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scorpiussage · 9 months

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The Robin to My Batman (Neil Lewis/Fem!OC)

Pairing: Neil Lewis/Fem!OC

Summary: A comic book store opens up next to Gumshoe Video prompting a hot and heavy feud between the two businesses and their nerdy owners.

Theme: Romance - Enemies to Lovers

Warnings: Nerds being nerds, smut

The early morning walks to open Gumshoe Video are always enjoyable for Neil. He loves getting coffee from that family owned Armenian coffee shop down the street, greeting the old man who owns the hardware store across the street, and contemplating what the day’s theme should be.

However, his gorgeous, peaceful morning comes to a screeching halt as he spots a large moving truck parked in front of Gumshoe— no, parked in front of the vacant store to the left of his. He quickly darts into the alleyway across the street and watches with mounting horror as some—so far unrecognizable—new business moves in.

“No no no no no,” Neil mutters to himself, already picturing the worst case scenario. What if it’s a competing video store? Or perhaps on of those Christian shops that sells over priced bible themed tchotchkes? Both are miserable possibilities and he has no idea what he’ll do if either of those ends up being the case.

When the coast is clear of movers, Neil goes sprinting into his store and making a made dash for the phone to call his friends.

He has a bad feeling about this.

…

The first time he sees her is at the grand opening of Golden Age Comics, the new comic book store next door. The first thing he sees when he walks in isn’t the life sized cutouts of various comic book characters placed strategically about nor the wall display of rare figurines.

No, the first thing he sees is her, Bailey Taylor, the owner of the shop. She’s dressed like Wonder Woman, displaying these long shapely legs that have Neil’s jaw going slack in awe. She flutters about the store, greeting customers and advertising the big grand opening sale she’s running.

Johnathan and Lucien, who came into the store with him, start needling each other excitedly, muttering about how hot she is and Neil can only feel dread. This can only spell bad news, he just knows it.

Not at all like a coward, he quickly flees the store before she can approach him.

…

The first time he actually meets Bailey, she comes into his shop. Today Gumshoe is having a deal on westerns and so Neil is dressed accordingly as a cowboy. When she walks into his store, it creates a rather comical juxtaposition as it appears her own store is having a sale on Japanese manga.

Sailor Moon Bailey and Cowboy Neil stare each other down.

“Um, hi,” she greets with an awkward little wave, her smile bright despite the uncomfortable mood, “I own the comic book store next door. My name is Bailey.”

Neil nods stiffly, doing everything in his power to not stare at how hot she looks in that cosplay. When Neil fails to respond, an irritatingly adorable frown mars her features

“Okay,” she mutters to herself before saying, “Well, I just wanted to see if you’d be willing to do a team-up and have a collaborative sale.”

Neil scoffs, “And what? Hock old Adam West Batman tapes?”

She perks up and nods enthusiastically, “Yes! Exactly! I actually have this really great id-.”

Neil shudders at the thought and cuts her off before she can get going, “The old Batman show is absolute garbage in its cinematic delivery— no way would I subject my customers to that.”

The glare she gives him could cut steel and admittedly makes his happy bits stir in interest.

“Garbage?” She snarls, “That show was a pioneer for superhero media! Just because some over hyped alcoholic wife beater didn’t direct it, doesn’t mean it’s not good!”

Neil’s eyes narrow at her and he crosses his arms, trying to appear more authoritative than he usually looks, “Oh believe me, the director has nothing to do with the bad editing and poor visual shots!”

The woman looks like she’s visibly holding herself back from launching herself over the counter and decking Neil in the face. His cock makes another inappropriate twitch at the thought and he internally scolds himself for these reactions.

Without another word, Bailey storms out of the store and stomps her way back to her own shop and Neil breathes a sigh of relief.

God, he really needs to get laid if some uneducated comic dork is getting him riled up.

…

After that disastrous first encounter, a Cold War of sorts settles over the two businesses. If Neil is having a sale, Bailey will have a better one. If Neil does a midnight showing of a movie, Bailey hosts a free-to-join D&D party. If Neil dressed up, Bailey does too but does it better.

It’s aggravating.

Neil doesn’t even know what it is about her that has him going absolutely insane, but it’s beginning to be a problem. For instance, last week she dressed up like Cat Woman and strutted about both in and out of her store, placing herself in full view of Neil boredly manning the register of his own shop. He had to go and jerk off in his office like five times; and he was still horny afterwards!

Like he said— problem.

And it’s only getting worse.

“Dude, oh my god! She’s dressed like a school girl today!” Johnathan says while rushing into the shop, a lecherous grin on his face, “Her skirt is so short!”

Lucien cheers and Neil rams his head onto the surface of the checkout counter repeatedly.

He’s gonna die horny and infuriated by her subpar taste in cinema, it’s inevitable.

Lucien just gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and leaves him to his melancholy while he and Johnathan go next door.

“Ugh what do I do?!” He laments pathetically to himself.

…

The second interaction that Neil has with Bailey happens on a slow night for both businesses.

Neil is parked on the shop couch, watching Lady in the Lake and barely staying awake when she comes into his shop. She’s dressed normal today in a worn Captain Marvel t-shirt and denim shorts and he’s a little too tired to properly hide the slow up and down he gives her.

A little blush settles on her face when she catches him doing that.

“Slow night?” She asks after clearing her throat awkwardly.

“Yeah, you?”

Bailey blows a raspberry and nods, walking over to the couch and throwing herself down onto it next to Neil. He quickly scoots over, giving her room while trying to smooth his shirt and hair down to look less like a mess.

“What are we watching?” She asks.

Things sort of devolve from there. Whether it was one innocent comment taken the wrong way, or an intentional dig, it prompts a fresh new screaming match between the two of them over the cinematic quality of the Adam West Batman series. This woman will not let go of that trash TV series, Neil realizes.

Bailey gets up from the couch at some point, Neil hot on her heels as they move their heated argument about the store. It’s when they’re next to the wall that Neil pushes her against the surface and pins her arms high above her. He’s not thinking when he kisses her, pushing his tongue into her mouth to taste her— he’s running purely on adrenaline and instinct.

That first kiss they share is not a gentle one; it’s rough and filthy and hot.

“You are such a brat,” Neil bites out scathingly, his hands slipping away from her wrists to start running over her chest, cupping those perky tits of hers in his hands.

