

"Please?" Wendy asked. "Just a little exception? For us?"

"We really wanna play our lucky numbers," Mabel said. "Plus, I had a vision. In my sleep."

She and Wendy gave him their best big-eyed hopeful pouty looks.

The cashier shrank back. "Well..." He averted his gaze from the adorableness that was Mabel, and sighed. "Just this once. But I don't want to see you two in here with your nonsense again." He started unrolling one of the spools of scratch cards, inspecting the numbers. "These'll be over a hundred dollars."

Wendy winced. "Ooh. Mabel?"

Mabel offered three dollars and a quarter. "That's fine! Can we start with 177 from the beach cards?"

She received the card, depicting a pastel beachy scene next to five miniature bingo boards. She confidently scratched off the card to reveal its winning numbers, pointed at the fourth bingo board where she'd just gotten bingo, and said, "That's $200! Our payout, please."

The cashier took the card, inspected the numbers, and stared at Mabel in amazement. She grinned at him. Wordlessly, he opened his cash register, pulled out several twenties, and offered them over.

"Thank you!" Mabel accepted the money and pointed at the paper. "The rest of our cards, please?"

As they left with eleven scratch cards, Mabel handed Wendy three twenties—"Here! For helping!"—and stuck the rest of the change in her pocket.

"Dude. That was awesome. You were so cool in there, like—" Wendy put on her coolest, most unruffled expression. "'Our payout, please.'"

"That's just the kind of rock star I am." Mabel put the scratch cards in her bike's basket. "Thanks for the help, Wendy!"

"Sure, any time." Especially if she got a surprise $60 out of it. "Heading back to the shack?"

"Yeah! I've gotta finish decorating for the party!"  Mabel waved as she took off down the road. "See you then!"

"See you." She guessed that meant she wasn't invited to hang until the party started. Given the touchy situation inside the shack, no surprises there.

She wondered what Goldie had to do with Mabel's interesting trick with the scratch cards. She was sure there was something.

####

Bill leaned into the kitchen. "Hey! How's that cake coming along?"

Mabel stopped arranging dozens of candles in the frosting to point at the door. "Out, Bill! Nobody's getting cake until the party!"

Dipper said, "You don't even deserve a slice."

"Agree to disagree!" Bill said. "But if you don't give me one anyway, I'll annoy you about it for weeks."

"He can have a slice at the party," Mabel said. "The cake's big enough." A couple of overcrowded candles spilled off the edge of the cake. Mabel picked them up and carefully stuck them back in.

Bill fought back a laugh. "Are you sure about all those candles? If you light 'em all up at once, you'll burn off everyone's eyebrows," he said. "But unfortunately, you'd also melt the frosting."

"The frosting's already a mess," Mabel said, peering at the barely-visible HAPPY BIRTHDAY STAN & FORD hidden beneath the forest of candles. "But Soos doesn't have any of those number-shaped candles, so..." 

"Roman numerals," Bill said.

"Oooh." Mabel looked at the cake thoughtfully, and started pulling out candles. "How do you make 62?"

"LXII. Fifty-ten-one-one," Bill said, then shot a grin at Dipper—who was glaring at Bill for answering before he could. "Isn't that right, smart guy?"

"Yeah," Dipper grumbled.

"You kids take the credit if they ask about the candles," Bill said. "They'll just get grumpy if they know I had any influence on the decorations."

Mabel carefully tilted the bottom leg of the L just enough to keep the tip out of the frosting, and started smoothing out the rest of the candle-pockmarked surface. "Now I've got enough empty frosting to add some decorations!" Mabel said. "I don't have enough time to draw something complicated. Maybe rainbows?"

Dipper shook his head. "I don't think either of them would be into that."

"Draw gold bars," Bill said.

Mabel blew a raspberry. "That's what you'd want on a cake!"

"No, I'd want me on a cake. Stanley likes gold! Stanford should like gold more, you could help him develop a taste for it."

"No."

Dipper suggested, "Maybe you could draw gambling stuff on Stan's side of the cake? Since they couldn't have their birthday party in Vegas like he wanted." Dipper shot a sideways glance at the reason they had to stay in Gravity Falls. (Bill shrugged. It wasn't like he'd asked the Stan twins to stay in town.) "You could do poker chips or playing cards or—"

"Dice!" Mabel said. "Dipper that's perfect, they both like dice! We can put normal dice on Grunkle Stan's side and nerdy dice on Grunkle Ford's—"

"Oh, that's great! I've got my DD&MD dice bag in the attic!"

"I'll look in the board game closet!"

Dipper and Mabel took off. 

Bill waited until he was sure they were gone.

He checked out the kitchen window for witnesses, then picked up a dozen abandoned birthday candles, licked off the frosting, and hid the candles in his hoodie's hood. Too bad they hadn't left a matchbook out, but Bill knew a fun little trick with an empty aluminum can and a tube of toothpaste that would work just fine.

When the kids returned and Mabel stuffed the remaining forty-odd candles back in their box, they never noticed any were missing.

####

Mabel had put herself in charge of the guest list. Which explained why, along with Stan and Ford's actual friends, all Mabel's friends had been invited; as well as—among other people—the mayor ("he's like the Mystery Shack's best customer, Grunkle Stan!"), Shmebulock ("Jeff said Shmebulock stole the Journal 4 you started last fall, I was hoping he might gift it back"), and the Hand Witch and her boyfriend. ("Whaaat, Grunkle Ford you met her TOO?! What a coincidence! Dipper, did you know he met—oh, you did. I didn't read those pages!") It would have been a lot more awkward if not for the fact that the birthday boys were awed and humbled that so many people had attended knowing they were coming to a birthday party for Stan and Ford Pines, and none of the guests had even been bribed.

When Soos and Melody helped Mabel carry out the birthday cake, Ford laughed at the sight of it. "Did you make Roman numerals out of candles? How clever! Stanley, do you know what Roman—"

"Yeah, yeah. I watch the Football Bowl, you know," Stan said. "Honestly, I was expecting this thing to be covered in candles."

"I almost went that route," Mabel said. "But I thought I'd save that kind of firepower for the Fourth of July."

"Hah! That's my girl."

"Happy Birthday" was sung, candles were blown out, and the party lined up to get their cake. Mabel cut a slice, loaded it on a paper plate, then glanced toward the attic window. "I'll be right back! I've gotta use the bathroom. Don't open my presents until I'm back!"

