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suzannahnatters · 1 year

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all RIGHT:

Why You're Writing Medieval (and Medieval-Coded) Women Wrong: A RANT

(Or, For the Love of God, People, Stop Pretending Victorian Style Gender Roles Applied to All of History)

This is a problem I see alllll over the place - I'll be reading a medieval-coded book and the women will be told they aren't allowed to fight or learn or work, that they are only supposed to get married, keep house and have babies, &c &c.

If I point this out ppl will be like "yes but there was misogyny back then! women were treated terribly!" and OK. Stop right there.

By & large, what we as a culture think of as misogyny & patriarchy is the expression prevalent in Victorian times - not medieval. (And NO, this is not me blaming Victorians for their theme park version of "medieval history". This is me blaming 21st century people for being ignorant & refusing to do their homework).

Yes, there was misogyny in medieval times, but 1) in many ways it was actually markedly less severe than Victorian misogyny, tyvm - and 2) it was of a quite different type. (Disclaimer: I am speaking specifically of Frankish, Western European medieval women rather than those in other parts of the world. This applies to a lesser extent in Byzantium and I am still learning about women in the medieval Islamic world.)

So, here are the 2 vital things to remember about women when writing medieval or medieval-coded societies

FIRST. Where in Victorian times the primary axes of prejudice were gender and race - so that a male labourer had more rights than a female of the higher classes, and a middle class white man would be treated with more respect than an African or Indian dignitary - In medieval times, the primary axis of prejudice was, overwhelmingly, class. Thus, Frankish crusader knights arguably felt more solidarity with their Muslim opponents of knightly status, than they did their own peasants. Faith and age were also medieval axes of prejudice - children and young people were exploited ruthlessly, sent into war or marriage at 15 (boys) or 12 (girls). Gender was less important.

What this meant was that a medieval woman could expect - indeed demand - to be treated more or less the same way the men of her class were. Where no ancient legal obstacle existed, such as Salic law, a king's daughter could and did expect to rule, even after marriage.

Women of the knightly class could & did arm & fight - something that required a MASSIVE outlay of money, which was obviously at their discretion & disposal. See: Sichelgaita, Isabel de Conches, the unnamed women fighting in armour as knights during the Third Crusade, as recorded by Muslim chroniclers.

Tolkien's Eowyn is a great example of this medieval attitude to class trumping race: complaining that she's being told not to fight, she stresses her class: "I am of the house of Eorl & not a serving woman". She claims her rights, not as a woman, but as a member of the warrior class and the ruling family. Similarly in Renaissance Venice a doge protested the practice which saw 80% of noble women locked into convents for life: if these had been men they would have been "born to command & govern the world". Their class ought to have exempted them from discrimination on the basis of sex.

So, tip #1 for writing medieval women: remember that their class always outweighed their gender. They might be subordinate to the men within their own class, but not to those below.

SECOND. Whereas Victorians saw women's highest calling as marriage & children - the "angel in the house" ennobling & improving their men on a spiritual but rarely practical level - Medievals by contrast prized virginity/celibacy above marriage, seeing it as a way for women to transcend their sex. Often as nuns, saints, mystics; sometimes as warriors, queens, & ladies; always as businesswomen & merchants, women could & did forge their own paths in life

When Elizabeth I claimed to have "the heart & stomach of a king" & adopted the persona of the virgin queen, this was the norm she appealed to. Women could do things; they just had to prove they were Not Like Other Girls. By Elizabeth's time things were already changing: it was the Reformation that switched the ideal to marriage, & the Enlightenment that divorced femininity from reason, aggression & public life.

For more on this topic, read Katherine Hager's article "Endowed With Manly Courage: Medieval Perceptions of Women in Combat" on women who transcended gender to occupy a liminal space as warrior/virgin/saint.

So, tip #2: remember that for medieval women, wife and mother wasn't the ideal, virgin saint was the ideal. By proving yourself "not like other girls" you could gain significant autonomy & freedom.

Finally a bonus tip: if writing about medieval women, be sure to read writing on women's issues from the time so as to understand the terms in which these women spoke about & defended their ambitions. Start with Christine de Pisan.

I learned all this doing the reading for WATCHERS OF OUTREMER, my series of historical fantasy novels set in the medieval crusader states, which were dominated by strong medieval women! Book 5, THE HOUSE OF MOURNING (forthcoming 2023) will focus, to a greater extent than any other novel I've ever yet read or written, on the experience of women during the crusades - as warriors, captives, and political leaders. I can't wait to share it with you all!

#watchers of outremer #medieval history #the lady of kingdoms #the house of mourning #writing #writing fantasy #female characters #medieval women #eowyn #the lord of the rings #lotr #history #historical fiction #fantasy #writing tip #writing advice

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heyitsaloy · 11 months

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Hello BioWare fans! I've got a code for 20% your entire purchase for BioWareGear. It's good until June 7th! Don't let this deal blow past you!

Code: BW52XKIW

#bioware #bioware ambassador #discount code #mass effect #dragon age #pathfinder ryder #commander shepard #discount #bioware gear #bioware merch #bioware merchandise

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emo-batboy · 6 months

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Things Battinson Totally Did During His First Year of University

Using Unhinged or Odd Things I Also Did as a College Freshman :D

Note: for this list, let’s believe Bruce was living in an (admittedly expensive and swanky) dorm because it is required for first-years, especially those entering at a young age, and Alfred told him he needed to make friends. Also yes I did every single thing on this list. I never claimed to be a role model

Bruce, to his TA: I’m so sorry I’m late to class. I gave blood a few hours ago and almost fainted on the way here, but it won’t happen again.

Signs up for a class called “Age of Dinosaurs” despite it not being required whatsoever and proceeds to work his entire schedule around it

Bruce: Your mental health is super important. If you think you should see the on-campus therapist, go see them. Friend: Fine. I’ll sign up for therapy if you sign up for therapy too. Bruce: Hold on-

Finds a loophole in his housing contract that allows him to get a pet frog, calls him kermit :)

Gets a second frog because Kermit was lonely, names it Constantine after Muppets Most Wanted, then realizes that they’re gay for each other. Wonders if the rainbow-colored rocks he got them triggered anything

Swings dramatically between calling Alfred every single day and ghosting him for weeks, cries when he realizes what he did

“Accidentally” joins the student body council, doesn’t know what he’s doing, gets re-elected anyway

Molds a dragon out of Laffy Taffy instead of doing his work

Bruce: *joins Honors, gets all A’s, takes the max amount of classes, has several minors, overachieves* Also Bruce: I’m a failure.

Breaks into a building after hours to study because NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AT THE LIBRARY

Bruce: I will not get seasonal depression this year. Bruce: *gets real and seasonal depression that year*

Meticulously schedules his day with a color-coded planner because if he sits down for too long, the thoughts will consume him

Gives a presentation to his rhetoric class on how much he likes Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse (it is 20 minutes long)

Successfully allocates funding from the student body council to pay for free feminine products in the dorms OUT OF SPITE because someone said it couldn't be done. fuck you, Andrew

Bruce: It is not an all-nighter if I go to sleep before my first class. Friend: It is 7:30am, the sun is in the sky, and your first class is at 12:30. Bruce: But I am getting sleep.

Refuses to go anywhere without his backpack because what if he needs three notebooks at once

Loses over 20 pounds because ✨stress✨ and scares the shit out of Alfred when he comes home for Thanksgiving

Argues with his TA over the one (1) question he got wrong on his Dinosaur exam

Bruce, calling Alfred: Hello father figure. How do I do taxes? Do I have to do them myself? Also, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Joins in on a charity arts-and-crafts project that gives kids books with matching activities made by volunteers, proceeds to commandeer the project because “it’s not color-blind friendly” and rewrites the instructions for everyone

Makes a murder wall

Goes to one (1) sports game and proceeds to leave in the first ten minutes because it’s way too loud wtf is wrong with people

Professor, addressing the lecture hall: I dare you to write an essay about these two sentences. Bruce: *writes an essay about six words, gets a 100, never even read the book*

Crawls into the ceiling for some alone time

Ghosts someone after a date because he’s too scared to tell them he didn’t know it was a date in the first place and now he feels bad

Classmate: How tf does he walk across campus that fast? I go in the same direction he does on my bike, and he’s always ahead of me. Bruce: *is gay sprinting to Dinosaur class*

Refuses to let others use his Favorite Pen TM

Constantly gets mistaken for a Grad Student because he is “so wise and mature” (bestie, that’s the autism)

Alfred: *casually mentions he got into a car accident through text* Bruce: *replies with a meme while hyperventilating because he doesn’t know what to do with that information??!*

Wears a suit to one of his finals

Regularly eats non-organic food for the first time in his life, proceeds to learn about several allergies Alfred forgot to mention he has

Writes “What is a Hot Pocket?” in calligraphy and proceeds to laugh his ass off alone in his dorm because he is so exhausted he’s reached the point of delusion

Locks himself out of his dorm right before class, frantically asks the floor group chat if someone can help, proceeds to tell the nice gay man on the floor who saved him “I love you” because his social skills have hit rock bottom

Makes a little music album display next to his desk for his favorite band (Nirvana) His friends call it a shrine, and they are technically correct

Has a blacklist of people he refuses to interact with because Reasons

Counselor: What do you want to do when you graduate? Bruce: *gestures vaguely*

Refuses to take the bus because there are people in there and he doesn’t like those

Loses one of his frogs, how tf did he do that, they’re fully aquatic, oh fuck, this is probably why they got rid of that loophole a year later because unbeknownst to Bruce, he accidentally started a frog revolution in the dorms, btw he SWEARS he did not mean to do that

Has two trash cans in his room: one for the Good Garbage, and one for the Bad Garbage. Only Bruce knows which is which

Bruce: *writes a creative piece about a ship’s final thoughts as it sinks, bringing its passengers down with it* TA: Absolutely lovely, Bruce, but are you okay?

Goes on Night Walks, keeps himself safe by maintaining a level 12 resting bitch face at all times

Earns the nickname “8th floor cryptid” after pacing the halls at 3am when it’s too cold for Night Walks (honestly tho how tf didn’t he get the nickname earlier?)

Bruce: Do you think a depressed person could do this? Bruce: *has a manic episode*

Okay that's all love you BYE

#cryptid Bruce Wayne #college au #does this count if op is the au #fully nocturnal unhinged madman Bruce but make him like 17 and full of crippling separation anxiety and autism #bruce would rather die than inconvenience a professor but hE KNOWS HIS DINOSAURS #Dino class was my fav one in uni hands down #yes i am insane thank you for asking #originally this was just going to be a normal list but I kept taking from my own experience then said “fuck it I'm the captain now”#one of these was a lie tho...the murder wall was third year :/#battinson #bruce wayne #batman #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #the batman #battinson needs a hug #dc universe #gotham #autistic bruce wayne

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tojipie · 1 year

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prison bf series linked here !

hii ! not rly phone sex, but sex nonetheless. i’m rly loving this series <33 prison toji unboxing fic coming someday in the distant future.

content: nsfw + phone sex

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the sudden vibrations of your phone’s ringer rips you from the boundary between sleep and awareness. you groggily reach for the device from it’s place under your pillow, clicking the off button twice to end the call.

the number rings again, then a third time before you finally pick up, ready to tear into the poor soul on the other line. it’s a facetime call from an area code you don’t recognize, probably just a misdial if you’re lucky.

you hesitantly accept and tilt the camera towards the ceiling, shielding your face from the stranger.

“hello..?” you mumble sleepily, trying to get a good look at your phone without revealing too much of yourself. the person’s screen is grainy from the lack of light, probably calling you on an older model.

the stranger’s camera pans down, revealing familiar tufts of straight raven hair. toji stares up at you from his bunk, shirtless with the sheets bunched up to his chest.

“you too good to pick up the phone now?” he asks, clearly teasing. the inmate’s voice is quiet, coming out in choppy rivets as his dated microphone picks up what it can.

“toji!?” you whisper scream, sitting up to turn your beside lamp on. the additional light helps illuminate your figure better, you notice his eyes perk up at the clearer sight of you.

“mmmh, happy to see you babydoll.” he grins, leaning closer to get a good look at you. your eyes are puffy with the promise of rest, giving you that extra bought of softness he loves so much.

“oh shit, were you sleeping? m’ sorry.”

he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“nono i’m awake.” you reassure the older man, taking in the sight of him laid out on the narrow cot. your boyfriend had aged since the beginning of his sentence, though you figure that’s not out of the ordinary for someone serving time. “how’d you even get a phone?”