“You are an obnoxious tool!” She sneers in return, her now free hands making quick work of his belt buckle and the button on his jeans.

“I can’t believe how terrible your taste is in cinema! A rock would have better opinions!” Neil helps her push his pants down and then reaches forward to yank her shirt off. The bra she’s wearing is just a simple navy colored one but it has him physically biting back a moan at the sight.

She smirks up at him, then pushes him away with a rough shove, sending him into one of the shelves. She gets into his space, wrapping her arms around his neck and initiating another one of those blood racing kisses.

He reaches down and grabs her under her thighs, hoisting her up to wrap her legs around his waist. He starts walking them back towards his office, fully intent on throwing her down onto his couch in there and getting all this frustration out of his system.

Sex has always been pretty gentle and by-the-book for Neil, he’s never had a desire to be rough or for a partner to be rough with him, but Bailey makes his head fuzzy. She makes him want to do things he’s never done before.

“Fuck— Neil!” She gasps when he puts her down and immediately sticks his hand down the front of her shorts and starts rubbing along her slit. It’s so wet and he groans, his cock twitching in anticipation.

“Can’t wait to shut you up,” he tells her, his long fingers alternating between rubbing vicious circles on her clit and slipping down to enter her with harsh thrusts, “Been thinking about this for weeks.”

Her fingers scratch lightly across his stomach as she pushes his shirt up, “Well, you’re going to have to do lot better than this to make that happen.”

His eyes narrow and he pulls his hand out of her shorts, ripping the button open and yanking them down her legs. He grips her around her hips and flips her onto her stomach, climbing onto her legs to keep her from kicking about.

“I am so sick of that smart mouth,” he tells her before laying a loud slap to her right ass cheek, making her cry out in surprise that dissolves into a moan. He would spank her in earnest, but he’s been so fucking horny for so long that he only gives her a few smacks before slipping his fingers up under the edge of her panties, rubbing the buttery soft skin of her ass.

Trailing his hands up, he unhooks her bra and climbs off of her so that she can turn over onto her back. She’s quick to shuck off her bra and panties, exposing herself entirely to his hungry gaze.

“You said you thought about this for weeks,” she remarks while slipping her fingers down to her folds, “How many times did you jerk off to me?”

He groans and goes down to his knees, leaning forward and shouldering his way between her thighs.

“So many fucking times,” he admits shamelessly before licking into her with enthusiasm.

Her fingers thread through his hair, tugging him forward and using the leverage to grind against his face. He could die here, smothered between those shapely thighs, and it would be in total bliss. Her moans are the sweetest thing he’s ever heard and he endeavors to hear them get louder.

“Are you gonna cum for me, baby?” He asks, his fingers returning their journey of entering her and his eyes watching with hooded rapture as her cunt sucks them into her.

“Neil,” she gasps his name, chanting it like a prayer and he picks up the pace with his fingers. He sucks on that hard little bud of hers and feels her cum around his fingers, that soaking cavern gripping him tightly.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, “please let me fuck you.”

Her thighs are shaking as she comes down from her orgasm high, “Yes, fuck yes.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement— he’s barely got his underwear down before he’s pushing into her. She’s tighter and wetter than any other pussy he’s been in and he tells her as much, rasping filthy things into her ear as he begins a brutal and unrelenting rhythm.

“Thought about bending you over the front counter and fucking you stupid so many times.”

Her nails dig into his back, raking along the surface and certainly leaving their mark.

The thought alone of her marking him could make him cum. He bites his lip harshly to try and wrestle back some control, unwilling to see it end so soon.

It barely works as his hips stutter in their thrusting.

“Can I cum in you?” He asks— no, practically begs her.

Her arms snake around his shoulders, tugging his head forward to rest against hers, their mouths finding each other hungrily. Between filthy, tongue filled kisses, she gasps, “Please!”

Permission granted, he buries himself as deep as possible inside of her, the head of his cock nudging her cervix, and he cums. He groans loud and long as those warm, wet walls squeeze every last drop from his cock, sucking it better than any blow job could manage.

He pulls out of her slowly and almost reluctantly, sad to part from that perfect cunt of hers. A flow of white cum follows his departure, dripping from her opening and over her ass in thick globs.

He’s never seen something so sexy in his life and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t get to see it again.

Stepping back from Bailey, he grabs his shirt off the floor and uses it to wipe her clean, chuckling at the deadpan look she gives him for the effort. Tossing the shirt aside, he climbs onto the couch and lays himself out next to her, pulling her to rest against his chest.

They lay like that for a long time, catching their breaths and basking in the after glow.

“You don’t really hate the Adam West Batman series, do you?” Bailey asks, her eyes looking up at Neil imploringly.

Neil about answers the way he normally would but when he looks down at her and sees the earnest expression she’s wearing, he doesn’t have it in him to be an asshole.

“No, it’s not that bad,” he lies and feels his heart flutter when she shoots him a beaming smile in return.

He thinks he can stand mediocre cinema for her sake.

#neil lewis #neil lewis x reader #neil lewis/reader #neil lewis x oc #neil lewis/oc #watching the detectives #cillian murphy #watching the detectives fic #neil lewis fic

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 17 days

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Hey, if you're in the mood to give out song/artist recommendations, I was wondering if you have some in the same vein of the TSwift post, but for queer/gay men? Because I know of Lil Nas X (haven't gotten around to listening yet tho) and that's... pretty much it. Any personal favourites?

!!!!!

look I can't tell anyone where to start with Lil Nas X, chase your bliss, but god god god as long as we're talking about him Industry Baby is SO GOOD

if you end up liking Lil Nas X definitely check out his fellow gay rapper Kevin Abstract. the two of them collabed on a song called Tennessee this year, but my personal fave Kevin Abstract is his 2016 album American Boyfriend: A Suburban Love Story.

Isaac Dunbar is so so talented (and so young???), he actually just released a new EP last month called Beep Beep Repeat but this is off Banish the Banshee from 2022 and one of my most listened to songs of the year

Serpentwithfeet does just the sexiest gay R&B. this is from his 2021 album DEACON but he also has a new album out this year, GRIP, that's so so good.