She trotted into the house, taking the cake, a napkin, and a plastic spoon with her.

####

Bill met Mabel at the top of the stairs and scooped the cake out of her hands. "You're my hero, star girl." He carried it halfway back to his window seat, stopped mid-step, and asked, "You got a piece with my name on it?"

"I got the slice with the 'Birt' and took off the extra frosting!"

"Oh," Bill said. "Heh. That's—cute." And he looked so much like he was trying to pretend he wasn't genuinely touched by the gesture, that Mabel didn't have the heart to tell him she'd only thought of it halfway up the stairs.

He flopped back in his usual window seat post—where, Mabel couldn't help but notice, he had a perfect view of the party happening outside without him. She grimaced. "I'm sorry you can't come to the party," she said. "But you did torture and try to murder the birthday boys... and most of the party guests... and left half of them with lingering trauma..."

"Speaking of, how's your therapist doing?"

"Oh, good, she's good. I think she's gonna write a paper about Mabeland."

Bill fell silent, staring out the window. Mabel almost went downstairs—when he said, "You know, I was the only person who gave Stanford a gift on his thirtieth birthday."

Mabel turned back around so fast she almost tripped on the top step. It wasn't often she got a double dose of Bill lore and Grunkle lore. "You were?"

"He didn't make new friends in Oregon and he didn't keep up with his old friends from college. His parents mailed him a gift, but it got here a week late. So I taught him a couple spells to see the stars during the day and keep rain from landing on him, and told him where to be in Portland that afternoon if he wanted to pick up a free cake from a fancy bakery."

"Aww. That was... nice of you." But Mabel had to hesitate before saying it, automatically wondering what Bill's motives had been for giving the gifts and what his motive now was for sharing this. 

Bill waved a hand dismissively. "Ahh, they were parlor tricks. They're easy, flashy cantrips that impress humans but don't do any harm," he said. "Not much harm, anyway. That night he told me all about how he was the only human to see his zodiac constellation on his birthday. The genius spent all day staring at the sun so he could see the stars!" He laughed.

But it quickly petered out. "And now I'm personally banned from his birthday party. Funny, huh?"

Maybe Bill was trying to get Mabel to pity him; but she kinda thought he was just pitying himself. She patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Losing friends is tough," she said. She paused. "And that's why we should be nice to them."

Bill cracked up so loudly Mabel half expected the party outside to hear him. "Okay, Glory Unicorn! I've learned today's moral about friendship. Get outta here. See if I ever tell you anything again." But he was grinning as he shooed her off.

####

When Mabel came back cakeless, Dipper gave her a dark look, but said nothing.

"Are we opening gifts yet?" Mabel picked up a box and flung an arm around Dipper's shoulder. "You've gotta open this one first! It's from both of us to both of you!" She waved it at Stan and Ford until they took it together.

Ford pointed at the card that said, "To our Grunkles, from your gniece and gnephew!" "That isn't how you spell niece and nephew?" Stan elbowed him.

"Nope!" Mabel said. "But it's how you abbreviate great-niece and great-nephew."

"Ah, I see! Very creative."

"Nice recovery," Stan muttered. Ford elbowed him back. Together they tore off the wrapping paper and opened their box.

Inside were two more boxes, each small enough to hold in one hand—a square one labeled "Stan" and a long narrow one labeled "Ford."

Stan opened his box and pulled out a thick gold chain with a coin dangling from it. Engraved on the coin in sloppy text were the words "#1 Grunkle."

Soos held up a hand. "I did the engraving! First try."

Mabel pointed at the coin. "We made it out of pirate treasure that we have for reasons that we can't talk about! There's a skull on the back!"

They'd hung it from his favorite gold chain. He'd been missing it for a week—and he'd never even suspected the kids. How about that. Choked up, Stan said, "It's—it's great." He took off the chain he was currently wearing, chucked it into the bushes, and put on his gift. "C'mere, you two." He wrapped his arms around Dipper and Mabel.

Soos held his arms out hopefully. Stan rolled his eyes, but waved him over for a hug too.

Ford opened his box. "A pen?"

Dipper said, "It has an ergonomic grip, can take standard ink refills, writes super smoothly—I tested it out myself—makes a very satisfying click, and it's red with gold trim to match your journals."

Mabel said, "I helped pick out the design!"

"... And that's why it's also sparkly."

"I didn't do the engraving on that one," Soos said. "We had a lotta spare pirate coins but only one pen, so. They got it done at the mall."

Ford rotated the pen in his hand until he spotted the (more professional-looking) engraving on the barrel, filled in with gold. "Mine says #1 Grunkle too?"

Dipper said, "C'mon, we're not gonna choose between you two."

Stan said, "Oh, I see how it is! Trying to butter us both up, are you?" He reached under Dipper's hat to ruffle his hair. Smiling, Ford carefully slid his gift into his coat's breast pocket next to his usual pen.

####

When Bill saw that Mabel was back outside, he got up, left the rest of his cake on the window seat, scooted aside a storage box sitting forgotten in a corner of the attic, and pried a loose board from the wall.

He took his stolen candles out of his hood, wrapped them in the party napkin Mabel had given him, and stashed them in a plastic sandwich bag where he'd already stowed a crushed cider can, its edges torn and sharp.

Then he re-hid the bag, fixed the wall, replaced the storage box, gently brushed some cobwebs over the floor to hide the trail in the dust where he'd scooted the box, and turned away from his hiding spot.

To see a gnome wearing a journal like a backpack.

They stared at each other.

"You didn't see anything," said Bill.

"Shmebulock," said Shmebulock.

Bill eyed Shmebulock, the staircase, the window—and then dropped into a crouch, knees and feet spread apart like a sumo wrestler, teeth bared.

Shmebulock cracked his knuckles.

Five minutes later, Bill added Journal 4 to his hiding spot, with a mental note to find a new hiding spot the gnomes didn't know about later.

Unfortunately, Shmebulock escaped with Bill's cake.

####

Wendy squinted up at the blonde shape in the attic window. "You know—all this last week, I kept thinking I saw someone up there. I just assumed it was my imagination," she said. "Guess Goldie didn't get invited to the birthday party, huh?"

"Nope," Dipper said. "And for good reason."

Wendy laughed. "Yeah, sounds it."