“s’ a secret.” he muses, clearly finding the situation amusing. “i get to talk to my baby though, isn’t that nice?” he states plainly, shifting to prop his head up with his hand.

“it is, actually.” you mumble apologetically, feeling bad at your initial lack of a greeting. “m’ happy you called me.”

you pause, choosing your next words carefully “don’t you have bunkmates?” you wonder, searching the background for any signs of other men in the dark cell. the promise of being ratted out by a cell mate was one that wouldn’t end well for either of you.

“nah, lawyers said i’m too dangerous to be staying in D-block with everyone.” he states boredly, shifting again to lie on his back with a grunt.

“wh— are you serious?” you whine, already mulling over the countless conversations you’ve had with him regarding his nasty fighting habit.

“pfttt, no?” the inmate chuckles, throwing his head back with a hearty laugh. “last guy in the cell got out on wednesday, ‘s just me in here till’ my sentence is up.”

he stills, looking you up and down quickly.

"fuck." he grumbles, you look real pretty right now."

you sigh in relief, ignoring the compliment to continue grilling him. “so you’ve been getting along with people?” you ask, skill skeptical.

“you know—hah- how i am.” he tells you, clearing his throat before continuing. the screen begins to wobble a little, blurring his figure for a moment. “when have i —fuck- ever been out of line, huh? ”

“i think you were pretty out of line when you went to fucking jail.” you tease, pausing to analyze his hurried breaths on the other line.

“toji? do you feel ok?” you ask, wishing you were there to check up on him.

“yeah—mmgh- why? his camera starts to pan up shakily, phone slipping from his hand. the last of his facade shatters as a pleased groan rings out in the tiny cell.

“fuck.” he whines, “fuck— oh my god. you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

“show me.” you command, finally piecing everything together.

the older man flips the camera and brings it right up to his hard cock, stroking it from the base up with vigor.

his tip is an angry pink, weeping milky precum down his shaft to glaze his knuckles. the sounds coming from your phone are absolutely filthy, a hot mix of pants, groans and expletives .

“oh my god.” you giggle, propping your phone up to watch better. “is that all for me?” the dips and hills of his abs jolt as he laughs.

“all for you.” he pants, bucking his hips up every time his fist meets his tip.

“is this why you called me?” you tease, watching his cock bob back and forth in his hand. the older man stops to thumb his slit, massaging milky pre into the tip before starting up again. “you just wanted to get off? didn’t wanna talk to me or nothing?”

“no—hah. i mean—.” he groans, clearly too out of it to answer. “fuck. fuck i’m close.”

you squeeze your legs together to quell the ache between your thighs, content to just watch him enjoy himself.

sharing a room with 4 other people means little to no time alone, that much you knew from your visits. it wasn’t rare for him to pitch a tent during your supervised phone calls, squeezing his cock behind a glass barrier while you gushed about your day.

a hearty groan knocks your train of thought loose as ropes of cum stream down his knuckles and onto the sheets. you watch in awe as he milks his dick, slapping it onto his stomach for the added simulation.

you wait until his breaths even out to speak, watching him grab a towel from off camera to clean himself up.

“feel better?” you ask, so badly wishing you were there to kiss him in the midst of his afterglow.

“so much better.” he sighs, shifting to lay on his side again.

“they definitely heard you. i mean those rooms don’t have doors right?”

“of course they fucking have doors.” he grumbles, clearly embarrassed at the thought of getting caught dick-in-hand.

“did you..” he trails off, rubbing his eyes with a soft yawn.

“too tired.” you state plainly, shifting the focus from your pleasure to his.

“i don’t deserve you.” he mumbles, dark eyes barely open.

“course you do baby.” you whisper. “you wanna head to bed? i’m coming up on thursday to visit.”

“you are?” the excitement in his voice is adorable.

“mhm, might even bring you a charger for that piece of shit burner you swiped.”

the jab earns you a booming laugh, lulling you back to the precipice of sleep.

────────────────────────

tag list ! <3 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa

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david-talks-sw · 8 months

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Debunking more myths in the GFFA: the Jedi and the clones.

I wrote a post debunking the various myths about how "the Jedi condone slavery", a while ago. Something I had omitted (because it's such a big topic) was the following two statements that concern the clone troopers' relations with the Jedi:

"The clones were genetically bred to have accelerated growth, so they're technically child soldiers."

"The clones were slaves of the Jedi."

Both the above statements are inaccurate, let's explore why.

"The clones were child soldiers"

Let's get the easy one out of the way first, because it's a logic that cuts both ways. If age is our only determination of the maturity of a Star Wars character, then Grogu is not a baby. He is aged 50, and is thus a middle-aged man.

Who cruelly eats the babies of a woman...

... and knowingly tortures animals for his own sadistic pleasure.

Of course, I'm kidding. Grogu's none of the above things.

The narrative frames him as a cute baby who does innocent baby stuff. Him eating the eggs is played off as comedic, as is him lifting with the frog. To this day, some fans still call him "Baby Yoda".

Conversely, despite the clones being 10/14-years-old, their actions, behaviors, way of thinking, sense of humor, morals etc, are all those of an adult.

Like, Ahsoka is technically older than Rex in this scene.

The scene doesn't portray them as peers, though. This isn't written as "a teen and a tween talking". No, Rex looks, acts and behaves like a grown-up and is thus framed as such by the narrative.

You can make the argument "they're child soldiers", but (unless you're doing so in bad faith) you'd also have to argue that "Grogu's an adult".

"The clones were the Jedi's slaves"

Nope. For all intents and purposes, they're in the same boat as the Jedi, who George Lucas stated multiple times had been drafted to fight in the war.

Again: both the Jedi (monk/diplomats untrained for fighting on a battlefield) and clones (literally bred en masse only to fight) are being forced to fight by Palpatine and the Senate.

Though, on paper, the clones were commissioned by Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas, it was actually done by the Sith (who either manipulated or assassinated Sifo-Dyas then stole his identity, depending on the continuity you choose to adhere to). The rest of the Jedi had no idea these clones were being created.

So while the clones are slaves... they're not owned by the Jedi.

They're the army of the Republic, they belong to the Senate. This isn't exactly a scoop, they refer to the clones as something to purchase...

... and manufacture.

As far as the Senate’s concerned, clones are property, like droids.

Like there's a whole subplot in The Bad Batch about this very point: after the war, the clones are decommissioned and left out to dry because they literally have no rights, they served their purpose.

The only trooper to ever canonically blame the Jedi for the clones' enslavement is Slick, who the narrative frames as having been bribed and manipulated by Asajj Ventress into betraying his comrades.

Also, the only canonical Jedi shown to ever be mean, dismissive or mistreating the clones in any way, is Pong Krell.

And it's eventually revealed he’s in fact a full-on traitor, hence why the story frames him as an antagonistic dick from the moment he's introduced. He doesn’t represent the Jedi in any way.

We know this because the other Jedi we’ve been shown are always prioritizing their clones’ lives over theirs, if given the chance.

Finally, if we wanna get even more specific... as Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR), the clones belong to Palpatine.

Palpatine who is a Sith Lord.

Palpatine who arranged for the creation of the clones and had them all injected with a chip that would activate upon hearing a code-word...

... and forced them to murder their Jedi without hesitation or remorse.

When you bear all that ⬆️ in mind and when you read this quote by George Lucas...

"The Jedi won't lead droids. Their whole basis is connecting with the life force. They'd just say, 'That's not the way we operate. We don't function with non-life-forms.” So if there is to be a Republic army, it would have to be an army of humans." - The Star Wars Archives: 1999-2005, 2020

... narratively-speaking, everything falls into place.

Sidious knows that:

If he orchestrates a war designed to thin the Jedi's numbers, corrupt their values and plunge the galaxy into chaos...

If he wants to draft the Jedi - peace-keeping diplomats who’d never willingly join the fray - to fight in his war...

... then the only way they won't resist the draft and abstain from fighting is if they think joining the conflict will save lives.

So he creates a set of cruel, sadistic villains for them to face, opponents who will target innocent civilians at every turn...

... and instead of lifeless droids, he prepares for the Jedi an army of men... living, mortal people who, despite being well-trained, will be completely out of their league when facing the likes of Dooku...

... Ventress...

... Grievous...

... Savage Opress...

... or the defoliator, a tank that annihilates organic matter.

Thus, in order to save as many clone and civilian lives, the Jedi join the fray despite knowing that doing so will corrupt their values.

And as the war rages on, a bond of respect is formed between the two groups.

Clearly, the Jedi don't like the fact that the Republic is using the clones to fight a war, but for that matter, they don't like being in a war, in fact they advocated against it.

However, it's happening regardless of their issues with the idea or personal philosophies. Said The Clone Wars writer Henry Gilroy:

"I’d rather not get into the Jedi’s philosophical issues about an army of living beings created to fight, but the Jedi are in a tough spot themselves, being peacekeepers turned warriors trying to save the Republic."

And bear in mind, the Jedi are basically space psychics, the clones are living beings that they can individually feel in the Force...

... so the Jedi feel every death but need to move on, regardless, only being able to mourn the troopers at the end of every battle.

We see this in the Legends continuity too, by the way.

(that is, when the writers actually try to engage with the narrative)

Also, if you ask the clones, they’re grateful the Jedi have their backs.

When Depa Billaba voices her concerns about how the war is impacting the Jedi's principles, troopers Grey and Styles are quick to make it clear how grateful they all are for the Jedi's involvement:

So the clones aren't the Jedi's slaves. If anything, they're both slaves of the Republic (considering how low the Jedi's status actually is in the hierarchy).

Only I'd argue the clones have it much, much worse.

The Senate sees the Jedi as "ugh, the holier-than-thou space-monk lapdogs who work for us"... but a Jedi has the option to give up that responsibility. They can leave the Order, no fuss or stigma.

A clone trooper cannot leave the GAR! If they do, they’re marked for treason and execution. Again, they’re not perceived as “people”.

And it doesn’t help that the Kaminoans, the clones’ very creators, see the troopers as products/units/merchandise. A notion that the Jedi are quick to correct whenever they get the chance.

How The Clone Wars writers describe the clones' relationship with the Jedi.

George Lucas hasn’t spoken much about this subject aside from the quote from further up. But to be fair... the Prequels aren’t about the clones’ dynamic with the Jedi, so it makes sense that he wouldn’t talk on that subject so much.

He did mention that part of The Clone Wars’ perks is that he could:

“Do stories about some of the individual clones and get to know them.”

But that’s as far as it gets.

So for this part, I'm just gonna let Dave Filoni, showrunner of The Clone Wars and the upcoming series Ahsoka, and TCW writer Henry Gilroy - both of whom worked closely with Lucas - take the wheel. They make themselves pretty clear on how the clone/Jedi dynamic is meant to be viewed.

Here’s Henry Gilroy:

"In my mind, the Jedi see the clones as individuals, living beings that have the same right to life as any other being, but understand that they have a job to do."

"The clones see the Jedi as their commanding officers on one hand, but also, at least subconsciously, they look to them for clues to social/moral behavior."

"Some clones may find themselves getting philosophical leadership from the Jedi that helps them answer some of the deeper questions of life."

"We thought this was a great opportunity to show how the Jedi interact with clones. Specifically, Yoda in a teaching role of the clones, who were socially new, who kind of grew up— who were created to fight, and he really broadened their horizons and helped them realize there was a great big universe out there that was bigger than just fighting and killing."

And here’s Dave Filoni’s comments:

"I truly believe that the Jedi try to humanize their clones and make them more individual, as Henry says."

"I think we saw that in Revenge of the Sith, when the Clones were colorful and named under the Jedi Generals, and then in the final shots of the film with Palpatine and Vader near the new Death Star, the ships are grey, the color and life is sucked out. The Stormtroopers are only numbers and identified by black and white armor or uniforms in A New Hope."

"The soldiers have become disposable to the Emperor."

"That is something the Jedi would never do."

"Yoda teaching the clones much like he taught Luke. ‘Cause that was kind of natural for [the Jedi], a natural instinct to take to these clones like they’re students."

None of the above quotes from two different writers of The Clone Wars, who had many interactions with George Lucas, frame the Jedi and the clones’ relationship in a negative way.

How much more proof do we need that "the clones were slaves of the Jedi” isn’t the intended narrative?

My point being that while the clones' ordeal is indeed horrible, the Jedi have nothing to do with it. The narrative of The Clone Wars always frames it as the fault of the Sith, the Senate and the Kaminoans.