TO MY KNOWLEDGE Big Freedia still identifies as a gay man who's genderfunky and uses any pronouns; someone please call my ass on that if I'm wrong. she's a pioneer of New Orleans bounce music, a frequent collaborator with other artists, and has been hugely influential on Beyoncé's recent work in addition to her own music; you can hear her all over Renaissance.

also I cannot talk about queer men in music without a shout out to my cowboy king Orville Peck; he's ALSO just dropped a new album, Stampede: Vol. 1, that has a ton of fun collaborations on it; this is from his first album, Pony.

and actually while we're doing gay country I have to throw in iconic drag queen Trixie Mattel. here's a duet cover she did with Orville, they're very fun together.

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purelyfiction · 4 months

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is it too soon to do this yet? - jake 'hangman' seresin x f!reader

Word Count: 1,977 words

Summary: this aint for the best, my reputation's never been worse so, you must like me for me. we can't make any promises now can we babe? // is it cool that i said all that? is it chill that you're in my head? cause i know that it's delicate. is it cool that i said all that? is it too soon to do this yet? 'cause i know that it's delicate.

Content Warning: fluff!! possibly insta-love for those put off by that.

Author Note: first: i wrote something?? on time??? second: for @ohtobeleah 's galentines writings :))) unedited/unbetaed we die like idiots

you had been here for a good time. your friend was getting married and her bachelorette was taking place in this quiet coastal town near a naval base. had that been part of the appeal? absolutely. who didn't want to watch a bunch of walking red flags as they did their daily trainings on the beach?

a little dive bar friday night with a shoddy jukebox, cheap beer and countless sailors - it had been the most fortunate surprise when you'd walked in with no other plans but to show off your sashed friend.

luckily for your group, sailors were suckers for a good bride to be and her girl crew. even luckier for you since you'd been playing DD for the last three days of the five day trip and you were finally able to take a damned sip of alcohol, which you rightfully deserved. glass in hand, you approach the jukebox to survey the music choices as the other girls were served shots (you wanted a drink not a hangover). you're about to pick out a song when you realize the machine hadn't been modernized and it still took cash. sadly, you spin back to the bar but not before dousing the man behind you in the makings of your whiskey sour.

"fuck, i am so sorry-" a hand grips your arm and he shakes his head.

"no, no, don't worry, i'm just upset on your behalf. what a waste of good whiskey." you look up, green eyes charming their way into easing your guilt. "I was gonna offer you a song, but ugh- maybe i ought to offer you a drink instead?"

he ends up buying both.

and as your friends sing along to the ancient song on the jukebox, you sit with this lone aviator and get to know him. long after your friends have retreated to the airbnb.

it was funny to think that was almost a six weeks ago. you'd flown to california for one week of fun and never went back, thanks to a rouge cowboy with eyes that matched the jumpsuit he donned to work each day.

you'd been crashing at an short-term rental since your friend's bachelorette, save for the weekend of the actual wedding, when jake had been your plus-one. everyone had relished in how the string of fate had connected you like this.

they'd also spoken of how insane you were. to uproot your entire life for the sake of what was supposed to be a one night fling. but it didn't bother you. not when the expansive reach of his hand had guided you through crowds that night. had danced with you and made a part fool of you both. i am a fantastic dancer, i have no idea where these guys are getting the idea i'm a trainwreck. his voice so easy and content on the drive back to the hotel that night.

now here you were, cooking for the two of you in his apartment as you waited on your boyfriend to get back from work. the label was maybe a week old at this point, but it fit him like a damn glove. so much so you'd started reaching out to potential leasers to sublet your apartment back home. maybe you were rushing into this. your job had been fine with you staying out in california longer - you were remote anyways, that had been the main perk of the job. but moving? for a man you'd known maybe a month?

the door slams shut and the entire apartment shakes. jake's place was small, tiny even, so you're greeted with his tense expression the minute you look up from your spot at the kitchen counter. "hey baby, how was-"

"fine." he grits the word out, dropping his duffel to the floor and disappearing down the hall. the bedroom door shuts with a click instead of a bang this time.

this wasn't boding well for you. you had a grand plan to make dinner, watch movies and have a nice and easy night in together, maybe talk for a bit. you'd wanted to discuss going to see an apartment this weekend. you didn't want to move in together, but you needed to look for a place of your own instead of crashing here so much. if this was going down that road. yet, the pilot seems to be in the worst mood to have that kind of discussion.

when he finally comes back to the kitchen, he slinks in behind you and presses a quick kiss to your head. "how was that call you were dreading." he's changed out of his uniform, a pair of sweatshorts on his waist, a dark t-shirt on his shoulders as he glides to the fridge. the tension is still carried in his frame even if he isn't outwardly acting as if there is something bothering him.

"ugh, it was - it was fine." now you're shutting off just like he was. it might be just you mirroring his actions, or maybe it was more. uncertainty? uneasiness? doubt?

the crack of teeth on an apple pulls you from your mind. you look to the fruit in his hand as he steps out to the living room on the opposite side of the kitchen wall. "i- dinner is almost ready, you know."

the tv stirs to life, echoing off the walls of the bachelor pad. the lack of decorations or real furnishings had been one of your reasons for wanting to pull the trigger on the move. to have some of your belongings back in your life, some familiarity.

"yeah, i'll eat." finally you're over it. you're not taking this from him, not when you had shit on your own mind that needed to be addressed. turning the burner off you step out of the kitchen, coming to the coffee table and snagging the remote. with it switched off, he looks at you with offense. "i said i'd eat what is the big deal?"

"what is going on with you?" your hands come across your chest as hangman snags the apple with his teeth as he dives into his pocket for his phone.

"nut-ing" the word comes out odd since his jaw is unable to move. you raise your eyebrows at him, which earns a similar reaction from the blonde. groaning he pulls the apple from his mouth. "rough day at work. got my ass handed to me by my superior, everyone talking shit because i flew better than anyone else- just in a piss poor mood. i'm sorry." you stare at him with concern now. it was just a bad day? then why was he suddenly as secure as a vault? locked away with high tech security and an obnoxiously long passcode.

"that's not all of it." you pry, slowly coming to sit down next to him. but when you do, he immediately stands up.

"yeah it is." he moves over to the kitchen again, tossing the apple core away. frustration eats at you again, tilting your head as your tone sharpens as he starts to step down the hallway.

"are you going to talk to me like your girlfriend or just like some bitch you're keeping around? cause right now it feels more like the second one." he freezes and his head drops back.