Dipper glanced toward his grunkles. At the moment, Ford was opening a cheap set of watercolor paints and giving Mabel an exasperated look. ("I thought we could try them out together! And hate them together!" "All right, that might be fun.") He lowered his voice and picked at his cake. "So. You found out the big secret, huh?"

"Yup," Wendy said. She lightly punched Dipper's shoulder. "Hey—don't look so glum, man. I'm not mad you didn't tell me. There's some kind of family drama and a missing person case involved. I get it—you don't talk about that kind of stuff outside the family."

"Yeah, hah. Right," Dipper said. "So, what do you think of... Goldie?"

Wendy glanced up at the figure in the window. "We didn't talk a whole bunch before Goldie and Stan started arguing about plagiarism," she said, "but I got that she's some kind of wildcard paranormal investigator who gives off insane grifter energy. And seems really mentally messed up from being trapped in another dimension, but like, the kind of messed up that probably makes you fun at parties?" She was already mentally playing Goldie off of her friend group, trying to figure out how well she'd mesh with them. She seemed like the kind of person who'd be into some harmless trespassing and recreational vandalism. "How old is Goldie? She was working on a Ph.D., so that's what, mid-20s? Mid-20s but actually mid-50s after not aging for thirty years? Honestly, if I just met her on the street I would've thought she was like, 15. She does not look her age." Maybe it was the lack of makeup?

Under his breath, Dipper muttered, "You have no idea." He glanced away from Wendy, stuffed a large forkful of cake in his mouth, and mumbled to himself, "How much should I say? Sharing too much could be dangerous, but if I don't say anything..." Mumble, mumble.

Wendy would never tell Dipper how funny it was that he monologued to himself and hoped nobody would notice. Usually she'd politely ignore him, but if there was something dangerous... She lightly elbowed him. "Dipper. Come on," she said. "I can tell something's eating you. You can trust me."

"Ugh, I know, but..." Dipper glanced again at the rest of the birthday party—just far enough to be out of earshot, currently entranced by some thingamajig Fiddleford had gifted the Stans—and let out a heavy sigh. Voice low, he said, "Okay, Wendy, listen. For your own safety, you need to know that Goldie is way worse than whatever you heard about him last night. And I can't tell you why, because of reasons I also can't tell you—believe me, I wish I could tell you, but—don't trust him, okay?" Dipper gave her an earnest, pleading look. "Just don't. He's dangerous. That's all I can say."

It figured that even after Wendy learned the big secret, she'd just find another, smaller secret hidden underneath. Like a matryoshka doll. (She quietly made note of the "he" and wondered if Goldie had been part of the queer scene in the 80s, or if he'd only figured himself out while he was in ghost land.) "I'm assuming he's dangerous for Weird Spooky Paranormal reasons?"

"Yeah," Dipper said, teeth grit. "Yeah, basically."

He wanted to tell her more, she wanted to know more, and she was ready to play 20 questions on Goldie's backstory. Picking through what she'd learned last night for clues, Wendy asked, "Is it connected to Ford's research? All the weird magic stuff he got into?"

"Um." Dipper shrugged uncertainly. "Y...yeah? But... bigger than that?"

"Is it portal stuff." What was the most dangerous thing she knew of that was connected to the portal. "Is it Bill stuff."

Dipper let out an anguished groan, pulled off his hat, and buried his face in it. "I can't tell you more than I already have!"

"Oh my god it's Bill stuff."

Dipper eloquently said, "MRRGHF."

"Okay got it, so Goldie was some kind of Bill groupie or discovered how to summon him or something. Something like that. I don't need to know the details! But he's totally Bill-adjacent."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yep." Dipper nodded emphatically. "Bill-adjacent is... the best way to describe Goldie."

"But Bill's gone, right? So Goldie's like a cultist without a cult leader. Doesn't that mean he's harmless now?" Wendy asked. "Or do you think he's gonna try to cause the apocalypse in honor of his boss or whatever."

Dipper tugged his hat back on his head and straightened it out. "I'm sure he'd try to end the world again if he could, but... we're all still trying to figure out what he can do."

"So, domestic terrorism risk. Cool," Wendy said. "Y'know, I sorta expected to run into a guy like that in the shack eventually, but I always thought they'd be here because of Stan, not Ford." She rolled her eyes. "I'll warn you if he starts talking about ending the world or anything."

"Thanks, Wendy." Dipper glanced uneasily toward the birthday party. (They were still distracted, currently trying to douse the flamethrower on Fiddleford's birthday gift. It was trying to eliminate the competitor gifts.) "Just... don't tell anybody else, okay? If the town finds out that Goldie is—you know—Bill-adjacent..."

"Relax." She pantomimed zipping her mouth. "I'm not gonna organize an angry mob."

She glanced up at the attic window. Goldie was still up there, staring down at the party. He noticed Wendy staring and made a face at her.

She made the same face back, and saw him silently laughing. Okay, he had bad taste in friends, obviously; but Goldie seemed kinda cool in an unhinged way. From what Wendy had gathered, Bill had conned and then betrayed half the people she knew—and if the Pines had only just managed to get Goldie back on this plane of reality, months after Weirdmageddon, that meant Bill hadn't bothered to rescue him when he could, so Goldie was just another victim. Maybe he just needed to be reintegrated into society.

Dipper said, "Hey, Stan just poured punch on the robot and it made the fire worse. Do you think we should help?"

Wendy looked at the fire—and looked up at the fire. She was moving before she spoke. "Yeah, let's do something about that."

They rejoined the rest of the party, and Wendy put Goldie out of her mind.

####

Ford stared at the ring on his left sixth finger.

Welcome back, the Hand Witch had said.

Thirty years ago, he'd met her at a carnival. She'd told him that he'd chosen the wrong allies and would doom himself for it. She'd given him a ring with a blue cabochon and told him that if it ever turned black, there was no hope for him.

He'd dismissed her as a phony palm reader; and, the night he'd decided Bill was right about Fiddleford not being bold enough to follow through with the portal project, the ring had turned black, and he'd thrown it in the lake.

Now here it was on his finger again.

He didn't think her a phony now. Everything she'd told him had been true. And anyway, it was hard to doubt she had real magic when she spent half the party trying to stop two small disembodied hands from escaping her pockets to visit Mabel. 

"Why are you giving this back to me?"

"It's your birthday! And I thought it might be useful."

"For what? Am I in danger?"

"I don't know, I'd have to give you another reading to see." She had pulled a cartomancy deck from her pocket. "Do you want me to?" The card on the bottom of the deck had been a triangle with a snake slithering through its eye socket.