If you go by the intended narrative, the Jedi were the clones' teachers and brothers-in-arms. The clones and the Jedi were not just comrades.

They were friends.

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max1461 · 4 months

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Thinking about different websites...

The worldview of redditors is really Bronze Age or perhaps Iron Age in a truly interesting way. Deeply transactional, concerned with honor and commanding honor, with everything founded on property relations. The comments of any AITA post will evince this. It is "patriarchal" not in the sense of being misogynistic (which it sometimes is and sometimes isn't), but in the sense that it is structurally like the morality of the archetypal Patriarch of the isolated family unit, very Indo-European. The Man who rules his own little kingdom, his family, and who deals with other such Men through a certain kind of economically-inspired honor code. Most redditors are liberal enough that they deal with their spouses as other Men though, and indeed with their children once they reach a certain age. But I think even this has some historical precedent.

It's all about who has the Right to do what, you see, it's about who can and who can't and who must. Very Norse, very Bronze Age, very Indo-European. The redditor sees themself (actually or aspirationally) as on top and as agentic. They speak positively of learning hard lessons and of teaching hard lessons. Their world is a world of contracts, not abstract and mathematical but specific and personal.

This is notably not the ideology of 4chan, which anyone who's been on that site much should know. 4chan's ideology is much less confident in itself. The 4channer sees themself as beneath, not on top, either with acceptance or with resentment. Frantz Fanon might have something to say about it. The 4channer is the subaltern.

And here? I was going to say that tumblrianas are somewhat domesticated, but I don't think this is exactly right. It's more like the world-sense of eunuchs in a harem, desperate for stimulation. Scholastic (though not scholarly) and estranged from the world—from normalcy—for reasons they can't escape. And they know this, and have mostly elected not to try. "Eh", say they, "I will read about life in one of my books," or perhaps just as commonly "I will simulate an outside-life in here with the other eunuchs, and it will be better than what they can make on the outside anyway". Maybe that's true; it probably depends on you and your eunuch crew.

I don't think I'm any of these types of guy. I've spent more of my life as a lurker than a poster. Lurkers are a whole other type of deal.

This is of course all "bullshit" you must understand.

#navel gazing

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swiftispunk · 11 months

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Hiiii I just had this idea I know I submit requests all the time but…ok.

I just love that Joel is a natural protector. He wants to keep the people closest to him safe. However, reader is kind of proud and horrible at accepting help and favors from him. One day she’s cooking and accidentally slices herself with a knife and Joel’s trying to help her and she’s just not letting it happen. She’s trying to tend to her injury herself but she’s getting dizzy and failing miserably and Joel is like “Jesus Christ. Sit down, shut up, and let me fix you for fuck’s sake. If you don’t swallow your pride I’m gonna make you swallow it myself”

And like. Wow. Watching Joel be so skilled at wrapping her injury and be so commanding is kind of a turn on! So she still keeps up her proud attitude until he’s fucking her lol

I can just picture Joel fucking her while saying “you’re gonna let me take care of you from now. Got it?”

i’m in a state | joel miller x f!reader

an in my hometown story (prequel) | series playlist

pairing: pre-outbreak!dbf!neighbour!joel miller x afab!fem!actor(ish)!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: 2.1k summary: the moment that sends you over the edge with your neighbour, joel. warnings etc: metaphorical smut, blood, hurt/comfort, stubborn!reader, sexual tension, fantasizing about joel miller’s hands, sex dreams (p in v sex + surprise sir kink WHAT), masturbation, pet names (sweetheart, darlin’), 10 year age gap (reader is 20 here, joel is 30), mentions of food. NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: oh what’s this? yeah sooooo i couldn’t get it out of my head how much this was joel x superstar (aka in my hometown coded). so here’s a little prequel story for them, my two favourite babies. i missed being inside her head tbh. for those following the story, this takes place pre-part one (1997), and can be enjoyed as a stand-alone.

Summer. 1997.

You've known for a while that you're in love with Joel Miller. But that means something a little different when you're fifteen compared to when you're twenty.

When you were younger, it had meant carving his initials into your dresser, planning your imaginary wedding, reading catalogs and fantasizing over what dress you'd wear on your first date or what dining set you'd buy to furnish your shared home with his Big(?) Contractor's Salary.

Now, you're in college. Third year at the University of Texas at Austin. That Barbie-dream-life with Joel doesn't exist, and that's okay. Because now Joel's just...hot. Your hot thirty-year-old neighbour who's got the thickest arms you've ever seen, a patchy beard you'd love to sink your teeth into, chapped lips you've been thinking about kissing for years, big hands you want wrapped around your -

Okay, relax.

It's July Fourth weekend, and your dad's hosting his annual backyard barbeque party. He's loved throwing little get-togethers like this ever since your mom left, loves surrounding himself with friends and good times after being deprived of them for so long. You get it.

You're in the kitchen chopping celery for the potato salad when Joel finds you, ducking into the fridge for a beer.

"Hey, kid," he greets you in that familiar grumbly timbre of his. You look up from your work for one second to respond and -

Shit shit shit.

The knife slips, slicing a deep, clean line into the skin of your palm.

"Ouch - fuck," you mutter, immediately sticking your hand under the kitchen tap and hissing through your teeth when the water pressure hits the open wound.

"You okay?" Joel asks, having witnessed the entire incident happen, too fast for him to stop it. He leaves the beer in the fridge to come to your side, reaching his hands out helplessly to offer some assistance.

"I'm fine," you insist. "I got it."

You can't even look at him, it's fucking embarrassing, hurt and hapless in front of the smoldering hot Joel.

"You don't got it, you're bleedin' all over the fuckin' potatoes."

Oh, fuck.

You look down into the sink only to find you'd completely missed the fact that, yep, there had definitely been a colander full of Yukon Golds in there.

Well, so much for the potato salad.

"It's not even that bad," you snap, shutting the tap off and grabbing the nearest rag off the counter to wrap it around your hand.

"Would ya just let me see?" Joel presses, his fingers grazing your arms to try to hold you still while you turn away from him towards the pantry.

"No - it's - it's - fuck! "

You bump your injured hand into the kitchen island on your way to the pantry, kind of putting a damper on your attempts to prove that you're not in any pain.

"Stop movin' - " Joel tries to follow you as you make it to the cupboard, reaching out in vain as you strain with one hand towards the top shelf, trying desperately to find what you're looking for, to demonstrate how much you don't need his help.

"There's a first aid kit right here..." you murmur to yourself.

"Hey, kid, stop, will ya?”

His voice is firm now, and so are his hands on your shoulders, spinning you around to face him. You protectively clutch your cut hand to your chest, still wrapped tightly in the rag.

Joel holds you there, while you look back at him indignantly.

"Would y’just sit down and let me fix it?”

Your nostrils flare and you consider arguing it further, but the pain is really starting to settle in now and it’s feeling more and more futile to keep fighting with Joel, especially when he’s this close to you, gripping your arms with such…paternal authority.

"Fine,” you concede. “Okay."

Joel nods approvingly.

"Now where's the first aid kit?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

You cock your head towards the top shelf of the pantry, where you'd been fruitlessly rummaging just a moment ago. Joel's gaze follows your eye line and then he guides you down into one of the kitchen chairs, turning back to the pantry to fish out the white box tucked behind the sewing kit, a leftover from your mom.

"Right..." he hums to himself as he sets the plastic box with the big red "+" on the table and begins sifting through it. You watch as he digs around its contents, competently setting out some band-aids, a few cotton pads, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a tube of Neosporin and a roll of gauze. He’s clearly done this before.

“Let me see,” he says softly then, kneeling down to grip your arm in one of his big hands while your eyes widen at his touch. Joel carefully unfurls the rag, now soaked in your blood, to reveal the grisly cut beneath.

"Shit,” Joel curses quietly. “It’s still bleedin'..."

He rises with a low grunt, pushing off you with an absent hand on your thigh. Your skin sears where he touches. Back on his feet, Joel glances awkwardly around your dad’s little kitchen.

“Cloth? Clean cloth?” he clarifies.

"Under the sink," you inform him while bright red blood begins to pool in your palm again. You bite your lip to stop from crying because it really does fucking hurt and all that blood has got to be cause for concern. But crying's the last thing you need to be doing right now.

Joel finds what he’s looking for and returns to situate himself on his knees in front of you again. He wraps the fresh rag around your wound just as the blood’s about to drip down onto the linoleum. Joel encases your bleeding palm in his two big hands as he compresses the cloth into your skin.

"We'll just hold that there for a minute,” he mutters, fixing his eyes on yours as he squeezes your hand between his.

You work to control your breathing, but it’s not because of the cut, more the way his massive palms engulf your entire hand, sending your imagination running wild as you consider how big they’d look other places…over your ass, maybe…across your stomach…on your tits…

"Does it hurt?" Joel interrupts your fantasizing, and you shake your head slightly as you come back to reality.

"No," you lie.

He rolls his eyes.

"Just gonna check it again..."

You visibly wince when he unravels the cloth, grimacing as the fabric drags over your open wound.

"Might wanna work on your acting there, superstar,” Joel smirks.

“Ew, shut up, only Tommy calls me that,” you reply grumpily as Joel assesses your palm, turning your hand over in his to see the extent of the damage.

"It's pretty deep, kid. Stopped bleedin' at least."

"It's nothing."

Joel scoffs then, shaking his head in disbelief and you think he almost seems a little angry. Think it’s kind of a sexy look on him.

“Christ, you're proud, huh?” he gripes, letting your hand go. “You can just say it hurts, you know."

You sigh and finally let the truth slip, agony coating your voice as you give in.

“Fine, okay - fuck - it hurts.”

“Was’at so hard?” he smirks, eyebrows cocking. Asshole. Stupid, hot, perfect asshole.

You roll your eyes dramatically. How’s that’s for acting, Miller?

But Joel's not paying attention - now he gets to work. You watch as, with tender care, he clutches your wrist to hold your hand steady, starting first by cleaning the wound with a cotton pad he soaks in rubbing alcohol.

While he tends to your wound, your mind wanders, head fuzzy from blood loss and Joel’s meticulous touch. He’s so precise with it, his thick fingers managing the delicate task with ease. You wonder what else his fingers are precise with, your eyes glazing over as that thought invades your brain and -

Oh, god. Fuck. Fuck. You want him. You want him so much it’s making you squirm in your chair, Joel reminding you to, “Sit still” while he presses the gauze into your skin. But the pain mingled with that commanding edge in his voice only makes you want him more - and you didn’t even know that was a thing for you.

Joel seems blissfully unaware of your spiralling, cooing gentle, “Shhh, it’s okay”s at you when you flinch at the sting of the alcohol, a soft, sweet sound that only makes things worse, goosebumps rising on your skin as his quiet hum vibrates through you. Finally, he applies a thin layer of the Neosporin over the cut, dabbing it over your skin with his calloused fingers.

"So...theatre college. How’s it goin’?” he says as he applies a bandage over the wound.

“Um...yeah, you know, it’s going,” you reply, still feeling very much dazed and distant, Joel still very much on his knees in front of you in an extremely distracting way.

"Surprised you didn't just head straight out to California," he murmurs, wrapping more gauze over your bandaged palm for good measure.

It's an interesting idea, and one you'd considered. At the time, you'd still been dreaming of your Barbie-dream-life with Joel. Staying at home meant it might still happen. Now, of course, you can’t wait to get out.

"Well, UT has a great program," you shrug simply.

"Maybe one day, though, right?" Joel grins up at you and you smile back.

"Maybe," you nod.

"All done," he declares then.

You're not expecting it and you don't know why he does it (maybe some kind of fatherly instinct), but as Joel finishes wrapping the gauze around your hand, he tentatively leans in to plant a quick kiss to the bandage and shit, fuck.

Electricity flows from the place his lips touch and all of a sudden you think you see it in him too, that attraction, that want. His brown eyes peak up at you when his lips make contact with your covered skin and he must know what he's doing, there's no fucking way he would just do that if he wasn't trying to drive you crazy -

"What happened in here?"

Your dad, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway, easily cutting through the tension as he walks in on your little moment. Your head snaps up to see him taking in the scene, bloody potatoes in the sink and the first aid kit torn open on the table. Joel gives you your hand back and stands hastily, taking several steps away from you as he does.