"look, i don't do the talking about emotions thing, i don't do the-"

"oh bullshit." you stand and march down the hallway, coming to stand behind him as his head sinks. "you put your heart on your sleeve when i saw you cry at dane and avery's wedding. and when you laughed to me about your childhood dog when you were drunk the night before at the rehearsal. or how you just seemed to stare at me with no concern in the world when we went out for ice cream last week - you do emotions. you do them and you feel them more heavily than most people i know." he slowly spins to look at you. "so start talking." the command is softer than the rest of your words.

finally, he relents. you sit on the couch with bated breath as he explained that he doesn't have the social life he had presented to you that first night. that his coworkers all think he's an asshole, that he's a dick and he isn't the kind of person to be friends with. "up until now, i didn't think i was the kind of person to be a boyfriend, let alone a friend."

it stung a little. jake as little as you had known him, had been one thing - confident. reassured in his personality and his work. he had this charisma around him that lured you in without him needing to really try. "i don't know how you believe that." you speak softly, pushing hair out of his face as it falls, gel from this morning weak from the impact of G-force pressures and california humidity. "you're a fun guy. you always make me laugh. i feel so.. safe around you. it's hard to imagine anyone else not appreciating that like i do."

jake's laid back on the couch now, looking up at you before looking at the ceiling. "yeah, well i guess the reality is that i'm easy to hate, hard to love. an acquired taste."

"that couldn't be further from the truth." it slips out so easily. green eyes perk up in curiosity.

"angel, i'm- to make it quick, i'm a menace. people know my callsign and they know my reputation. a selfish dick looking to get to the top and on top of women. hell, i don't know why you've stuck around as long as you have, so clearly somehow i've rubbed off on you."

your legs shift as you try to adjust on the couch to look at him better. "jake, i'm not going to be that girl. it would be a little weird if i was that girl, i mean, it's been what, a month?" he's slowly raising onto his elbows when you start in your ramblings, "but, you just- you take me by surprise in the best way, at every turn. yeah, sure they have some idea of you but it's not jake. it's not the guy who's impulsively buying karaoke machines to have idiotic nights in, or the guy who's sneaking pictures before anyone can notice because you're sentimental. or even the guy who hides the tears in his eyes at the end of how to train your dragon-"

he points at you with an amused expression, "you saw the way that dragon curls around him, he saved him." you can't hold back the laugh.

"my point is: hangman is so, so far from jake. cause i mean, i love jake, he's... he's my guy. and i don't get what's so hard to love about that." you give a small smile until it computes in your head what you've said. "i ugh..." jake keeps a coy grin on his features, leaning into his chin now that he's rolled onto his stomach, knowingly catching onto what you've said. "is it cool that i said that? i mean i- we can pretend that i didn't and forget this ever happened-"

he cuts you off with a soft press of lips to your own. the taste of apple juice still lingers on his chapped skin, before he pulls away. "it's cool." he offers, a hand coming to take your own.

"i promise i won't say it again." there's a mad blush on your face and jake just laughs.

"ah, don't you go promising nothing. let's just go finish dinner, yeah?"

and jake takes his rightful place next to you at the stove, towering over you as his head bounces along to the music you've put on, glancing at apartment listings that you pull up.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you #hangman fanfic #hangman fanfiction #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin fanfic #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x reader

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manicpixiefelix · 5 months

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head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 10.

Summary: The last few days of the year at Oxford! Celebrations to be had, but also you contemplate what may come next for Oliver once the semester ends. Meanwhile, in a brief moment of downtime, you try and discuss Felix's weirdness from before exam season, but he can and will try and seduce you instead of having a real adult conversation. But unfortunately he may have had a point, because that real, adult conversation fucking sucks.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: discussions of oliver's father dying, discussions of jealousy

A/N: 5623 words. wrote this directly after finishing ch 9. and then was like, what if i edited this. which means the ending of this chapter is COMPLETELY different to what it was originally, and is a bit of a downer. but we need conflict, you know? and sometimes its genuinely hard to have these adult conversations at like 21 years old. emotions and such. also there's a wizard hat. half edited then i completely rewrote the ending and that's absolutely unedited. how are we feeling about leaving oxford finally????

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

It's always a big deal when the first years finish all of their exams and get their final results. Or, well, the rest of the students make a big deal about it. You're not sure who started the tradition, or how long ago, but it's a tradition you hold dear to your heart nevertheless. The first year of university is nothing if not overwhelming, survival of it was to be celebrated.

Last year the cheering crowd of your more senior students had made you feel like you had conquered the world. This year, you were bursting at the seams with excitement to be able to share in the tradition from the other side, especially since there were several first years in particular you wanted to celebrate with.

Everything about the tradition seemed tailor made for your brand of joy. It's bright bits of costuming and ticker tape canons, balloons and medals for the undoubtably exhausted first years. Clustered together by the main doors of the examination school, you and your friends press yourselves against the barriers that had been put up to give all the first years enough space. Still, front and centre, many of you, yourself and Felix included, had been handed medallions to give to first years, while the rest were all still clutching each other and giggling with excitement, reminiscing about how loved you'd all felt at this time last year, seeing everyone cheering for all you'd accomplished.

For the past few days since your exams had finished, those in your group particularly committed to the bit, you and Felix among them, naturally, had been frequenting as many of the local charity and party shops in town. Each of you were desperately searching for delightfully garish garments and props to wear and share.

The moment Felix had spotted the sparkly, pink cowboy hat on a mannequin, paired with a violently lavender feather boa, he'd clung to them like his life depended on him owning them, hearts in his eyes, absolutely refusing to let them go. On the other hand, the sailor hat for Ollie was your idea; something more understated for a man more understated than either Felix or yourself. While Felix wanted to protest, wanted to give him something a little more flashy, you thankfully got him to compromise by allowing him to pick your accessories. Which is how you ended up with a hot pink, bedazzled 'Mother Of The Bride' sash.

And a blue, pointy wizard hat.

Anticipation grew in the gathered crowd, all chatter and smiles and giggling as you waited for the doors to open. In amongst the growing noise, you turn the medal over in your fingers, gazing at it with pride, excited to be able to be the one to give it to one of your closest friends. You still have your own from last year, usually pinned above your desk, but right now in a box ready to be taken back to Saltburn for the Summer.