Ford hadn't wanted a reading. He knew now that what he'd called superstition back at that carnival might be a legitimate form of prophecy he simply didn't understand; but he was tired of living his life by signs and portends.

All the same, it was comforting to see that his ring was blue.

Ford's view of the ring was blocked by Stan shoving over the "Get Out Of One Misdemeanor Free" coupon Mayor Cutebiker had given as his birthday gift. "Hey, do you think I'd get in trouble if I made a buncha copies of this?"

Ford took the coupon and inspected it thoughtfully. "If you do get in trouble... a coupon counterfeiting charge couldn't possibly be worse than a misdemeanor, could it?"

"That's what I like to hear!"

It had been a surprisingly long day—and, by far, the best birthday either of them had had in well over forty years. (Was it really that long?) Now they were retired to the parlor Soos and Abuelita had converted into a double guest room, sitting on their beds facing each other as they got ready for sleep.

There was a knock at the door. Ford stood. "Coming—" He opened the door to see Bill's grinning face, a foot from his own. "Oh. You." Ford resisted the urge to step back, in case Bill interpreted as an invitation to come in.

"Hiya, birthday boy!" Bill's gaze immediately drifted down to Ford's coat pocket. "Hey—new pen? I like the sparkle, adds a little pizazz."

"What do you want, Cipher."

"Just to hand this over." Bill pressed a couple of envelopes into Ford's chest, and kept them pinned there with a fingertip until Ford reluctantly took them. "I knew you'd hate getting something from me at your party, so just for you I waited until all the festivities were over. You're welcome."

Ford studied the envelopes. They were two pieces of yellow construction paper that had been folded into envelope shape, and written on each one, in lurching crayon text that drifted up and down, was "Stanford" and "Stanley". "You made cards?"

"You're flattered."

"I most certainly am not."

"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'" Bill shrugged. "Hey, they're your birthday gifts. Toss them in the fire if that makes you happiest. You just might wanna open them first—you know, to make sure I didn't write a fire-activated explosion spell on the inside."

Stan grabbed his envelope out of Ford's hand and eyed it in deep suspicion. "And why did you make these?"

"Because it's your birthday. Come on! Why am I explaining this, it's your species's ritual."

"I mean why are you doing it? We all hate each other. We're planning your execution, here," Stan said. "So what's your angle?"

"What do you need my measurements for, you pervert."

"ALL right—" Stan stepped toward Bill, cracking his knuckles, and was only stopped by Ford's hand across his chest.

Bill leaned back against the hallway's opposite wall. "Whoa! Consider this a peace offering! You know—'no hard feelings for all the murder, attempted or planned'! I can be a polite house guest, even if I'm not a voluntary one." Bill smiled wryly, "I'm trapped on an alien planet where I know less than a dozen people and all of them hate me. It gets boring." He looked directly in Ford's eyes. "And we've got history. Is it so hard to believe I might want to be friends again?"

This time, Stan had to put a hand across Ford's chest.

Ford said, "You're up to something."

"Is that a statement or a question?"

"Statement."

"Then you don't want an answer. Enjoy your gifts! Or don't, I'm not your boss." Bill waved, and slunk around the corner back toward the living room.

Ford shut the door. He sat on his bed, examined the envelope, and glanced at Stan, who was sitting on his bed doing the same thing.

They grimaced at each other.

"Okay," Stan said. "Is this more dangerous if we do open it or don't open it?" He hefted his envelope in his hand. "This thing's pretty heavy for just a card."

"Is it?" Ford's wasn't very heavy. He turned on a lamp on a bedside table and held the envelope up in front of it, trying to see through the construction paper. "I think he's counting on us to open these. I doubt he set a trap that will activate if we leave it closed—it's not his style."

"So, what do we think. Some kinda hypnotic mind-control magic that's activated by reading it? Or is he just trying to bribe us into liking him better?"

"He probably doesn't have hypnotic mind-control magic. If he did, why would he have spent so long trying to manipulate humans into doing his bidding?"

"I dunno, maybe he's stupid."

Testily, Ford said, "He's not stupid."

"No—listen, I've been thinking about this for months," Stan said. "You spent thirty years hopping between a zillion different dimension, right? If there's already safe portals out there, why'd he spend so long tricking someone into building a crummy one that'd destroy the universe, instead of using one of those? He's gotta be stupid!"

"I've... wondered the same thing about the portal," Ford admitted grudgingly. "But, no—I've seen him use so many roundabout tricks to manipulate minds that if he were capable of overt mind control, I'm sure he'd have used it by now."

"Fine, so mind control's off the table. But we're probably safer if we leave these alone. If we open them, they might be an annoying attempt to kiss up to us, or they might be dangerous." Stan waved his envelope like a fan. "And, we're gonna open them anyway, because not knowing will kill us, right?"

In his youth, Ford had arrogantly looked down on Pandora. "Of course we're going to open them."

They opened their envelopes.

They both contained a sheet of type paper folded in half with nothing on the front and messages written inside. Ford's read, "Stanford– I'd tell you to go to hell, but you'd barely be there long enough for it to be worth the trip. Happy birthday! –Δέος" Charming. Particularly out of the heel who'd just claimed he wanted to be friends.

"Hey, what is this?" Stan held his letter out for Ford to see: "Stanley– You were only the accomplice. I won't hold a grudge. Happy birthday! –Δέος" Stan pointed at the last word, "Is this some kind of curse?"

"A signature. Bill's real name isn't 'Bill Cipher'—it's just one of many nicknames he uses when communicating with humans. And, when writing to people who know him well, he prefers to sign with that nickname. It's pronounced déos." It meant awe—whether manifested in the form of fear or reverence. And it probably was no coincidence that Bill had picked a word that, to the untrained ear, sounded so much like the Latin deus—god.

Once, long ago, waking up to find his own hand had written a letter signed by "Awe" in a foreign alphabet had filled Ford with awe. Now... well, now it looked a little try-hard, didn't it. "Between you and me, I think Bill likes that signature best because it starts with a triangle." In Bill's handwriting, the delta looked unusually equilateral.

"Really fond of his own face, isn't he," Stan said, digging in the envelope for the rest of his "gift"—and he pulled out a handful of scratch cards. "What the...?"