"Just had a little accident - uh, it's alright now," Joel grumbles, voice thick, and then he's ducking out of the room in a rush, beerless. You and your father stare at each other, both dumbfounded but...for different reasons.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

"Christ, you're proud, huh?" Joel grunts as he presses you against the kitchen island, those big hands of his trailing up your sides and landing over your naked breasts. "F'you don't swallow that pride, darlin', I'm gonna make you swallow it."

He punctuates the tantalizing threat with a hard squeeze of your nipples, and you groan as his mouth collides with yours, tongue licking into your mouth feverishly as he grinds his hips into you.

"Make me, Joel," you beg, reaching between your bodies to stroke his cock, as you tear your mouth from his and nip at his strong jaw, eliciting a delicious groan from him that reverberates into the hollow of your neck.

Joel wastes no time, hoisting you up onto the island so your legs wrap around his waist, his cock sliding inside you with ease, as if you were made to take him. You cling to him with your hands behind his neck as he rocks his hips into you, making you whine and keen and moan with each thrust of his length into your wet heat.

"You're gonna let me take care of you from now on, you got that, sweetheart?" he whispers raggedly in your ear as he fucks you, his strong arms braced over your thighs and holding you steady as he pounds into you with all the force and intensity you'd always imagined he'd use.

"Yes, sir…” you promise him, and Joel growls at the word as it slips from your mouth, the memory of his voice from earlier seeping into your reverie -

Shhh, it's okay...Sit still...Stop movin'....

The echoes of his drawl begin to fade as the vision sinks to black and...shit. All too soon it hits you as you wake with a stir.

It's not real. Just a dream. The party ended hours ago. You’re alone in bed after dark.

Also…sir? What the fuck? Your subconscious clearly has some interesting ideas it wants to make known to you so that’s…cool. He just had to get all commanding and bossy earlier. Fucker.

Tragically, the wet spot in your sleep shorts definitely is real. You sigh, letting your measly fingers finish what your dream-Joel had started. You come quietly in the confines of your bedroom, the image of Joel on his knees in front of you the last thing you see before sleep takes you again.

Well - you're off the deep end now.

One way or another, you've got to get your hands on Joel fucking Miller.

I'm in a state, I'm in a state Nothing can touch us, my love I'm in a state, I'm in a state Nothing can touch us, my love

in my hometown taglist <3

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b1rds3ye · 10 months

Text

Radio Silence

The mission required you to separate from the rest of Task Force 141 but when the operation is compromised, all he can do is listen to the panic through the comms until everything goes silent.

Pairings: Captain John Price x GN!Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader Reader Aliases: Breeze (Callsign), Bravo 1-5 (Squad-Member Code) Genre: Angst (open-ended), Drama Warning: Descriptions of violence/crashes, blasphemy/religious references, (probably) inaccurate military terms Word Count: 3k (~1.5k each)

Captain John Price

The captain was not a superstitious man, but when you’re on the battlefield, you take all the good fortune you can get. With age he’s picked up a range of small habits and lucky paraphernalia to get him through the mission; an aged penny in his left breast pocket, a four leaf clover stored in another, he finds himself reciting the lord’s prayer even though he’s not particularly religious (and if there is a god he’d like to personally go up and sock them across the face).

When you noticed his little rituals, you added on a good luck charm of your own - his favourite by far. A quick peck on the cheek followed by a teasing little “good luck, captain” in his ear. Price swears there’s something divine in your affection, it does wonders for his morale and efficiency. He thought nothing of it the first few times, but when he realised that this little gift of yours was here to stay, he started to reciprocate in kind when the others weren’t looking. His soul has become tainted over the years - if anything a kiss from him should be a bad omen - but your beaming smile in response convinces him that maybe he’s given you some luck your way.

And perhaps that’s why, after your ritual good luck kiss, he feels a little more than bothered when Laswell calls you away before he can reciprocate. You notice the slight furrow of his eyebrows and laugh, telling him not to worry and that you’ll see him on the other side. The hold you had on his arm disappears as you pull away, bidding him and the rest of the Task Force good luck as you join your own squadron. Price then returns to commandeering his own men, but the thought lingers in the back of his mind. Perhaps you need that extra little bit of luck today.

Price hates how good his intuition can be.

“Bravo 0-6, do you copy?”

With his squadron grounded and on the perimeter of the site, he stiffens at the tone of your voice. That’s not how you usually sound like over comms, that hint of uncertainty didn’t suit you.

“Loud and clear, in position of Site A.”

“Copy, we’re at the compound but… we’ve got company.”

“Al-Qatala?”

“No, looks like Al-Qatala is buddy-buddy with some mercs and- shit.”

“Breeze, what are you seeing?”

“How’d they get us surrounded…?” You mutter more to yourself than to Price but his blood runs cold regardless.

“Bravo 1-5 you are to fall back and wait for backup-”

He’s cut off by various layers of static but he’s learnt to decipher them. The deeper base of the rustle of fabric as you manoeuvre, the sharp trill of gunshots all overlaying the white noise of distant shouting.

“Price, our exits are blocked, they knew we’d be here, how’d they- Corporal! Fuck, stay with me! We’re dropping like flies here. Bravo-1, we’ve got no choice, we have to push through, full offensive!”

He hears the screams of nearby soldiers. While he’s grateful none of them are yours, he knows that the ride back to base will be a rough one regardless. He feels the eyes of his subordinates burn holes into him and the walkie talkie. Gaz, who was beside him, was the only one moving, animatedly talking to Laswell and filling her in on the situation.

“Bravo 1-5-”

There’s an audible sigh on your end that shuts him up.

Through the time it has taken for Price to become captain, he’s learned a lot the hard way. One of the most important things he’s learned is that earning Lady Luck’s favour is more crucial than any skill for the battlefield. Some of the best he’s ever seen has fallen because they pissed her off somehow, but he still never expected her to shun you.

“Just my luck…” your voice starts off quiet as you curse to yourself. A gulp breaks up your panting as you stabilise your breathing. Your next words are far too calm.

“I’m sorry, Price.”

“Sergeant.” Price’s voice was low, cautious. A warning. He knows how you fight, he knows you don’t do anything extreme unless the situation he calls for it, and once again he’s praying to the unknown that it hasn’t come to that.

“I said next time we hit the pub with the 141 that the first round will be on me but I don’t think I can make that.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Breeze.”

“The merc company goes by Order of Ashes.”

Your words are becoming harder to hear as the explosions seem to be getting closer and closer. Gaz is becoming louder, literally screaming into his comms as he near begs for an evac for your squadron. The rest of his team is becoming restless. Price’s grip tightens impossibly tight on the walkie talkie, any tighter and he could probably crush the metal.

“Rain hell on them for me, yeah?”

Price starts calling for your name, only to be interrupted by a deafening static that has him reeling from his own technology. Inexperienced privates that surrounded him flinched at the sound while Gaz fell silent. Soon Price’s walkie talkie falls silent too.

He brings his hand up to activate communications again, a tentative check in.

“Bravo 1-5, do you copy?”

He waits for a moment.

“Fuck. Breeze? Do you copy?”

The next time he calls out to you is the first time he’s hesitant, to the untrained ear he sounded as strong as ever but to him he recognises how his own voice wavers. A gentle call of your actual name, the last resort.

Silence.

Price gives you a few more seconds to answer, each moment more damning than the last. Gaz sends a concerned look his way but words fail him. He’s a good sergeant but his inexperience is showing. He hasn’t fully mastered the poker face, not like Price has.

Eventually he lets out a heavy exhale through his nose, counting each racing heartbeat it takes until it has marginally slowed.

Gaz instinctively straightened up, he didn’t need to see Price’s face to know his captain was transforming before his very eyes. Price adjusts his hat, looking at the rest of his team under the brim.

“Alright, we’ve got double the work and half the manpower. No time to lose, I want this site cleared within the hour, and then we're finding our other half."

With affirmatives all round, the soldiers get to work and so does Price. To the untrained eye, he’s calm, eerily so. As captain, Price can’t afford to lose his cool, it’ll bleed over and smother his team, blanket them in a tense atmosphere of panic and uncertainty. So he stays resolute, acting as the team’s anchor as he guides them towards the objective with precision.

The only emotion that breaks his facade is anger. Pure, unbridled rage that casts a frightening glaze over his eyes. His allies can see it as Price stomps towards the entrance of the site. Al-Qatala most certainly feel it as their lackeys are pummeled to the ground, bones cracking against stone and tiles. They’re not gifted the mercy of a quick bullet, but the pain of slowly bleeding out with broken bones, bruised bodies and limbs jutting out in all the ways they should not. Every bruising punch, every bullet delivered does little to quell the raging storm within him. It brings him closer to the mission objective but it doesn’t bring him closer to you, and that’s the only thing that matters right now. There’s no hostages, no chance of salvation for his enemies. Any form of good will in Price was taken away when you were taken away from him. He hopes whatever god that sees the carnage he’s inflicted knows that it is only a taste of what to come if he ever meets that poor sod.

When his side of the operation is done and the squadron is now leaving the site, Price returns to his comms. He needs to address the other half of the mission, you. Suddenly his tongue feels thick in his mouth as his throat tightens. His collar is suffocating.

“Bravo 0-6 to Watcher-1 do you copy?”

Laswell’s voice rings out.

“Affirmative. We’ve already dispatched birds to Bravo-1’s location, we’ll do what we can and sort out that compound.”

“Do me one more thing. Find me everything you can on the ‘Order of Ashes’. I want names, locations, families, the whole fucking mile.”

“Can do. … Is this for Breeze?”

“Breeze wanted me to rain hell on them…”

Price’s voice is low as he puts a cigar in his mouth. He lights it up, even when the cigar smokes he keeps the lighter on. His eyes narrow at the flickering flame, fixated on it for a moment longer. He’s never been a particularly superstitious man, but he’s asking for Lady Luck to be on his side once again. For the slim chance that you’re somewhere out there, breathing. He’s never been worthy of her favour, but you damn well are so surely she’ll put that into account. She’ll consider that you still have a lot to do, you still have a good luck kiss that Price needs to return. He puts his lighter away.

“... and I intend to deliver.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost preferred his quieter missions. Others feel safer when in a team but more people mean more variables, and more variables mean more fuck ups, and heavens know he’s had enough of those. For Ghost, the less, the better. And yet, when it came to 141, and in particular to you, he’d pick company over going solo in a heartbeat.

Reconnaissance missions were a personal favourite, they were quiet, less violent if done right and often required only a few people. Of course his first person of choice is you, even if you’d always call these missions an “impromptu date” and then chastise him for not planning something more extravagant just to rile him up.

Even now, when you two were starting on opposite sides of the target site a good few kilometres apart, you were connected through communications. He’d listen as you ramble about anything and everything on your mind when the mission gets quiet. It was endearing, it was soothing. Ghost never thought he’d find someone like you with the power to give him a respite even when on duty - or if he ever deserved such a thing. And yet here he was, sitting against a wall, waiting for further instructions from Laswell as you started the purely hypothetical debate on who in the 141 would best survive the zombie apocalypse.

“Honestly, with a mask like yours you could probably blend in with the horde. 10 out of 10 you’d last your entire life like that.”

“Surrounded by brain dead morons? Already have that.”

He heard your laugh that you tried to mask as an exaggerated scoff.

“How long do you think I’d last?”

“One hour at most.”

“Oh come on Ghost, have a bit more faith in me.”

“All Bravo to Watcher-1, we’re awaiting further action, copy.”

As Laswell replies, Simon can already imagine your offended expression as he changes the topic.

“Bravo-1 this is Watcher-1, you are all clear to close in on the perimeter. Do not engage, just tell us what you see.”

“Watcher-1 this is Bravo 1-5, I’m already seeing hostiles.”

Ghost stills, his hand reaching back up to the comms. You’ve always managed to keep it cool but he heard how your sentence ended with a slight waver. It was too early for speculation, but the alarm bells were already going off in his head. The enemy should be clustered within the site, nowhere near where you currently are.

“I’m counting a dozen men, a couple of trucks and- that’s looking like some impressive cargo.”

There’s some extra static as Ghost finds his pace increasing. He won’t be able to reach you soon, but it doesn’t stop his legs from moving towards the site.

“They’re moving quickly, they’ve got an agenda.”

“Stay frosty, Breeze.”

“Got it, Simon.”

Your voice is more of a whisper now, almost blending in with the static. Was the enemy that close to you already? Usually, he loved when you used his actual name. Everyone calls him ‘Ghost’ even off-duty, but you were proper enough to at least always call him by his callsign in battle. You were getting spooked and he was too far away to even try and comfort you.