The moment you all heard the tell-tale creak of those large, wooden doors, the cheering began, and you're glad to be pulled from your thoughts and back into the moment. It grew into a cacophony, a roar of joy and delight as the ticker tape canons went off and the first years streamed out in a river of excitement.

Farleigh's always cut a defined figure in any crowd he's in, considering his height, but you'd also given him the heads up to look out for the blue wizard hat to find you. At first you saw him scanning the crowd, but it takes him barely a second to find you. He lights up, eyes fixed on your stupid hat, and he breaks away from the pack at a full sprint. He doesn't even let you give him his medal at first, he's laughing at the top of his lungs, reaching all the way over the barrier to pull you into a hug, almost dragging you over the railing. There's nothing to be said, only a joy that has gone beyond words.

"You're a wizard!" He finally manages amid laughter as he lets you go, leaning back to hold you at arm's length, taking in your whole outfit, "and," his head tips in further confusion, "mother of the bride?"

"And you're a first year graduate," you grinned, "do you want your medal, or do you have more important follow up comments about my outfit?"

"I several have follow up comments but- oh my god," his eyes go wide and he suddenly seems a little breathless, like it's only just properly hit him "I finished a whole year," there's a genuine quality to his voice that's not often heard from Farleigh; still half laughing, but it's almost disbelieving, full of hope without any hint of irony, "not, like, just a week, or a semester; a whole year. A whole year at Oxford University." Lowering his head, he finally lets you put the medal on him.

For a long few moments he holds it out in front of him with pride and joy in his eyes; a precious, rare sight for you to behold. Then, very suddenly, he grabbed your face, bringing you close with this intense, shocked look in his eyes.

"I topped three of my Lit exams," he hissed with actual disbelief, almost making it sound like a scandal, "I took a hit before my Modernism final and spent nine pages arguing that Trainspotting was Allen Ginsberg's Howl for the postmodern audience. I don't even know if I believe that. How was that the best essay they saw?"

"Farleigh," you chuckled, "you might actually just be very good at this." You gave his cheek a fond pet, but after a moment, a hand reached over to tug at Farleigh's shoulder, breaking your stalemate.

"Congratulations, mate!" It's Felix, all smiles, unsurprisingly, "why've you got that look in your eyes?"

"He took one of his exams stoned and still topped the class," you grinned slyly, before your gaze fell on Oliver. As if sensing this, Farleigh slid over to give Felix a proper hug and congratulations, leaving space in front of you for Oliver to step in with a shy grin. You tug on his sailor hat with a fond smile and he turns even redder.

"Congratulations, Oliver Quick."

"Thank you," his gaze flicks up for a moment, stifling a giggle, "wizard."

Puffing out your chest as you mock-straightened your pink sash you hold your nose in the air.

"And what of it?" You put on a faux serious voice. Oliver has to duck his head to hide how much he's laughing at the bit. Once you let it go and deflate, you do then gesture for him to come close, wrapping your arms around him.

"Proud of you, Ollie," you murmur, giving him a tight squeeze.

"Don't know if I could have done it without you and Felix," he admits softly.

"Of course you could have," you assure him with warmth as the two of you begin to pull away. Oliver's eyes meet yours, blue and intense and that same familiar searching that you're so used to by now that it's something of a comfort. For just a moment, you want to reach out, to touch him, to hold onto his gentle expression and this moment in your own two hands. You wonder if he can see it in your eyes too, can see you repressing that urge.

"Wouldn't have been half as good," with the smallest of smiles, just edging on knowing, neither his expression nor his tone gives away enough for you to know exactly what he could be meaning or referring to, if anything beyond general companionship. So you play it off, you let anything you might be holding onto, anything that might be too much for such a public forum, pass.

"Of course," you say loudly, blithely, tucking your arm in Felix's beside you to get his attention, "we're wonderful company!"

"What's this?" Felix turns, eyebrows raised as he looks between yourself and an amused Oliver.

"Just saying that Oliver's year is better for having met us," you say simply, airily.

"Without a doubt!" Felix agrees without any kind of hesitation. Farleigh rolls his eyes, but is laughing as he calls both you and Felix incredibly vain.

As the excitement begins to die down and everyone begins to filter out, your group begins to meander towards the road that leads off campus, with yourself, Felix, and Oliver trailing behind.

"What's next? I mean, what's the plan now? I know there's a thing tomorrow, but -" Oliver's tentative again, quiet and meek again, acting like he's on the back foot again.

"Step one," Felix begins matter-of-factly, "pub; celebrate; get shitfaced." You see Oliver glance dubiously at your foot-high, velvet wizard hat once more. He's been doing it a lot. You can't lie, you've gotten very attached to your stupid look for the day and do plan to keep it all night.

"Even with that?"

"I'm gonna die in this hat I've decided," you say easily, to which both boys snicker at your assertiveness on the subject. But soon enough, Oliver raises another question.

"And- and tomorrow, that's the- I heard there was an end of year gala," he hesitates as you and Felix both automatically confirm. It did not seem to soothe any of Oliver's nerves and he finally brought up, "It's black tie; I have a black tie - bow tie, actually - but I don't really have anything else that'll match the theme -" he babbles awkwardly, looking all kinds of mousey and small with his head bent like that, hands fingers twisting together in anxious shapes. Both you and Felix are quiet, stuck in thought, and it takes you closing your eyes for a few seconds, trusting your arm in Felix's to keep you on the right path, before it hits you.

"Walters of Oxford," you open your eyes, "on Turl street, I think," you pause for a beat, reconsidering, "maybe double check that." Squinting for a moment, you try and recall, "ten minute walk, I think? Depending on your route, I guess. Not far is the point." But when you look over at your companions, both are frowning at you, something incredulous in their eyes. "To... hire a suit," you explain almost sheepishly under their respective gazes.

"How did you do that?" Oliver asks softly.

"Why did you know that?" Felix adds, bewildered.

"Isn't it handy to know the best place to get good suits and expert repairs done?" You shrugged a little helplessly. However, as you let your gaze drift, you find yourself recalling something India had said about you always needing to be a step ahead, to always have contingencies in place so Felix need not ever be inconvenienced for too long. Whatever; you push the thought and India's past negative tone from your mind, telling yourself it's good information to have anyhow.

"Anyways, I was also looking into good places for suit hires, in case the worst happened, and wouldn't you know it, Walters does that too."