How the heck had Bill gotten his hands on those? Ford checked to see if his envelope had the same—and came out with five pieces of notebook paper instead, still tattered on the edge from being torn out of a spiral notebook, covered front and back with writing—multiple languages, some inhuman, with a smattering of complex sigils and symbols. The first line on the first page read "Spell to Resurrect Fowl (chicken, turkey, duck, etc.—funny at dinner parties!)" Ford slapped the pages face down on his nightstand without reading the next line.

"What is it?" Stan asked.

"Magic," Ford said, voice flat with irritation.

"A trap—?"

"No. Magic for me. Spells I don't know. The kind of knowledge I'd—document in my journals."

Stan processed that. He tossed his scratch cards down on his own nightstand. "Lemme get this straight," he said. "Less than two weeks since he tried to kill us, with no access to the outside world and no resources at his disposal but his stupid wits—without even getting his hands on a freaking envelope—he somehow managed to get us both thoughtful, considerate gifts that are deeply relevant to our personal interests and passions! Is that about right?"

"It seems to be, yes."

"That jerk! I oughta ring his neck!"

Ford nodded in agreement. "I didn't know you're into scratch cards." He tamped down the urge to lecture Stan on the statistical improbability of making a profit.

"See, if even you didn't know, now I'm even madder that he does!" Stan groaned in frustration. "I kicked the habit. Still like playing 'em if I get them as a gift."

"Hmm." That was all right, then. Couldn't lose money on scratch cards if somebody else had spent the money.

They glared together at their thoughtful, relevant, deeply unwanted gifts, trying to decide what to do about them. Stan was the first to let out a resigned sigh and snatch his up. "What the heck. They're already paid for, I'm not gonna throw away potential free money just because it came from him." He fished around in his discarded pants pockets for a quarter. "But I'm not gonna enjoy myself!" He flipped through the cards, noting they were each labeled in a corner from 1/11 to 11/11, and muttered, "Why'd he draw triangles on some of the numbers?"

Well, if Stan had caved into his curiosity... Back into the box, Pandora, and perhaps we'll find hope at the bottom.

"Mabel must've helped him get these," Stan said. "It's the only way. And these cards have glitter and unicorns all over them." He scratched off his first card, and said, "Hey, three bunny faces—how 'bout that? I made thirty bucks already."

"At least it's not a total waste," Ford muttered, skimming the pages before him.

It was a treasure trove.

A spell to uncook food. The cipher to decrypt the Voynich manuscript. A potion to change eye color. A river stone submerged not five miles away that, when dry, hovered. A ritual involving five hours of meditation and a lot of mushrooms that opened up psychic communication with Earth's nearest alien neighbors. An illusion to make the floor look like lava. ("Good for games if you're very bored and oppressed by gravity.") The names of five hitherto-unknown demon nobles, the sigils to summon and bind them, the fields of knowledge and political influence in which they were most helpful, and a few personal tips on how to best to twist their arms into doing a favor. A complicated way to grind glasses that let one see, depending on prescription strength, anywhere from several seconds to several minutes into the future. And on and on.

And Bill didn't just toss down a few mystical-sounding words and move on: in a few terse sentences after each spell, he hinted at the principles that made them work (freely mixing magic, physics, and metaphysics), the people who'd created or discovered the trick (whether human, inhuman, unearthly, or transdimensional), where Ford could go digging to independently verify the information if he didn't want to take Bill's word for it—and what other, greater things someone might use these tricks to do, if only they fully understood how they worked, if only they had the right teacher. Bill had filled the margins, scribbled extra info in red pen in between the rows of black to double the amount of text he could cram on each line. Ford could fill an entire journal just by copying, disentangling, and expanding on everything Bill had packed into this dense five-page grimoire.

Bill had given Ford more in this letter than he had in all the years he'd been posing as Ford's friend—excluding those accursed portal blueprints. He'd shared the kinds of things Ford had always dreamed his Muse might show him. He gave it away like a free sample to entice a new customer. Five pages of deep secrets meant nothing to Bill and his infinite knowledge. He could have done this all along. He only did it now to try to bribe Ford into sparing his life: see what you could miss out on?

As Ford read the pages, his hands trembled in rage.

"—two hundred dollars, two hundred fifty dollars," Stan muttered. "Those are the biggest yet." He waved the scratch cards at Ford. "I don't understand it! That's eight winners in a row! I've made almost a thousand bucks just by scratching these off—that's not luck! How's he do it? What kinda weird alien magic gives you scratch card telepathy?"

"I don't know. I had no idea he could identify winning scratch cards," Ford said. "But I'm not surprised."

Stan shook his head in amazement, and scratched the next card.

Ford crushed the notepaper pages into a ball.

And he smoothed them back out. Bill was a monster, but this knowledge was precious. 

He looked at the Hand Witch's ring like it might tell him the correct course; but no matter which way his thoughts swayed, the gem remained a steady blue.

"This card's a thousand bucks all by itself," Stan said. "I've never won a thousand in my life. There's no way..." He scratched furiously at the last card, revealing symbols patterned after an array of gems and jewelry. "Five hundred!" Scratch scratch scratch— "Times five?! That's—!" He seized up all his cards and quickly tallied his winnings. "That's a total of nearly five thousand dollars!" He let out a disbelieving laugh. "Who needs Vegas? This monster's been better to me than she ever has!"

"Stanley, that's exactly what he wants you to think," Ford snapped. "He's giving us everything we want so we'll be more reluctant to kill him. This is less than chump change to him! Don't forget that his goal—"

"I know! I'm not stupid, I know what he's doing. Lotto numbers aren't worth the safety of the universe. But sh—shoot, Stanford, he handed me five grand for free and I'm keeping it."

"Fine," Ford said. "Fine. I suppose there's no point in throwing it away on principle."

"Darn straight!"

Ford glowered down at his underhanded "gift"—this little glimpse behind the veil into the mysteries of the universe. His whole chest bubbled and burned with rage; but beneath it—twinkling like a lonely star, twinkling like hope at the bottom of Pandora's box—was something he hadn't felt since Bill betrayed him.

Awe.

It was like waking up to a letter from his Muse.

This was who Bill could be—gift-giver, wish-granter, teacher, guide, friend—and he chose not to be. Why?! When this was so easy for him—why did he have to be what he was instead?

This charitable act only made the true Bill look even worse by contrast.

Ford re-smoothed the pages, carefully folded them in half, and stored them back in their construction paper envelope. He'd leave them there until he'd independently researched every one of these spells and ensured they did what Bill said they did and that there weren't any hidden side-effects.