It was a strain to unclench his balled fists. He wasn’t going to have a mission go wrong, at least not one that involved you. He’d be damned if something took you out before him, because he refused to return to a life where you weren’t yapping his ear off.

“Breeze, head back to exfil.”

“Fuck, they’re heading this way.”

If you found a good place to hide, Ghost could reach you before any enemy did. He had to.

“I’m heading towards your position. E.T.A 20 minutes.”

“Ghost, my spot is now crawling with hostiles. I know you’re a one man army but I think you’re pushing it this time.”

Your laugh was different this time. It wasn’t as hearty as the one he heard before, it was a weak wheeze. Half-hearted, the sound of a bitter and quiet defeat. He could hear your rugged breathing against the end of the mic. If he was actually with you, he’d stand beside you in moments like this, letting you put your body weight on him discreetly as he anchored you to the world. His gloved hand instinctively curls as he imagines himself holding onto your arm.

“Breeze, stay with me. Focus on the objective.”

“You owe me a proper date after this, Ghost.”

“Then make sure you get back in one piece-”

The comms are disrupted with a voice that Ghost can’t recognise, with you returning an indistinguishable shout and a curse. He can’t help calling your name into the comms, only to hear the static of indescribable commotion, bodies shuffling and the harrowing crack of broken bones and limbs. It escalates into a deafening crescendo spanning only a few seconds before the grand finale of a thump of a fallen body. The transmission ends with a damning click. He stops in his tracks before he returns to the comms.

“Breeze? How copy?”

The line has gone dead. Ghost slams his fist into the nearest wall, but it does little to quell the pain from within.

“Bravo this is Watcher-1, what’s your status?”

Ghost pauses at Laswell’s request, he wants you to be the one who replies on his behalf, you usually do. Never did a moment feel so heavy, outweighing his military gear and weapons, almost bringing the hulking man to his knees. His hand reluctantly comes up to activate his walkie talkie. He takes his sweet time, giving you the chance to interrupt. When he finally speaks, his voice is slow as he draws out every syllable, every pause a desperate invitation for you to speak up.

“Bravo 1-5 is M.I.A.”

Laswell is silent on the other side. Ghost lets his head tilt back until it rests on the wall beside him, the guilt made his skull too heavy. With that sentence alone he felt like your executioner, as if he just brought the possibility of you being gone into reality. The only thing he can hear now is the slight rustle of grass against the wind, a backdrop to the rhythmic bass of his pounding heartbeat. This was a typical ambience for solo missions, and Ghost was used to being alone.

But lonely? He had forgotten how it felt ever since you barged into his life. And now that the feeling has returned, he forgot just how utter shit it feels.

“We’re sending immediate backup to their position. We’ll meet you there.”

But by the time he and the squadron make it to your position, there are only the remnants of a battle left in your wake. A few unrecognised bodies are slumped against the walls, furniture is overturned, and dried blood paints the floor as a macabre dye. Most - if not all - of this must have been your handiwork, and if it was any other circumstance Ghost would feel proud, but you’re not beside him for him to praise you. That being said, there is no sign of you, and that leaves him optimistic, but the other soldiers seemed to think differently.

“You know, they say Al-Qatala never takes prisoners,” one jittery private said to another.

“What’re you trying to say? I've seen the Sergeant. Breeze is tough.”

“I’m just saying, even if we can’t find their body they’re probably d-”

“That’s enough,” Ghost snaps his head to them, eyes alight with a rage usually reserved only for his worst enemies. His voice is near unrecognisable, more akin to a growl than any human sound. He will not tolerate anyone speaking ill of you or doubting your capabilities as a soldier. He tells himself he does it for your honour, nothing more, nothing less. He disregards the selfish need for you to return to him as it wittles him down to the bone and contorts his face to a scowl concealed under his mask.

The soldiers hurriedly salute before exiting the room, leaving the lieutenant alone, shoulders and chest heaving before he moves to continue the search.

The team returns empty handed, but that means nothing to Ghost. Even as he’s issued new missions he does not falter. He fights with the same brutality, killing his enemy before they can kill him because he needs to return home. Return home so he can organise a covert mission of his own - retrieving you. No matter the rank or squadron that separates you, no matter if you’re shipped out to the other side of this godforsaken earth, you two are a team. Combat has hardened Ghost into a brutally honest man, many would call him a pessimist, but a stubborn voice in the back of his mind refuses to believe that you’re gone. You’ve always been a tough nut to crack, if you weren’t you wouldn’t be dating him. He’s seen you stare death in the eyes only for you to stand back up beside him. And so he faces forward and doesn’t look back. Because until he has to rip off the freezing metal of a dog tag from your neck, he swears on his stone cold heart that you’re still out there. Maybe a little tattered, perhaps even broken, but living.

Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #task force 141 x reader #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #captain john price #simon ghost riley #cod 141 #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare #/*avery actually writes*/

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oepionie · 1 year

Text

— "MY JOLLY SAILOR BOLD." tweels

💭masterlist | 💬ao3 link

SYNOPSIS: You meet two mysterious yet beautiful mermen around your age and you ask them to sing for you. They agree—though there's one condition....they want a kiss in return. A fair deal and you decide that nothing could possibly go wrong....right?

⊹ [ cw ] — suggestive, making out, lovesick/slightly yan-coded behavior, both of them pin for you, drowning, the tweels deserve a warning themselves, fighting, mild blood and injuries, mentions of murder, everyone here is morally grey◞

⊹ [ tags ] — gn! reader, on my siren eel agenda, flirty pirate mc, siren-eels are not to be messed with but mc is reckless, jade and floyd having an ariel moment but they're…a fucked up version of ariel, typical siren-behavior, floyd calls you pretty◞

⊹ [ w.c ] — 3.3k+◞

WHAT AN ODD LITTLE pirate you were.

Raised by your mother, horrific twisted tales of the deep were practically bedtime stories for you. She was a former ship's captain and a seasoned sailor who had spent more than half of her life at sea.

Mother weaved tales of glorious bloody battles, of thrashing waves, and, most importantly, of dangerous creatures in the sea. Hatred and fear for these grotesque marine creatures have been indoctrinated in you since you were young. It was imbued to the very core of your being, hammered and nailed into your head.

Alas, it appears that you have entirely disregarded the cautions that were issued to you. Any capable pirate knew better than to invite merfolk around.

Especially if you were all alone on a ship.

This year, spring had arrived a little earlier than usual, but you didn't mind at all.

It was at an obscene hour of the night when you were aimlessly paddling your little rowboat over the waves.

Floating a few feet away from your ship, you were gazing out over the sea where the waters were flat and serene, blue as far as your vision would allow. It was a sight you've grown all too accustomed to seeing.

You've sailed a hundred expeditions down this route and you were well aware of the carnage and bloodshed that’s been wrought here in the name of piracy.

A majority of which you've taken part in as—Captain (Y/N).

Young as you were, despite your youth, you had ambition. Already having established yourself as a living legend—or, as some have dubbed you, a living nightmare.

Sailors—young and old—have perished in your name, ships have sunk at your command, and your sword has spilt the blood of hundreds. You had amassed a great fortune from wandering merchants, and fellow pirates alike, all of which were misfortunate enough to fall upon your path.

These were tales and legends from bygone eras; the golden age of piracy had long since passed. Nowadays, you just cruise the sea anyway you pleased.

Adventure seldom found you.

In the middle of reminiscing, you abruptly became aware of a shimmering brilliance beneath the murky sea.

Oh?

'Maybe it was a trick of the waves? Or was it the moonlight's illusion?' You ponder to yourself as you stand at the stern of the boat and look out into the dreary waters.

The entire ocean sleeps when the moon is full. In the middle of the night, no fish or creature would dare remain thus near a boat...so what could possibly be out there?

Peering down, you make eye contact with a pair of glowing yellow eyes, slitted into diamonds.

Startled, the unknown creature slips back into the darkness with scarcely a ripple to disrupt the waves enveloping all about them. You're hypnotized by their shimmering skin as they moved smoothly and elegantly past the icy surfs.

In those short seconds while staring into the pitch-black sea, your mind conjures only one word.

Mermaid.

STRANGE AND STRANGELY FASCINATING, it was. "It" being the obsessive infatuation the Leech twins had for you.

Since they were little, the two brothers have been watching you grow up on that ship, peeping at you behind rocks and tall clusters of brilliant coral.

Curiosity and an interest for humans drew them to you at first, so they thought nothing of it. However, later, as they grew older, that interest developed into something more.

One that made their hearts feel like it was going to burst, a blood-curdling carnage of red and pink spills gushing out in a splatter. With the mere mention of your name, their stomachs sink and turn. The hems of love along their hearts diving into obsession—both feelings closely akin.

Jade and Floyd haven't run upon anyone who was courageous enough to meet creatures like them. Though, they shouldn’t have expected anything less from a pirate like you with an astronomical desire for adventure.

As you waved down at them from the ocean's depths, both of them swiftly swam up to the surface, eager to meet you. Their hands were clamoring and their hearts were racing to a tune that sang praises for you.

"There you are." You grinned handsomely, cocking your head to the side. The flowing fabric of your blouse blew wildly in the fresh salty wind, exposing bits and pieces of your chest and neck for them to see. "Hello~"

Big love-tinted eyes peeked up at you, drinking in every feature, blemish, and scar on your flesh. Occasionally, your gazes would meet and they would quickly avert their stare—a deep blue hue creeping up their cheeks, almost as if they felt bashful around you.

Even then, you thought it would be more appropriate if you were the one who was acting timid.

Because, by the gods, their beauty was such a sight to behold above the waters. In all your years out at sea and land, you've seen no maiden nor man with such features.

Such captivating features.

Teal-haired, with keen, slitted eyes that were veiled with thick, drooping lashes. Cheeks colored with a pale touch of death.

They were breathtakingly beautiful.

There was an urge, a pull at your heart to dive down and join them—drowning yourself in their embrace. Though, you resisted, almost immediately recognizing the sorcery that pulled on your carnal desires.

Mother and weather-beaten sailors had warned you of this. This overwhelming want. This spellbinding stare. Yet as they both drift closer, the forewarned dangers vanishes from your thoughts like mist. You're now left with little more than a hazy consciousness as you see them approach your boat.

You are in grave danger yet you are not afraid. Fear does not grip you as you raise a leg over the side of the boat, swing it over the top of the wood, and then sit over the edge, never taking your eyes off the mermen in front of you.

Their entire body, apart from their eyes, were submerged in the water which made it hard to determine what their species were. Though you could occasionally catch the flicker of their tail slapping against the surface.

Speaking of their tail, it was an utterly resplendent sight! Even if you tried, you wouldn't be able to explain its magnificience as it gleamed brighter than any of the gold or jewels your sullied hands have ever taken hold of.

Its lack of a single color and its vivid, luminous nature fascinated you. Depending on how the moonlight hit it, it radiated a wide range of shades, from the deep tint of blueish teal to a rich shade of bluish jade.

"First time away from your home?" You rasp, waving a hand in the ocean, watching as small ripples curved against the water's surface, tides of the blue abyss travelling outwards.

Minutes pass, and yet you get no response.

"Hmm…you two don't talk much, do you?"

Jade and Floyd knew all about pirates, heard every story, whisper, and tale of the bloodthirsty monsters fueled by lust for gold and glory. And yet, they somehow struggle to picture you as the avaricious captain you were labelled as.

Still, while you appeared free and jovial, both of them could sense that you yearned for the thrill of danger, for life-threatening adventure, and for the many fantastic yet perilous things the ocean has to offer.

They exchanged glances, and at that instant, their plan was set in place.

Appearing docile, Floyd shook his head no, hovering near you and spinning around playfully.

"Awe, aren't you a cute little guy?" You cooed, running a rough hand along his back. The mer shivered, preening at your compliment.

"I really shouldn't be so close to you, though. Us pirates usually avoid approaching any merfolk since…they feel your methods, your ways of living are…" You trailed off, waving a hand in the air as you searched for the right words.

"Spooky?" Jade spoke out, swimming closer to you with a sinister glitter in his eyes. Breath hitching in your throat, you leaned towards him, an amused smirk slowly stretching across your cheeks. "Oh ho? You do talk."

"I can do much more than that." Jade purred, the tone of his voice sinking into a sonorous lull.

Well, you certainly can’t deny that something draws you to these two.