"I'll- I guess I'll head there tomorrow morning," Oliver says awkwardly.

Felix drops your arm for a moment, wrapping his arm around Oliver's shoulders, bringing him in close.

"I look forward to see you in a suit, Ollie," there was no mistaking the flirty tone he was using, and from the glimpse of Ollie's face that you could see around him, he was turning red under Felix's praise, "handsome man like you all done up," he trailed off, ruffling Oliver's hair before he let go, cheeky smile on his face and bounce in his step. He has to be aware of Oliver's nervous, starry-eyed gaze locked upon him, but Felix just strikes up a conversation with you, enquiring if you would be going in a suit or a dress.

"I'm going in a wizard's hat." You declared.

"I love this bit; you aren't even drunk yet!" Everything you do is worth it if it means Felix will look at you like this, with delight shining in his eyes and in his words.

The night - what you can remember of it - is phenomenal. Benji calls you Archmage of the Bride and it's the only thing anyone refers to you as for the rest of the night, everyone else loudly correcting anyone who gets it wrong. Aside from that, everyone is babbling and bright and so enthusiastic about the gala the following night and what they'll be wearing.

Oliver is quiet, tucked in between you and Felix, nursing his pints longer than anyone else. Felix's arm is around him, as it always seemed to be, and as the night goes on, more and more you get the urge to tip your head and rest it against Oliver's for several long moments at a time.

But there's something different about tonight. Oliver doesn't reach out to you, even subtly. His thigh against yours is forced proximity, but his hands are always on his drink and his ankles are crossed beneath the table. Whenever he looks away, you start to notice that it's not at you; Felix seems to hold his attention more than anyone else, but on any other night, that wouldn't really surprise you. You want to ask what's wrong, but by the time you realise something is, you're not sure you're even capable of stringing two coherent words together.

You think back on what he'd said on the way to the pub, his voice small and nervous.

What's next?

You ponder as you leave the pub with several others in the group, thinking hard. Had he meant more than just the immediate? Your next was Saltburn, Oliver's next was... ah. Junkie mum and no dad.

Someone sticks a finger in your ear. Immediately you jump and clutch protectively at your hat -

"Fuck off 'm wizard!"

"I'm seeing if I can feel your thoughts, they look serious," Farleigh, somehow more sober than you, is still cackling. Your drunk mind doesn't like that he's laughing at you, even if it's an objectively funny situation, and you spend the rest of the short walk stomping and pouting, with Farleigh laughing and calling you ridiculous the entire time.

You awaken on the second last day of living on the Oxford University campus for your second year, with an absolutely killer headache. You don't remember getting back into your dorm, but apparently your drunken self was kind enough to steal an entire pitcher from the common area and fill it literally to the brim with water. Far less had spilled on your bed side table than you'd anticipated.

What you do remember, however, is the numerous thoughts you'd had about Oliver. Both last night, and over the past few weeks. As you take some painkillers and drink water out of the pitcher, you gaze across your room to few newspapers you've had sitting under a pile of textbooks since the second week of exams.

It's almost midday. Taking the papers, you pack yourself a bag of whatever you'd need to get ready for the gala on top of your little project, and pull your garment bag from your wardrobe. Swinging past the on-campus café, you pick up arguably too much food for you and Felix to share before the event, then heading to his dorm.

"Get fucked," Felix shouts through the door, muffled probably by his pillow, when you knock.

"Felix, open up!"

"No! What time is it?"

"Midday!"

"Fucking midday?!"

From behind you, one of the doors flies open and one of Felix's scowling dormmates spits for you to shut up or fuck off.

"Grow up or eat shit; it's the afternoon," you flip him off with a scowl. The door slams shut. Immediately you turn and kick Felix's door. When he opens it, he does not look happy. In return, you smile sweetly at him, thanking him with the most saccharine tone you can manage.

"Brought us food," you offer, as if trying to placate him, but instead Felix pointedly falls face first upon his bed, pulling his pillow over his head in defiance. Just glad to be finally let in, you potter around his room quietly, carefully avoiding his boxes of already packed belongings.

Putting all the food on the table, you start on some of it yourself as you keep working almost silently. You hang your garment bag up next to his, put your nice shoes by his door, put all your accessories and other things you needed to get read in their own, distinct pile on his dresser before you settle yourself in his desk chair, pulling out one of the newspapers and carefully going through it.

The Liverpool Echo.

Your eyes flick briefly over the articles, not really paying any of them much real attention, at least not until you got to the obituaries. These you scoured. Names and faces and dates and sweet words about caring, loving people who you neither knew nor cared for. No Quicks. Next paper.

It takes you quite some time; you're thorough and you'd gotten quite a few day's worth from around the time Oliver had found out the news about his father in case it had been reported earlier or perhaps a few days later. Prescot didn't have it's own newspaper, but the lady at the news agency you'd phoned to order them assured you that the Liverpool Echo was received by the people of Prescot too.

"Are you reading the paper?" Felix's voice actually makes you jump, having so engrossed yourself in your reading, forgetting he was still there. Looking at the clock, then at him, you see him still looking groggy, but more bemused than anything. Then, after a beat, he looks to the pile of ones you'd already gone through on the floor by your feet.

"Food's cold," you told him, going back to your reading.

"Why are you reading the paper?" Propping himself up, he begins to stretch and finally, properly wake up for the day.

"Been thinking about Ollie," you tell him with a distracted air, folding up the paper in your hands after a minute more of poring over it, adding it your growing pile despondently. Thankfully, instead of making a snide comment, Felix yawns, asking you what exactly you'd been thinking.

"I know he said he's fine, but his dad still passed," you said softly, gazing at the small stack you're still yet to read, but feeling no urge to pick any more up, "and he hasn't been home, and when he gets home, I don't know..." you sighed, sitting back and looking at the ceiling, a kind of ache in your heart that you hadn't expected, "I wanted to try and find his obituary, to see if anyone said any nice things about him, but I'm not having any luck."

"I don't think he was the kind of man who had obituaries written about him," Felix tells you with a kind of resignation, "but I get that it's one of our last days," he extrapolates, voicing your intentions as easily as if he could read your mind, "and you want to try and give him a nice moment, to show that people care about him, before we, you know, fuck off for a month and a half and leave him."

"Grim, when you put it like that," you hummed, "but yeah, essentially." Felix made a noise of sombre agreement.