And then he'd see about adding this information to his current journal.

No point throwing it away on principle.

####

(Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, I'd deeply appreciate hearing your thoughts! Thanks!)

#(me drawing Ford: *checks image reference a dozen times for tiny details*) #(me drawing Stan: *scrawls him out without consulting a reference once* Yeah that's grunkle shaped. Post it.) #grunkle stan #grunkle ford #bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher

[scarfacemarston]

Tuberculosis and the Wild West

Spoilers for RDR2 , but it’s been since 2018, y’all.  Trigger warnings for serious talk of severe terminal illness and severe stigma. As of 12/20 or 20/12, I have fixed some of the wording and added a few new things so please seriously head the warnings. Ok, first, some background: I've been studying TB since 2018; my father had a form of TB twice. I'm a historian, and one of my specialties is the history of medicine. Of course, you don't need to be a historian to write something like this. Also,  please "like" and reblog, this sort of content takes time. Tons of pics of buildings, and info below of the “lore” and IRL people.

Background info about TB that y’all need to know: TB is still horrifically deadly and still a leading cause of death. To give you all an idea about how recent genuine scientifically proven treatments were-  antibiotics targeting TB were not  discovered until the late 40s. However, sanatoriums (TB hospitals) and similar TB-related places didn't all close until 1970. My sister was born in 1977.  To give you all an idea of how treeified people were of this disease, think of the stigma with the AIDS/HIV crisis in the 1980s or the early fears surrounding Covid.

TB is one of the three oldest diseases dating back to Ancient Egypt with early evidence appearing through ancient mummies. Starting around the 18th century, western people believed TB was a disease of the elite granting someone ethereal beauty, writing prowess, and artistic talents. It was known as a "romantic disease" and a "beautiful death" - both of which we know aren’t true.  Some western beauty standards are influenced by TB including rouged lips, blush, pale skin and a thin figure accentuated with corsets. However, the appearance was due to the patient wasting away. Patients actually had bloodied lips, feverish cheeks, a pale complexion from the illness and losing a large amount of body weight. That's why TB was initially called consumption.(There have been many other names for TB including the White Plague and Captain of All These Men of Death and phthisis which is Greek in origin.) However, people eventually woke up and realized, "Oh wait, this isn't so sexy” The disease spread like wildfire, especially in the cities affecting whole families as was seen with Doc Holliday. Soon, society blamed anyone who wasn’t a white upperclass person AND those who were "immoral . They believed it was someone’s own fault if they had the disease. People held a very e*gen*c view of the disease believing their activities or who their families were caused this.  Immoral in this instance includes thieves, sex workers, bar workers, drunkards, violent people, women who had children out of wedlock, said child born out of wedlock, and homeless people. Obviously, this isn't true. It was overcrowded spaces, poor hygienic practices, but also animals, especially cows and deer. Ironically, the deer/stag plays a huge role in RDR 2. A few aspects from RDR 2 were inspired by Doc Holiday, one of the greatest gunslingers and outlaws in American history. His talents with the gun were considered by some as otherworldly. He and Wyatt Earp are most famous for the shoot-out at the OK Corral. Doc was dying of TB and headed west in order to potentially receive some medical attention, but found out that being an outlaw was great fun. Watch Tombstone for a fictionalized version of him. He had a very colorful life, but died of TB in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, at the age of 36. The same age as you know who.

This leads us to RDR 2 itself. The short answer about  survival is potentially yes, but with some major stipulations. I have traveled across the country studying TB and visiting TB sites and have seen these locations firsthand. Read further to read how survival was possible and for pictures of key locations.

IF Arthur had rested, maintained a proper fat rich diet, rested in especially clean air and partook in light exercise, he MIGHT have had a chance. I would estimate a 60-70 percent chance based on my readings of TB survivors. The chance of survival  could be more if he he headed West immediately after diagnosis. The wealthy traveled to newly built luxury resorts, but most people lived in tent colonies, so Arthur would be very familiar with the site. Hell, if the gang moved West, and followed the conditions I mentioned above, he MIGHT have been able to recover without heading to a TB colony. The the gang wasn't stable, and they were being hunted down, etc. However, people were pissed about the TB patients heading west to settle on "their land" (which is, of course, Native American land that was stolen). This pushed people to the outskirts of town and eventually, the establishment of sanatoriums which were tuberculosis treatment centers. 

Both the picture above and below would be an example of the tents used by TB patients to camp out. The top picture was probably taken around the 1890s which is Arthur’s lifetime while the picture blow is probably from a later era like the 20′s based on the clothing. City people in big cities sometimes camped out on the roofs of their flats and apartments hence the setting of the second picture. 

Due to the extreme fear, people were literally dropped off by families/friends or even government officials far outside of town. You did not want society to know that you had loved one with TB or else the stigma would affect you as well.  Later, TB patients were forcibly institutionalized. Many of these patients were ashamed of their affliction, but also felt further shame that their loved ones could be ostracized by society. I cannot stress enough how horrific this disease was and how tb psychologically affected the sufferer and its loved ones. Many tb sufferers never saw their loved ones again due to their families shunning them. I interviewed the elderly who remembered family members suffering from the disease and it still haunts their lives today. We see some of the shunning and stigma in the game, not just from the townspeople but from the gang. It's actually one of the reasons why I truly dislike a few unexpected gang members, for example.

At least Abigail, Charles, Tilly, John, and Sadie still treated him as a  human. Hell, Even Molly was kinder to him and she was really suffering in chapter 6.

I will tell you right now, realistically speaking, in no way could Arthur have done anything at all in chapter six. I’m not only talking missions, but any sort of work.  I won't go into graphic details, but one of the less graphic ones is that his hands would struggle to grasp objects, especially a gun. His joints would be too swollen. I know because I've seen it firsthand with my father and read plenty of accounts about it. Other than that, the game does a pretty great job of representing TB - however, Arthur could have been arrested or fined for spitting blood on the street which he did quite often in the game. Link goes to an academic article, but here is a more accessible link.

By 1899, people had been heading west for TB treatment for decades. People of all races headed west to Colorado, California, New Mexico, and Arizona being the prime locations. Dry air and or mountainous air were your best bets. Colorado was quite literally known as THE place for TB tourism as it was called. It was one of the first major waves of health tourism in the history of the USA. 