The predictability of your life on these seas has gotten boring to you. Gone were the days of bloodthirsty glory instead, it was always the same routine. Poring over the same ancient yellowed maps, loitering about the deck, and secluding yourself away in the vast sea.

You know your mother would be horrified by your actions, disgusted to see you mingling and, Poseidon forbid—flirting with these…mer.

Though you couldn't bring yourself to care. Speaking with these two was the closest thing to excitement you've felt in a long time.

"That's a pretty voice, love." The grin on your face lacks any of the warmth it had in the past few moments.

You tip your head back and giggle, raspy and brittle, "I heard a mer's song was, um, what did those bards call it? Ah, yes—A voice that is so alluring that men and women jump overboard in squadrons."

"Hauntingly beautiful, that's what the poets call you mermaids…" You hum, watching them slyly from your row boat while reclining back against the wood.

Gaze drifting down their body, your arms folded around your chest and your gaze turned half-lidded, lips curled up in a sensual, cat-like smirk. "…and I can see why. Haunted, I am."

Both of them go abruptly silent and you chuckle, staring at them through the wreaths of grey smoke that curled into fanciful hazy whirls from the foggy environment.

Floyd and Jade squirmed as they both felt the strong pull of their instincts, screaming at them to just drag you into the waters already.

Your conniving praises and silver tongue was starting to get to them. One more push and—

"Say…I've been meaning to ask," You murmur, and seem to take a moment to stare into their innermost souls.

"Can you sing for me…?"

Something snaps.

Floyd makes a low sound, somewhere between a trill and a growl, while Jade's eyes darken considerably. Beneath your piercing, ice-cold gaze, the twins felt their nerves prickle up like the flickering electric stings of a jellyfish.

This is a dangerous game you're playing.

"…You're quite the flatterer," Jade—ever so composed—is quick to snap out of it and smiles simply, tapping his talons along the wooden deck. "…I suppose I could grant you your wish. Though, there is to be an exchange for it."

"Hm? What's that, mate?" You looked up at your ship from your little boat, eyes darting to the windows of your chambers. "That ol' girl isn't new to the seas so there's quite a lot of stuff there. Maybe some of my treasures will catch your fancy—"

"No." Jade interrupts you, the shadow over his eyes returns. "…I do not wish for any treasure or gold. All I want is a kiss."

"A kiss?" You parroted, an eyebrow elevated and amused laughter peaking from your lips. "I have chests of golds and heaps of ruby-eyed jewelry; yet, all you want is a kiss, is that truly what you desire?"

"Yes."

"Nothin' more?"

Jade ponders and pauses for a while, before turning to face his brother. "Floyd, perhaps you want something as well?"

"I wanna kiss from pretty shrimpy too!" Floyd cooed, pursing his lips at you and imitating kissing sounds by hollowing his cheeks. His strong arms, taut with ripping muscle, are crossed over one other as it rests upon the rims of your boat.

"So, what do you say, Captain? Is it a deal~?" Floyd stretches out a hand expectantly.

And you take it.

"Deal." You smirk. "One kiss for each of you, in exchange for a song. Pirate's honor."

Not like the honor of a pirate was worth much anyways.

The melody lifting from Jade's lips was somewhat familiar to you, yet it was of a faraway nostalgia. You couldn’t remember where you'd last heard it, but it felt…right. He had a voice that was velvety smooth; thick, and deep like a dream.

"Upon one summer's morning / I carefully did stray," Jade sang, deep voice flowing off his lips in a sweet honeyed song—its melody lathering itself on your tongue. The saccharine taste of its imbricating rhythm obliterating every bit of skepticism you held towards them. "Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay."

"My heart is pierced by Cupid / I disdain all glittering gold." Jade continued, tucking the long dark strand of his hair behind his ear—leaning his head atop the rickety rims of the boat's mossy wood. "There is nothing can console me / but my jolly sailor bold."

"Come all you pretty fair mers, whoever you may be / Who love a jolly sailor that ploughs the raging sea." Floyd hums along, lovingly tracing a hand up your arm. His voice was a lovely little thing; echoing deep throughout the air.

As expected, they sang beautifully, hauntingly; with an accent in a tongue native only to the sea. There was a mystical lull weaved into their voices—fitting to their titles as bewitching creatures of the sea.

"My heart is pierced by Cupid /I disdain all glittering gold." Jade stares straight ahead, his sapphire gaze alluringly fixed on you seated in front of him.

"There is nothing can console me…" Pushing himself up the wooden edge of your boat, the eel lures you over and you followed. "…but my jolly sailor bold."

As Jade's song came to its finality, he leaned in close and pressed a swift warm kiss atop your agape mouth, such tenderness in his affections—and that of heavily masked lust. The eel parted from you, nipping at your bottom lip and watching with unbridled delight as a flicker of pink hue glazed over your diluted eyes.

"Come in the water, shrimpy~" Floyd cooed at you, claws reaching out to trace against the curve of the ships side. "We don't bite~"

Songbound, you leaned in towards the two and plunged in.

You don’t think about holding your breath.

The water was ice-cold and it strikes at you like a venomous bite. Yet before you could sink, two strong hands grasp at your waist, keeping you afloat in spite of the rough rocks of the sea. Jade was cradling you close to his chest, his hold firm and uncompromising while his tail encircled and bound your legs together.

"Hello, shrimpy~" Crooning, Floyd moved to rest his wet cheek against your tangled hair, talons pushing past the fringes of your damp torn-up shawl to rest against your thighs.

The slippery pads of his fingers trailed up to your torso; Travelling from your hips, past your corset, all the way up to your chest. The eel toyed with the drawstrings of your poet shirt before grasping it tight and yanking you forward.

"You're so pretty~" Floyd trailed his other hand up your neck, sharp talons feathering over your pulse dangerously. The eel craned his head down to meet you eye to eye.

"I could just eat you up." The silky strands of his lashes fluttered against his lidded gaze as he leaned in close, breath fanning across your burning cheeks. Floyd pulled you into a deep kiss, loving the way you groaned against his mouth.

Chuckling against your lips, Floyd tightened his hold on your neck—his claws almost breaking skin, "You like that, shrimpy?"

You return the kiss, dazedly smiling against his lips before pulling away, lungs in desperate need of oxygen.

Floyd could see drops of water resting atop your swollen lips, and as your tongue darts out to wipe them, a fiery desire ignites in the deep curves and crooks of his heart. It didn't take long before he was diving in once more, lips pressing against the side of your neck.

While his brother was fixated on marking your skin, Jade hugged you from behind—affectionately cuddling into your hair.

The eel ran his hand up your throat and grasps your jaw with webbed hands to tilt your head backwards. He presses his lips against yours, the thick muscle of his tongue prying your mouth open before it darted in.

Floyd glides away from your form after a few minutes, leaving your neck sufficiently bitten and marked. He grinned excitedly and took your hands in his webbed ones, whisking you away from Jade.

You couldn't help but notice how he was gently dragging you away from the rowboat. "Say, shrimpy~ You ever wondered what it's like to swim under the sea?"

A flash of clarity hits you, shattering the enchanting spell that both mermen had cast upon your heart. You sensed danger as both eels started to close in, grinning ominously which revealed their fangs—long and dripping with thirst.

It seems that your fun little swim was over.

"I can't say I've ever experienced the pleasures of drowning—" you muttered. "And I don't intend to do so very soon."

The texture of their tails may appear solid and rough, but when you kick your legs at Floyd's, you immediately discover how the skin is supple when touched.

The sharp end of your worn boots cut at his silky luminescent skin, dragging along the scales of his flesh and leaving a deep cut in its wake. A small trickle of blue blood spreads into the waters and the eel hisses, darting away from you.

You try to swim away, but something—or rather, someone—gets in your way.

"My my, leaving so soon, pearl?" Jade quips, grin all-to-sharp.

In hindsight, it was foolish to interact with two mermen you hardly knew, especially ones who were taut with sharp teeth and firm muscles. Any pirate with half a mind would know to turn the other way and flee if these two approached them.

The mer both advanced to surround you, a mysterious glimmer swimming behind the haze of their duo-colored eyes.

A startling epiphany rushes over you.

As slippery as they might be, there’s no hiding the lethal sheen of pink in their eyes—especially not from you, a pirate who’s spent a fair number of their days hauling the cold dead bodies of lovesick sailors away from their watery graves.

These two weren't your run-of-the-mill mermen, no. You have heard about them before—in tales and legends.

Mermaids. Vampires of the sea. Water nymphs. Naiads. Sirens.

Many names, yet they are all the same.

A sighting like this is not unusual. This species of mer is mostly found in the deepest, darkest sections of the ocean, and they only come up to hunt at night.

It seems that you've walked right into their trap. Sailors were their easiest prey.

"Ah." You grit your teeth, a low, breathy snarl slipping past your swollen lips. "I should've known."

There’s a warm yet strong pressure against your shoulders and arms; followed by an odd feeling of heaviness as you were suddenly propelled down the water's surface. Webbed hands keep you pinned beneath the waves and you're suddenly all-too-aware of your body's exhaustion; of the salty liquid flowing past your tongue and the scorching gurgle that ignites your lungs as water fills it.

There's a ruckus around you, and you can barely hear Jade's voice, who was eerily calm in the midst of your murder. A bottle is then abruptly forced into your mouth, the potion within it spilling down your throat and leaving you disoriented.

It appears that today is the day that the monotony in your life finally ends. The pull of unconsciousness becomes too strong to resist, and the world darkens.

TO BE CONTINUED...?

—TAGLIST:

꒰ ♡🧷: COMMENT HERE TO BE TAGGED IN MY WORKS

@keedas @spadecentral @crypticbibliophile @pastellepastary @cassidycampfire @cocomollo @poisoniousheart @kawaiipotatoghost @ramvuda @sweeneyblue1 @the-lost-anime-dad @kyraxiyn @mayaaaeo @fluffimemes @awkwardspontaneity @phoneandchips @gussuri @mushroomchaos101 @rainybeebs @furoidoleech @lunavixia @heatofmyexoheart @veras-fanfic-reblogs @pianopuppygirl @cross-crye

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #octavinelle x reader #twst jade leech #twst floyd leech #jade leech #floyd leech #tweels #tweels x reader

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quirky-vg · 2 years

Photo

From: Code Age Commanders: Tsugu Mono Tsugareru Mono

#Code Age Commanders: Tsugu Mono Tsugareru Mono #Code Age Commanders #ps2 #playstation

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lazinesswrites · 4 months

Note

50 Ways to Leave Your Empire for Wip Wednesday!

Here you go - some angsty Cody! It'll get better

He wonders, now, if he ever actually did earn that loyalty, if either of them did, or if his brothers were all just programmed to follow orders. He doesn’t know if that’s even possible, to program people, though if anyone could figure out how, it’s probably the Kaminoans. And what other explanation could there be, for—for what happened on Utapau?

Find the rules and titles for this week's WIP Wednesday ask game here.

#Star Wars: The Clone Wars #Star Wars: The Bad Batch #Commander Cody #Utapau #WIP Excerpt #WIP Wednesday #50 ways to leave your empire #keep off the main roads Codes #I'm tagging both TCW and TBB because the fic takes place during TBB and draws from both shows and the snippet references TCW #WIPW AG #Ask Laz

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simpforboys · 1 year

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Just an idea but olo'eyktan!neteyam and preggo!reader but it's that one scene from ice age 3 where the dads like panicking and running around thinking that the baby's coming but its was actually a kick. (LOOK IK THE MOVIES ABOUT 12 FOOT FURRY ELEPHANTS BUT DON"T JUDGE ME ITS A 3AM THOUGHT) (link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfxmRsWGg_0)

-🍄

i think this is my sign to rewatch the ice age movies (i'm an ice age stan)

right here

olo'eyktan!neteyam x fem!pregnant!reader

summary: when a false rumor gets back to neteyam, it leads the anxious mighty warrior to panic

warnings: fluff, pre-dad!neteyam, swearing, neteyam is my fav boy ever

aged up characters

the raging wind blew neteyam's long braids as he rode his ikran, soldiers following behind him as they made their weekly hunt.

neteyam's ears flicked from the wind, his loincloth and feathered vest blowing gracefully.

neteyam called out to his warriors, circling in on an animal pack.

however, as they were beginning to land their ikrans, a call came in through the ear piece the group were wearing.

"neteyam- it is y/n. she has gone into labor."

neteyam's body froze once he heard lo'ak speak. his heart was pounding as the men and women looked at their leader, waiting for his word.