Finally, however, he rose from his bed, slowly meandering over to the desk and picking through the food you'd brought. For a long few moments he idly flicks through the few papers you had left on his desk, carelessly shoving each over as he doesn't even open them.

"What about that rock thing my family does?" Mouth half full of a sandwich and leaving the papers alone, his curiosity over them apparently sated, Felix sits himself on the floor by his bed, knees drawn up to his chest as he contemplates, "doesn't have to be all that serious, can be just about saying goodbye and letting go. Closure and shit, you know?" He swallows, looking at you with bright eyes, as if waiting for you to validate his idea, "like we did with my dog when I was a kid."

"That's actually a very sweet idea; I think he'd love that coming from you," you slowly begin to smile as you turn the idea over in your mind. Felix, however, wears a look like he's almost confused, but you can't begin to imagine what until he opens his mouth -

"What do you mean 'coming from me'?" Despite his apparent vague distaste for your wording, you can't help but laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Ollie would love the idea of lighting a bag of shite on fire on his mother's doorstep if the suggestion came from you; I'm saying it's a lovely idea, and he's very fond of you, it'll mean a lot to him."

Quiet filters in with the sunlight. You watch Felix, Felix watches himself pick at his nails.

"Very fond of you too," it's completely and totally neutral. It's also a fucking loaded statement if you've ever heard one come out of Felix's mouth.

"Felix." When he hears the warning notes in your voice, you know he pretends not to.

Reaching over to his bedside table, the unnecessary arc of his arm has him catching the light, muscles lean and taught with his effort to not otherwise move. Heat of the day had already begun to infiltrate the room, but this angle and the light makes the beading sweat along his skin glow; he's always been able to take advantage of a hot day in a way you've never seen of anyone else. Felix, of course, knows exactly what he's doing. Felix learned long ago how to perform at the drop of a hat; no-one was better at objectifying him than he was if he wanted to, "don't do that," you mutter, knowing that even you weren't immune to the way he could manipulate people's eyes upon him.

"What?" It's too innocent to be anywhere near truthful. You see the edge of a smirk before it disappears behind a cigarette and his sudden, aloof façade.

"We haven't talked about what happened," you tried, you really did, "we swept it under the rug for Ollie's sake, and then we had exams, and we -"

Felix lights his lighter, head angled so he can look up at you through his lashes, so his hair falls and curls and turns gold in the flickers of the lighter's faint fire. For another second he holds your gaze, confusing and teasing all in one; like he adores you, but like it's a challenge. Then he moves again, poses again. One leg up, one leg stretched out in front of him, cigarette resting so lazily between the fingers of the hand that he rests on his thigh, plays a staccato beat with his fingers against his bare skin. Nudity was never taboo between you, so why were you losing your train of thought over Felix in his boxers, a sight you'd seen arguably a hundred times before.

Looking anywhere else on him doesn't do you any favours, the beautiful body you've marked and called yours - jealousy, right, that's -

But his head tips back, falling back against his bed as smoke rings rise from his lips and the column of his throat is caught by the light. When his tongue darts out to wet his lips, you catch only the briefest flash but he knows you can fill in the rest, knows you see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"You know we need to talk, otherwise you wouldn't be doing this."

"Doing what?" He shifts, legs spreading a little wider, and when he looks at you, he's wearing that smile you've seem him turn on countless girls before, teasing, flirting, look in his eyes like he's getting high of of the very idea of you. Lips quirking into a cocky smile, he raises his cigarette to his lips, watching you with an almost lazy kind of arousal. Like every girl he's looked at like this knows they could get him in bed without even trying, without even knowing they were being seduced, "something wrong, love?"

And it's fucking working.

"Fuck, Fi," you have to close your eyes, putting your head in your hands. He laughs and it sounds like fucking syrup, all teasing and warmth, but you can't fucking do this right now; "are you trying to get me in bed just because you don't want to talk about the fact that you were obviously jealous of Oliver?"

This silence is far more bitter, as is Felix's tone when he finally speaks.

"What would I have to be jealous of?" Sounding like a man in denial.

"That Oliver is good to me without needing you as an audience," you push the heels of your palms against your eyes, words and thoughts escaping you that you didn't even realise you had. The next breath you takes shakes. Audibly. Felix clears his throat, but he doesn't seem to know what to say. Now that you've said it out loud, you can feel your face beginning to heat up, tears stinging your tightly closed eyes, the way you begin to tremble.

"I know," you start slowly, carefully thinking about your words this time as you say them, "that you love me, Fi," it's gentle, reassuring, but frustrated nonetheless, face still in your hands. But your breath still shakes as you try and keep it level, "so I think part of you is- is scared that if I find someone who could love me," even the thought of your next words sit bitter and heavy on your tongue, so you have to take a deep breath, try and centre yourself, "without you," you pause, swallowing hard, feeling traitorous tears escaping you, "that I might realise I prefer- prefer that, or something," here is where you start to break, where your voice cracks and you can't keep your hands against your eyes so all you can do is hang your head and hope he doesn't see your tears, "but you've spent all your time assuming, and pouting, and thinking badly of a good friend, and you haven't even asked me!"

Finally, Felix speaks, his voice weak; he sounds moments away from tears.

"I made you cry."

You hadn't even realised how far beyond Oliver this went, how tightly you'd been holding onto this, these thoughts and feelings, keeping them coiled in your chest, until just now. Hearing his words, your crying finally becomes audible, even to you, even if you hadn't meant it to. Today was meant to celebrate, not... this.

"I don't-" he voice catches in his throat, and you hear him sniffle softly, "I don't know if I can ask you that." He admits. Finally, when you look up, you see his expression carefully neutral, looking over his shoulder with both his knees drawn up to his chest. God he can't even look at you.

You know Felix Catton too well; he is terrified.

In the moments that follow, you slowly pull yourself together. You dry your eyes, and nod, while trying to school your expression into something lighter.

"Okay, Fi," you tell him, and try to make sure he knows you're being sincere, "it's, um," you sniffle as you try and smile, "it's a loaded question, I know."

When he bites his bottom lip as subtly as he can manage, you know its to try and keep it from wobbling. There's guilt written all over his face as he watches you move around his room. He doesn't get up, doesn't move, just watches and listens.