Another famous person and case study is Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau. He himself suffered from tuberculosis who sent up tuberculosis huts in Saranac Lake, NY. For further study, other key locations include Asheville, North Carolina and in the mountainous regions of Pennsylvania. They huts looked like this:

These were also in Colorado Springs, Colorado Springs was full of them and they are still occasionally found in people’s yards today. 

I visited one in the Pioneer museum in Colorado Springs. I can post my pictures later, but this is one found in an outdoor museum.

The TB patients had a very strict regimen of never leaving the bed and used bed pans. Healthier patients had access to their own private toilet. Stronger patients could work on doctor approved exercises, while even healthier TB patients who weren't ready to leave facilities yet could spend the rest of their time working around the camp or sanatorium.  Below is how Arthur would have looked getting treatment if he wasn’t in a hut or tent:

Above: Women receiving treatment. Below: An 1899 TB facility. Most tuberculosis sanitoriums were built from 1905 onwards so John’s era was FULL of them. The peak of the sanitarium era though was 1920-1940ish.

The problem is TB patients had a very chance of suffering from pneumonia once TB went into remission. It's happened in tons of my case studies. If Arthur could have survived both TB AND pneumonia, then he would have been considered "Ok". Not good, but “Ok”. However, I can't predict how long he would have lived afterwards. Some TB patients had tuberculosis come in a second wave. This is, unfortunately, very common. Some people lived a few months, a few years and some lived decades after surviving the second wave.

 Fortunately, survival after two waves include people who lived hard, like Arthur. Trudeau lived till 68, and that is after 2 bouts of TB and pneumonia, with the third wave of TB being his cause of death.

This is very likely a reason why Arthur would have been in New Austin if they had kept him in the epilogue and continued the TB storyline. I personally do NOT think John was ever going to kill him. MISC NOTES: Related to RDR:  Important side note: Sex workers were especially blamed for spreading TB which makes sense because of the contact with multiple people, but it's not that different than someone who works at a factory every day, runs a shop or works at the docks, or in similar situations. Anyone could spread it. This is why it is actually technically very offensive to ask someone like Abigail if she had TB because it would be a way to imply she is unclean as a person. (Which people in the game already believe with some of the fandom similarly treating her poorly.) The history of sex work is my other specialty, so I am very familiar with their history. I will say, from what I gathered, sex workers did NOT seem to be that much more affected than others, but at the same time, we don't have a lot of records of people who weren't white upper-class Christian men. So we have these records if these people were arrested, but remember that all of the examples of people I mentioned were viewed as second-class citizens. Therefore, we have hardly any records of sex workers as actual people and historians have to be creative to find other ways to research them properly.  Modern day: TB is also becoming antibiotic-resistant at a frightening pace. This will become a massive problem. Treatment  requires at least two antibiotics - streptomycin being the main choice for the primary antibiotic. This treatment lasts months, and these antibiotics are insanely strong. They can really mess with the body's system. I've seen it. My father was one of the lucky ones only having to take the pills for 8 months. Many others take it from a year to even 18 months. Other people take the pills and undergo radiation therapy to treat TB. Modern science can't produce enough new antibiotics to outpace it, but alternative treatments do appear to be promising.  If you want me to write more about TB or for any other history questions, feel free to send me an anon/message.  Additional pics: Below: Sanitarium built around 1905.

Below: An example of a finished Sanatorium in 1911ish:

#rdr 2 #arthur morgan #john marston #van der linde gang #red dead redemption 2 #abigail marston #abigail roberts #charles smith #sadie adler #mary-beth gaskill #mary linton #wild west history #medical history #history of medicine #19th century history #tw terminal illness #meta #20th century history #tuberculosis #consumption #wild west #doc holliday #long post

[workersolidarity]

🇵🇸 🚨

DISEASE, ALONG WITH A LACK OF MEDICAL SUPPLIES AND SANITATION RISKS FURTHER DISASTER IN THE GAZA STRIP

📹 A Palestinian man shows green, algae-filled water buildup in the Gaza Strip as a result of Israel's ongoing bombing and shelling, describing how disease is spreading through the Palestinian population displaced by the Israeli genocide.

The Palestinian man describes the situation as an "environmental and health catastrophe" that risks spreading disease among the population of the Gaza Strip.

"The situation has reached a critical point after government and health authorities reported an outbreak affecting half a million people," the man tells the viewer.

"The outbreak is linked to a variety of diseases caused by parasites, bacteria, and other viral illnesses," he says, adding that "the crises in the Gaza Strip has been exacerbated by the occupation's targeting of intersections, streets, and large swaths of land, leading to the bursting of sewage lines that pass through these areas."

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), the risk of disease is also being exacerbated by several other factors, including, "overcrowding, inadequate water and sanitation, disruption of routine healthcare services, and a dysfunctional health system" as a result of Israel's ongoing aggression.

The WHO emphasizes the importance of "ensuring ensuring access to safe water, sanitation, the importance of hand hygiene, the availability of [Infection Prevention and Control] IPC supplies, and the appropriate selection and use of personal protective equipment based on risk assessment," all of which is being hampered by continued bombing, shelling and blockade enforced by the Israeli occupation army.

#source

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

#gaza #disease in gaza #gaza strip #gaza news #gaza war #gaza genocide #genocide in gaza #genocide of palestinians #israeli war crimes #israeli genocide #war crimes #crimes against humanity #palestine #palestine news #palestinians #israel #israeli occupation forces #israeli occupation #middle east #war on gaza #israel palestine conflict #politics #news #geopolitics #world news #global news #international news #breaking news #current events #war

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unsolicited 27

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, oral/noncon, coercion, cum, some untagged sexual and dark elements.

Wouldn’t mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

Masterlist

You plant your hands flat to keep from slipping. Lloyd keeps your legs splayed over his arms, bucking into you as he crushes you against the cupboard. Your neck aches from the sharp corner against it and your throat still weeps with blood.

He ruts into you, flesh slapping as his thighs bounce off the side of the counter. His breath surrounds you, hot and damp, panting furiously as his hand grips your jaw in a vice. You clench your teeth and whine as he pounds a pit in you, deeper and deeper.

"Feel special now," he rasps, "don't you, baby? Taking my dick like a champ."

His hand slips and he drags his thumb along the cut down your throat. You wince and hiss out the pain, bringing a hand up to clutch his forearm. Heat winds around your limbs, smothering your chest and back, raising sweat in beads.