"continue with the kill."

his command was quick as he took off, ikran roaring as the banshee felt neteyam's nerves. he hadn't noticed his shaky hands and pounding heartbeat, his focus on getting home to you.

he landed quickly in the high camp, surprised there aren't more people panicking.

"where is y/n?" neteyam asked one of the people. the girl just shrugged back in response, watching neteyam take off.

"neteyam!" lo'ak caught sight of his brother. they both ran towards each other.

"where is she?" neteyam rushed.

"over here, c'mon, bro!" lo'ak lead his brother.

"i'm having a baby!" he announced to the clan, excitement taking over his long body.

people whooped and cheered, the women and children cocking their head at the olo'eyktan.

there had been no sign from eywa of you having your child, being only eight months along.

"code blue! code blue!" lo'ak ran with his brother, their large feet padding against the stone ground.

"or pink if it's a girl." neteyam happily slapped his brother's shoulder.

the tent was getting closer, neteyam pausing to grab some fresh water for you. his excitement was turning into nerves as lo'ak looked at his hesitant brother.

"what is wrong?" he asked, confusedly walking up to neteyam.

"it's finally happening... and i-"

"what is finally happening?"

your gentle voice scared both the brothers, your bulging belly appearing from the tent.

"my love- aren't you supposed to be in labor?"

neteyam's giant hand placed itself on your belly, feeling your baby kick against his palm.

"what?" you asked, your brow bow furrowing at your mate.

"oh my eywa- lo'ak i told you! it was just a kick!"

neteyam's ears fell flat as he looked between you and his little brother, the future uncle now blushing from embarrassment.

you rolled your eyes at lo'ak, feeling neteyam's hand travel down near the band of your loincloth. he stood on his knees, face by your tummy as he kissed your belly button.

"you gave sempu (daddy) a scare, baby."

"mhm." you playfully rolled your eyes, softly punching lo'ak in the arm.

"hey!"

the surrounding clan members whom where excited to welcome their future olo'eyktan or tsahik frowned from lo'ak's false rumor.

"that is the second false alarm this month!" a child pouted.

"alright people, nothing to see here." lo'ak pushed away the crowd as they went back to their tasks.

"darling, i know you are nervous. i am too, but that was a bit too much." you cupped neteyam's face as he stood now, slightly towering over you.

your pregnancy made your height shrink slightly, going from 8'8 to 8'6. neteyam kissed your forehead, standing at 9'4.

"i am sorry, i am just scared."

you rubbed your belly as your made pulled you into his embrace.

"i have seen you with tuk and the children, ma neteyam. you are going to be an amazing father."

neteyam reassuringly smiled.

"i will be right here with you every step of the way."

and once the baby did come, neteyam was calmer than ever (on the outside, not internally).

this was so cute omg

#neteyam x y/n #neteyam sully #neteyam #simpforboys #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully smut #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam oneshot #olo’eyktan neteyam #neteyam x you #avatar 2022 #avatar 2 #avatar #avatar the way of water #pregnant!reader #avatar neteyam

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heyitsaloy · 11 months

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Hello BioWare fans! I've got a code for 20% your entire purchase for BioWareGear. It's good until June 7th! Don't let this deal blow past you!

Code: BW52XKIW

#bioware #bioware ambassador #discount code #mass effect #dragon age #pathfinder ryder #commander shepard #discount #bioware gear #bioware merch #bioware merchandise

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starrierknight · 6 months

Text

𝟎𝟐𝟕. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝❟ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

You don’t work or play by the rules. So what if that’s unfair? This is a dog-eat-dog world, and the losers get left behind.

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 4.4k

Pairing— femme fatale!dom!gn!reader x CEO!sub!nanami

cws/tags— dub-con, blackmail (non-consensual filming), sadistic & manipulative reader, reader is gn but has the femme fatale personality, handjob, denied orgasm, very dialogue heavy, petnames (“mister”—it’s ironic, I swear), seduction, porn w/ plot, nanami is def ooc but we move

Stepping into Nanami Kento’s office, you were greeted by an aura of opulence. Mahogany desks and leather chairs exude sophistication. Sunlight filtered through expansive windows, casting a warm glow on plush carpets. A massive desk stood at the centre, impeccably organised with high-tech gadgets. Bookshelves held volumes on leadership and success. A cosy seating area boasted a plush sofa for informal discussions. Crystal decanters held aged spirits atop a sideboard. The atmosphere is both commanding and comfortable, a reflection of power and accomplishment, much like the CEO himself.

“You're late,” Nanami said, his voice monotone.

His words slid out with the click-clack of his keyboard, his gaze fixed on the screen as he typed away. You stepped into the room, the gentle swish of your clothing brushing the air as you approached.

“I'm not late,” you responded, your voice a composed counterpoint to his. “You’re just early.”

The subtle rustle of paper on the desk danced beneath the weight of your words. A faint huff of a sigh escaped him, a sound as controlled as his meticulously timed schedule. Disciplined. Unflappable. A smile ghosted across Nanami's lips, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You're my personal assistant,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of authority, “and I'm the CEO, ergo, I am always on time.”

"My, my," you remarked playfully, "Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

You glided across the expanse of the office, the soft rustle of your steps harmonizing with the gentle fluttering of a neatly organised stack of colour-coded papers as you set them down in a tray. A wry smile tugged at his lips.

"You're well aware that my patience for idle chatter is limited, and yet you persist in indulging in it," his voice rippled, a controlled undertone of exasperation tracing each syllable.

A subtle sigh slipped from your lips, and you found yourself easing against the edge of his desk, a connection between you and the polished surface. His fingers danced across the keyboard, a symphony of clicks and clacks that held his full attention, leaving you in the periphery.

"Any luck in your pursuit of the elusive mole?" Your words held a touch of frustration, "It's as if the leaks are gaining a life of their own, more persistent with each passing day."

In response, Nanami emitted a contemplative hum, a low note that resonated like distant thunder. "No luck so far," he mused, his voice a steady rhythm. "I’m having the matter investigated."

“You keep saying that, but nothing’s changed. You’re no closer to finding them, are you?” you spoke with a hint of weariness.

"That's classified information," he responded absentmindedly, his attention still tethered to the computer.

A wisp of frustration danced through your tone, like a fleeting shadow cast by a cloud passing over the sun. “I’m your personal assistant. I work for this company. Don’t you think I should know?”

"No," his response fell with the weight of finality, a single syllable that seemed to close the door on any further discussion. “Oh, and please rearrange my appointments and schedule them to be spread out over next week. Make sure they’re at quieter times,” Nanami's voice rolled out, a desert breeze carrying his words with a touch of dryness.

His instructions hung in the air, like a solitary tumbleweed drifting through the vast expanse of conversation. Tense. Stiff.

“Right. Of course, I’ll handle that,” you said with a tight smile.

✦•···················•✦•···················•✦

As you stepped into Nanami's office once again, the day's familiarity seemed to have taken a toll on him. The air felt different, thick with a weariness that hung around him like a heavy shroud. Unlike his usual poised stance, he now slouched in his chair—an uncommon sight that hinted at the cracks beneath his composed exterior. His blazer lay discarded, and his tie now hung in a relaxed loop, an admission of defeat.

"Hey, mister?" your voice was a gentle note, carrying with it a touch of casual familiarity.

A low, almost exasperated groan rumbled from his throat. "I've reminded you before not to address me like that," he muttered, his response laced with a note of resigned annoyance.

Your lips curved into a playful smile as you ventured further into the office, a glimmer of mischief dancing in your eyes. "You know, deep down, you don't mind it."

A heavy sigh accompanied his response, a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "I assure you, I do indeed mind it."

Your retort danced through the air like, a sing-song lilt that brushed against his ears. "Oh, but I beg to differ. It's just one of those little things that make our interactions all the more interesting, mister."

A grumbled complaint slipped from his lips, a muttered protest that bore the weight of his vexation. Your soft laughter swirled in response, a ripple of amusement. Despite his discontent, there was a subtle warmth in the air, a familiarity that seemed to soften the edges of his irritation.

Taking purposeful steps, you approached his desk with an air of ease, your movements a graceful choreography as you began to tidy the scattered papers, pens, and stationery that lay strewn across its surface. You leaned your phone against a stack of folders, propping it up. The soft clinks and rustles of objects finding their proper places formed a familiar symphony of order being restored.

Seated now on the edge of his desk, your presence became the focal point of the room as you regarded him with a tilt of your head. Your gaze held a mixture of intrigue and amusement, a silent reminder that amidst the rigors of his role, a moment of reprieve was found in your interactions.

“You’re looking a little worse for wear. Is something the matter?”

Nanami’s response was a heavy exhalation that held a burden of weariness too profound to be carried by mere words.

"Another breach occurred not long ago," his words carried the weight of a confession, spoken with a tinge of resignation. His eyes remained closed, a refuge from the world's chaos that seemed to press upon him relentlessly. "This time, it's worse. The most sensitive data yet has been exposed to the public. PR is grappling with the fallout, and Finance is in utter disarray."

"And so soon after the last one," you murmured, the words gentle. “You look tired, mister. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, a gesture of both fatigue and frustration, and at last, his eyes lifted to meet your gaze. Even from a distance, the telltale shadows under his eyes were evident, testimony to the toll his responsibilities had exacted.

"Don’t call me that," his voice emerged rough and worn. Exhausted.

Undeterred, your inquiry persisted, soft yet insistent. "So, tell me—have you been caring for yourself?"

A moment of stillness hung in the air, punctuated by the weight of unspoken thoughts. Then, his reply emerged, a sentence that bore the weight of conviction. "My primary duty is to safeguard the company."

A playful glint sparked in your eyes, and your expression shifted into a mockingly stern glare. You smoothly slid off the edge of the desk, your movements fluid and graceful, as you began a deliberate saunter towards his side of the desk. With each step, a subtle sway graced your hips, a movement that was both confident and teasing in nature. The air seemed to carry a touch of lightheartedness, a momentary diversion from the weight of the situation at hand.

A theatrical tsk escaped your lips, carrying with it a sense of exaggerated disappointment to playfully scold him. "Oh dear, dear mister. Letting yourself go to ruins is simply unacceptable. As your ever-watchful PA, I can't stand by and let you suffer."

With purposeful steps, you rounded the desk, your movements fluid and deliberate. The air seemed to hold a hint of anticipation, a quiet thrill woven into the atmosphere.

As you stood behind his chair, your hands found their way to his shoulders, their presence an assertion of care. Your touch was confident, fingers dancing with practiced skill as they worked to knead away the knots of tension that had taken residence in his muscles. He stiffened beneath your touch, a reflexive reaction to the unfamiliar sensation, yet your assurance seemed to melt the resistance away. While surprise lingered in the air, there was also a sense of yielding, a quiet acceptance of the relief you offered.

Nanami's words carried a note of reluctance, a protest against the unexpected intrusion of your care. "I didn't ask for this," his voice murmured, a touch of reservation threading through his words.

A knowing smile curved your lips, your fingers working with practiced ease as you continued to knead away the knots in his shoulders. "You didn't need to ask," you replied smoothly, your tone carrying a touch of reassurance that seemed to seep into the very air around you.

A brief silence settled between you, punctuated by the rhythm of your touch. Then his voice emerged once more, a murmur tinged with both realization and resignation. "You're my PA."

"And what does PA stand for?"

His reply held a touch of understanding, a recognition that seemed to settle the matter. "Personal assistant."

"Exactly," you whispered, “I’m your personal assistant.”

You let the silence hang in the air. Your hands continued their gentle ministrations, the cotton fabric of his shirt crinkling beneath your fingertips. As your fingers traversed the landscape of his shoulders, they encountered the subtle contours and defined edges of a physique sculpted by discipline.

Time seemed to melt, a river that flowed at its own unhurried pace. Slowly, the tension in him began to yield, a reluctant surrender that mirrored the reluctant acceptance in his posture. The weight of his responsibilities seemed to wane, at least momentarily, under the soothing spell of your touch.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, a melodic note that floated through the air as your hands continued their soothing dance.

"You really ought to take better care of yourself, mister," your words held a touch of playful admonishment, a reminder woven with concern. "Your muscles are like a stone wall."

The response that came was curt, his voice carrying a note of irritation as he pushed back against your insistence. "I'm fine, and I've asked you not to address me that way."

"How many nights have you found yourself working overtime again?" Your question hung in the air like a gentle nudge, an invitation for him to acknowledge the reality of his situation.

A pause, and then his voice emerged, a touch gruff yet revealing of the underlying truth. "It doesn't matter."

A note of knowing crept into your voice, “Doesn’t matter? You hate working overtime.”

"I'm the CEO, and I must prioritize what's in the best interest of the company, regardless of the personal cost."

A contemplative hum escaped your lips as your skilled fingers traveled to his neck, where tension seemed to have found another stronghold. His reaction was a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, his gaze meeting yours with a furrowed brow and a hesitant parting of his lips that hinted at a forthcoming objection, yet it remained unspoken.

The soothing pressure of your fingers worked its magic, coaxing the knots to unravel beneath your touch. As you continued your massage, a question emerged from your lips, gentle yet probing. "So, if you don't take care of yourself, then who takes care of you?"

Nanami’s response held an air of stubborn independence, a declaration of self-sufficiency against the encroachment of care. "I'm an adult. I don't need anyone to look after me."

Your voice dipped to a murmur, a whisper that seemed to bridge the gap between you and him, and your warm breath brushed across the nape of his neck. "Who takes care of you?" you repeated, your words a gentle caress against his skin.

His response, however, was unwavering, a declaration that seemed to echo with an unyielding determination. "I take care of myself.”

A playful smirk curved your lips as your fingers wove through the strands of his sleek, blond hair, a gesture that seemed to stir a reaction deep within him. His breath caught in his throat, a shuddering exhale that betrayed the impact of your touch.

“Some things are better done by yourself… some things.”

You leaned in closer, your presence enveloping him as the back of Nanami’s head nestled against your chest. The warmth of your body radiated against his back as your skilled fingers continued their massage, now tracing delicate patterns across his scalp. Your nails grazed along the tender areas, setting off a cascade of sensations that seemed to quicken his breath.

The combination of your sinuous touch and the implications woven into your words created a heady tension in the room. His heart responded with an erratic beat, a rhythm that threatened to betray the carefully impassive expression he wore. Yet, he remained composed, a façade of control in the face of the enticing distraction you presented.

“Is it hard?”

His breath hitched, and he coughed. “P-Pardon?”

You let out a soft, knowing laugh. Leaning closer, your lips brushed the delicate shell of his ear, your words a sultry whisper that set his skin ablaze. “Being CEO. Is it hard, Kento?” you murmured, uttering his name with a familiarity that had been absent for far too long.

It was as if a barrier had crumbled, a threshold crossed, and the effect was electrifying. The weight of his name on your lips seemed to hang in the air like a revelation. After a year of playful nicknames—of godforbidden “mister”—and dances around formality, this simple act held a weight of significance. Oh, his name had never sounded so sweet in his entire life.

With an effortful composure, he replied, his voice carrying a veneer of forced calmness. "It's perfectly within my control."

The sound of your voice, the proximity of your breath, seemed to amplify the tension in the room. He closed his eyes, as if seeking refuge from the turmoil that swirled within him, struggling to steady his breathing.

But your words, like a siren's song, continued their subtle seduction. "Stressed, Kento?" you purred, the name a velvet caress against his ear.

As your hands slid down, tracing the contours of his neck and finding their way to the concealed muscles beneath his shirt, his heart quickened its rhythm. A smile, hidden from his view, danced upon your lips, a sign of the satisfaction you derived from the effect you had on him. You pressed a kiss upon the sensitive skin just below one of his earlobes, a gesture that sent a shiver through him. The tension in the room seemed to thicken, the air electrified by an unspoken desire.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered.

“You want me to,” you murmured back, “And you want it badly.”

Your hands continued their exploratory journey, tracing a path of tantalizing sensation down his chest, each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. They ventured lower, gliding over the firm expanse of his abdomen, mapping the contours of his physique.

As your fingers descended further, they encountered the defined muscles of his thighs, your touch igniting a web of sensations that seemed to pulse through his body. He remained still, his breathing now increasing, his body responding to the magnetic allure of your touch. The room pulsed with a charged energy, begging to be acknowledged.

His hands closed around your wrists, putting a halt to the tantalizing journey of your hands, but they didn't push you away. The tension in the room hung thick, a precarious balance between restraint and desire.

"This is a workplace," Kento protested, his voice carrying a note of caution.

A playful spark danced in your eyes as you retorted, your words dripping with a seductive undertone. "Who says this won’t be for work?"

With a tantalizing grace, you lowered your head and pressed your lips to his neck once more, trailing kisses along the warm, sensitive skin. Your tongue and teeth teased over the surface, each movement a deliberate exploration that sent a shiver of longing through him.

“Oh, c’mon. You know you want it. I can feel it—you sure as hell can. Why deny yourself the satisfaction?” you murmured into his ear.

You lightly bit his neck and he gasped, his heart skipping a beat, and his grip on your wrists faltered. You took the opportunity to slide your hands to his thighs again, caressing the inner and most sensitive parts. He made some noise of desire in the back of his throat, his breathing growing ragged.

A low, sultry chuckle accompanied your whispered words, the sound a velvet invitation that seemed to stir the air around you.

"Don't be coy," you murmured into his ear, your voice a honey-like whisper that washed over him. "You want this as much as I do, Kento. I can feel it, and so can you. Why deny yourself the satisfaction?"

Your teeth grazed his neck lightly, a tantalizing nip that sent a shiver coursing through him. His grip on your wrists faltered, and you seized the opportunity, your hands slipping back to the sensitive terrain of his thighs. Your touch was delicate yet insistent, caressing the innermost and most sensitive parts. A guttural sound of desire escaped him, a primal expression of longing that mingled with his ragged breathing. The office walls seemed to close in around you, as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and it was just you and Kento’s desire.

A low, tormented groan escaped him as his eyes fell shut, his internal struggle evident in the furrow of his brow. “This is so wrong.”

Your voice was a velvet caress as you posed your question, a tempting proposition that seemed to hang in the air like a forbidden fruit. "Is pleasure so wrong, Kento?" you purred, "Don't you deserve this?"

Desire ignited like a blazing fire, consuming every trace of resistance that had remained. As your dominant hand found its way to the growing bulge concealed by the fabric of his trousers, he couldn't help but release a breathy groan. His hips, almost imperceptibly, moved in response, a subconscious plea for more. Desire coursed white-hot through him, pooling between his thighs.

His hoarse mumble was a plea, a desperate attempt to reassert control in the face of mounting desire. "You should stop," he rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of longing and restraint.

Your laughter, low and seductive, rippled through the air, brushing against his ear and sending shivers cascading down his spine.

"You don't want me to stop," you countered, your words a teasing assertion that seemed to strip away the last shreds of his resistance.

Kento's hands gripped the armrests of his chair with a desperate intensity, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain his grasp on composure in the face of overwhelming temptation.

Your words were a siren's call, a sultry enticement that seemed to draw him deeper into the vortex of desire. "C'mon now," you coaxed, your voice a velvet temptation, "You want me to touch you, to make a mess of you, to take care of you like no one else ever has."

With a confident touch, you rubbed the growing bulge between his thighs more firmly, causing his breath to hitch and a shuddering groan to escape his lips.

His voice emerged, a whisper of uncertainty and longing. "Y-You'll take care of me?"

You met his vulnerability with a promise that dripped with seductive allure. "Yes," you affirmed, your words a whispered caress, "Like no one else ever has."

Or will… You smirked.

As you unzipped the fly of his trousers and began to tug them down his strong thighs, Kento obediently lifted his hips to assist you in the tantalizing descent. The anticipation in the room was palpable, the air thick with desire.

The hard, throbbing length beneath the thin fabric of his boxers was damp along a certain path, evidence of his heightened arousal. Your finger pressed against the dampness, and Kento hissed sharply through his teeth. It was as if a current of electricity shot through every nerve in his body, pooling at the base of his spine, aching need pulsating within his throbbing cock.

With a tantalizingly deliberate movement, you pushed his boxers away, unveiling the long, aching length of his erection as it sprung free from its confinements. His breath caught in his throat at the sudden sensation of freedom and your touch.

One of your hands ventured down his body, seeking the source of his arousal, and you began to stroke him with a measured pace that balanced comfort and intensity. A deep, throaty moan escaped him, and he couldn't help but push his hips forward ever so slightly, a silent plea for more, tempered by the fear that you might pull away if he was too insistent.

His eyes remained shut, his body leaning into you as if seeking the reassuring pressure of your chest against his back. Every stroke of your hand sent waves of pleasure rippling through him, building an exquisite tension that threatened to tip him over the edge.

Your words dripped with wicked allure, a sultry taunt that sent shivers of desire racing through him. "You can't even deny how badly you need this," you cooed, a wicked smirk gracing your lips, your voice a seductive melody.

“Please…”

A guttural plea escaped him, his voice strained with longing as he groaned, his brow furrowing in desperation. Beads of perspiration formed on his skin, glistening in the office light.

Your touch was a maddening tease, the soft pad of your thumb tantalizingly swiping across the aching head of his cock. It was a taste of what you could do, a whisper of the pleasure you could elicit, the gentle pressure of your fingers a torment that electrified his sensitive length.

Kento's breathing grew more ragged, his body quivering with anticipation and desire. Every stroke of your thumb sent jolts of pleasure coursing through him, a tantalizing promise of the ecstasy that lay just beyond reach.

His hips bucked urgently into your hand, a desperate quest for the all-consuming release that eluded him. A guttural moan erupted from his lips, echoing through the room, and you silenced it with your free hand, your fingers pressed against his lips. In his ear, you whispered teasing, shushing sounds, a sensuous torment that only served to stoke the flames of his desire.

The tension in the room was palpable, a relentless crescendo of longing that seemed to spiral upward with each passing moment. His body quivered with anticipation, his heart raced, and he could feel the precipice of his orgasm looming ever closer.

"You know," you breathed, "I've waited a long time for this moment."

As if to emphasize your words, you slowed the pace of your hand, your touch a slow, torturous caress that seemed to drive him to the brink. He groaned in response, his head hanging low, his hips stubbornly seeking the pleasure that danced just beyond his reach. The room seemed to hum with desire.

In the throes of ecstasy, just as the climax threatened to wash over him, you removed your hand with cruel precision, a disdainful gesture as you wiped it casually on the shoulder of his expensive shirt. Kento all but cried out at the sudden loss of sensation, his whole body shuddering in response.

He groaned in frustration, his eyes filled with pleading confusion as he looked at you, the desperate desire still flickering in their depths. The room seemed to hang in a suspended moment, a tableau of torment and longing that left him on the brink of fulfillment, yet denied the release he so craved.

Your laughter, low and sardonic, filled the room, a taunting echo that seemed to reverberate in the air. With a saunter, you circled around his chair, moving to his desk and retrieving your phone, which had been propped up against a stack of folders. The video on the screen was ended, freezing the moment of his desperate longing.

"Quite the performance, Kento," you taunted, your words a playful mockery that laced with satisfaction.

The boundaries of the office had been breached, and the power dynamics had shifted in a way that left no room for doubt—you openly held the upper hand.

With a bold flourish, you lifted your phone high, turning the volume up to ensure every nuance of the recorded encounter could be heard. You skipped through selected sections of the video, each moment meticulously chosen to capture the essence of the temptation and desire that had unfolded within the confines of the office.

As the video played, the room seemed to resonate with the sounds of his seduction, his pleas, his moans—each intimate detail laid bare for him to witness. There was no avoiding it; the evidence was undeniable, and it hung in the air.

His chest rose and fell with the turmoil of emotions, and a betrayed expression contorted his typically composed features. The question escaped his lips like a lament, a whispered plea for understanding: “Why?”

Your posture exuded an air of casual indifference as you leaned against his desk, a playful tilt to your head that underscored your enjoyment of his discomfort. His question seemed to hang in the air, unanswered, as you chose to focus on the task at hand.

"So, Kento," you murmured, your tone a seductive tease, "What should I leak next: more of the company's closely guarded data, or this scorching little video?"

A mixture of disbelief and regret tainted his muttered words. "How... H-How could you?"

Your laughter was a sharp retort, a mocking response to his question. "How could I? Oh, Kento, you're so fucking naїve."

His gulp was audible, his voice barely above a whisper as he ventured, "How much is it you want, exactly? What's your price?"

A sly grin curled upon your lips as you leaned closer, your words dripping with seductive allure. "I want everything you can give me."

a/n: he (effectively) lost his job by getting a handjob LOL. poor guy. jokes, idc, this was written out of spite. Happy Kinktober :3

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

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