"Stop," you exhale, "Lloyd–"

Your heart throbs as panic rolls up your spine. You're overcrowded and overwrought by his intensity. You squeeze his wrist as he hammers into harder, spurred on by your pleas.

"Lloyd, st– please!"

He rams your head back against the wood, the impact speckling in your vision. Your ass sticks to the marble, your bones thrumming as he keeps your bent, unleashing every ounce of strength into you.

"Yeah, that's it. That fat ass takes me so good, huh?"

You close your eyes and bite down, gritting out a snarl as he thrusts wildly. You feel the tension coil through him and suddenly release. He presses his forehead to yours as he rides out his climax and moans. He slows, rolling his hips until he's spasming.

He lingers in you, holding you against the counter as his touch falls down your chest and he leans his head on your shoulder. He pants, deep and even as he steadies himself. You stay as you are, frozen in limbo. What happens next?

He slips out of you as he pushes himself straight. You watch him, uncertain. You peek past him to the glass across the floor. He backs away, turning stiffly as he combs back his hair. He pulls his hand down his face and sighs.

"Clean this up," he waves at the floor, stepping over the remnants of the glass as he leaves you.

You sit, unmoving, his cum dripping out of you as you reach to cup your tender cunt. You trail your hand up to feel the blood caked along your throat. You swallow and slowly slide to your feet, landing softly.

There's something seriously wrong with this man and you don't want to stick around to see how far he'll go.

💎

You chew your thumb, hesitant to touch the button. You don't know what else to do. You don't have time to waste. Not enough to get your bearings. It isn't quite a backslide if it gets you moving forward in the end.

You hit send. The text appears in the chat instantaneously. No buffering, no chance for second thoughts. It's done… well, only just begun.

You wait, trying not to watch the small circle. Suddenly, the checkmark appears and you let out your breath. He's seen it now. It's up to him. 

You put the phone on the bed and get up, pacing, careful not to step too heavily. You cross your arms, pull them apart, and feel instinctively along the scab at your throat. If he accepts, you'll have to cover that up.

You stop and go back to the bed. You pick up the phone and stare at the screen. Three dots hovering then gone. Back again. Hesitation buffering with your fate.

Colin's reply appears in a bubble. You bring the screen up and read it several times.

'Where do you want to meet?'

The prospect of meeting with your own husband fills you with dread. You rub your cheek and focus. This isn't about what he did or how he hurt you. He owes you and you will not let the time and effort spent on him be for nothing. 

'Cafe on Grand and Creighton.'

There it is. That's your mind made up. The way forward. 

'When?' The follow up.

That's not an answer you can give. You have to wait for your chance. That is as unpredictable as the man you work for.

'I'll let you know.'

You exit out of the chat. He'll have to wait just like you. An anticipation with an edge of torture. You have to be smart, you can't underestimate your situation. Not anymore.

You tuck your phone under your pillow. Not hiding it but hiding from it. Everything feels so dire.

You go to the mirror, the full bodied frame reflecting you from head to toe. You shake out your fingers and blow out between your lips. Play it cool.

You slip on a pair of heels, arches screaming for your beat-up sneakers. You miss the monotone days of after hours cleanup, the unrealised serenity of the abandoned offices, a solitary you only dream of now. Your work simple and straightforward.

As you open the door, you nearly fall out of the shoes. Even as he haunts the back of your mind, you don't expect him there. Waiting outside as if he is much less surprised by your appearance. You fight to keep your composure, ignoring the memory of the night before.

“So, sweet cheeks,” he grips the door frame above you as he leans in, “what’s the plan?”

“Pardon?” You frown.

“You got a full day planned. Sweeping, mopping… all that boring shit.”

“Uh, I guess, I–”

“Nah, that shit can wait. I got something you can do instead,” he smirks and pokes his tongue out, lowering his voice to a whisper as he looms even closer, “besides me. Get it?”

“What is it?” You ask tersely.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he stands and taps the end of your nose, “I thought broads liked surprises.”

“A surprise?” You wonder cautiously. You don’t like whatever he has in mind already.

“All you need is yourself,” he pinches your cheek mockingly, “so, let’s go.”

“Let’s…go,” you utter in confusion.

“Shoes, coat,” he snaps his fingers, “pronto.”

He spins on his heels and struts away. You watch him go, only stepping into the hall as he disappears into the master room. You look down at the Barbie pink dress you chose; not exactly your style or great for cleaning but he offered little practicality in general.

You descend and go to the front closet. As much as you try to resist, you can’t help but wonder what’s next. You fish out the ivory fur trimmed coat and pause as you grasp the hanger. What if he’s taking you somewhere to dispose of you? Last night lends little optimism as you recall his threats, the glass against your throat.

His silhouette appears at the top of the stairs and limns the edge of your vision. You pull the coat of the hanger and put it on, placing the wire hook back around the rod. You step back as he approaches, a suitcase rolling at his side. He reaches past you for his own jacket, standing close as you try no to shy away. You can’t let him see you crack.

“We… going far?” You look at the bag.

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he almost sings, turning to look at himself in the mirror hung beside the closet door. He runs his index and thumb across his lip and tuts, “fuck.”

You don’t comment on his lamentation. Better not to highlight it. Oddly enough, he seems only to hold any sort of genuine emotion for the fuzz he called a personality. He’d been through denial and anger. One day he might just accept it.

“Let’s go,” he faces you as he pulls on his coat and checks his watch, “I wanna get to the tarmac before that front moves in.”

You nod but say nothing. Tarmac. A flight? 

He passes you as he drags the suitcase behind him and opens the door. You spin slowly to follow, stopping at the threshold as the winter sweeps in with a gust. You glance at him and he winks at you.

“Ah come on, tell me the old ball and chain had a few tricks up his sleeve,” he goads, “I mean, you know what a surprise is right? As in, you don’t know until I want you to know.”

“Uh, sure,” you shrug, “I got it.”

“Do you? Come on, baby, put it in high gear,” he points you through the door, “no time to waste.” You step outside and he trails you, the wheels of his bag bouncing on the front step as he pulls the door shut behind him, “God, I can’t wait to be away from this goddamn shitstorm.”

You take the stairs one at a time, mindful of the tractionless heels. You look up at the lazy drift. You’re not a fan of the cold either but you’re more than certain this is just another sick game.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #unsolicited #series #dark drabble #drabble #dark!drabble #the gray man