"I'm -" you take a deep breath, looking around the room and forcing a smile, "I think I'm going to get ready for tonight with Farleigh, is that alright?"

"Yeah, 'course," he says, as if on autopilot. After a beat, as you collect up your things, Felix finally looks around his room, at the boxes and the things you'd brought with you. Suits, matching and side by side in his closet, bought alongside a third in the set for Farleigh that you know he'd be wearing tonight too. You take it out, lay it over a taped-up box full of his books, ready to go, and finish collecting up your accessories.

"You should talk to Ollie," you tell him, double checking your bag, unsure of how you were managing to act like everything was suddenly okay. Felix nods, watching you once more, gaze a little glassy, far away and looking almost lost, almost guilty again. Part of you is desperate to stay, to comfort him. But as much as he may want it, it's not what he needs in this moment.

"Fi, are you listening to me?" You asked, firmer this time, and he seems to surface from whatever thought's he'd been stuck in, giving you a faraway smile as he nods; it's almost believable, "I know you care about Ollie," you say warmly but firmly, "please talk to him," wetting your lips, you deliberate on your way to the door, picking up your garment bag, "be good to him; Ollie's the only audience that matters there."

"Does this change..." Felix is looking at the floor when you finally make it to his door, "us?"

"Are you still jealous of Ollie?" You try to make it sound joking, since you were pretty sure of the answer, though Felix shakes his head with a frown.

"No, 'course not," he mutters, almost as if to himself, but he doesn't seem to have finished his thoughts on the matter, so you give him a moment; "I've been an asshole, haven't I?" He finally mutters looking out across his room, "a right asshole to someone who's only ever tried to be a bloody good friend to me."

"You kind of have," you agreed easily, and Felix finally looks at you again, the slightest furrow in his brow. There's nothing particularly, prominently beautiful or posed about Felix in this moment; he'd dropped the pretense long ago.

Looking at him now, looking up at you with those helpless eyes, all folded up and far smaller than he usually appeared, all you can remember is the kid afraid of scary movies and his sister's Goosebumps books, who'd stayed up late with you when you'd cried your eyes out in your first year of Secondary school when your parents missed your birthday again, who never let you forget how much he loved you, even for a moment, since you'd met. Your best friend. Always.

"I wish you'd just trust how much I love you too, Fi," voice and expression softening. Slowly, Felix stands, makes his way over to you, wrapping you up in a hug.

"I do, and I will better next time," he mumbles faintly, apologetically, "'m sorry."

There's something melancholy about still parting ways, even after his apology, but both of you seem to know that it's for the best.

Farleigh is glad for your company, and you do a good enough job of appearing alright that he doesn't seem to pick up on the strange mood you can't otherwise shake. Still, you're quiet, Farleigh talking enough for the both of you in between a range of CD mixtapes he'd put together for his own enjoyment.

On your way into the gala itself, you're ahead of Farleigh by a few paces, eager to get in and get yourself a drink, but you brush past Oliver, waiting, looking, as always, out of place. When you tell him he looks lovely, you can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, and barely stay, while you hear Farleigh, behind you, taking his time with antagonising your poor friend.

Felix is leaving the event as you're arriving. He almost crashes into you, bottle of champagne clearly stolen from one of the tables, in one hand as he's running from the venue.

"Hey, hi," despite both your best efforts, there is still clearly some discomfort in the air between you. Felix's eyes roam over you, almost out of habit, but there's an appreciative look in his eyes as he meets your gaze once more, "I think, I, uh, I'm going to skip this one and hang out with Ollie," almost like he's trying to invite you. But after everything, this can't be something you do; this isn't your tradition, this isn't your moment to share with Oliver. He'll never get it.

He's Felix Catton; he's the sun.

"He's going to enjoy that so much more than hanging around here," you smile brightly. Felix looks a little surprised, a little put out that you had apparently not picked up on his offer, or that you had and had decided to decline.

"Yeah, I- I thought so," he almost seems a little stunned by how cold this interaction was between you, compared to the usual, boisterous comradery you shared.

"Have a good night, Fi," finally, you kiss his cheek and slip into the entrance hall of the gala building, weaving through beautifully dressed students to find your gaggle of friends for the night. Throughout the night, you get asked where Felix is, and you shrug with a blithe smile every time.

My Felix <3: i invited ollie to spend summer with us

Tomorrow you would be okay.

Tonight, however, you planned to dance with your friends, drink enough that you either stop feeling so weird in your damn brain, or feel perhaps even worse, and probably end up crying.

Tomorrow everything would be okay again.

#felix catton x reader x oliver quick #saltburn x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton x reader #felix catton imagine #oliver quick x reader #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #oliver quick imagine #oliver quick x you #oliver quick x y/n #head heart hand fic #manic writer

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honey-milk-depresso · 4 months

Note

Batboys watching anime with reader

You know my ass went FULL ON LOCK MODE with Tim. I went crazy- 💀

***S/o is above 18, which means characters below are also aged up!

Doing requests until 1 Feb! Please see my pinned post and read the request rules on the navi! Thank you!🩷

Batbros watching anime with you

Dick Grayson

He’s watched a few 90s anime before, more the basic ones like One Piece and Pokémon, and he probably still watches them to this day. Boy has old CDs he has and you should probably try finding a Blue Ray (or use his if he can have Tim help fix it because it’s good as dead 💀) because he’s popping in every CD of old anime’s he have lying about.

“Wow, I didn’t know I had cowboy bebop! Or Slam Dunk!” He got a few rare gems, which makes it all the more fun to sit down on the couch under a blanket as you huddle and watch the nostalgic 90s anime shows together while eating popcorn.

He doesn’t mind watching new, modern day animes, just be prepared for when you two watch sad anime shows because he will sob like it’s the end of the world.

“NO, WHY WOULD KAORI DIE LIKE THIS?? AND SHE LOVES ARIMA- OH MY GOD IM SO—”sobs even more. He gets emotional while watching them because it’s so sad that it’s sO GOOD-

Loves dancing to those danceable anime music with you. He goes ALL. OUT. He even sings all of it in Japanese like wow-

I would love to hear him sing Cruel Angel’s Thesis in his Discowing suit and with goth makeup on it because it “sets the mood”, PLEASE-

Overall, great time watching with Dick. <3

Jason Todd

You expect someone like him to like Chainsaw Man, Trigun or something like those grunge-y, guns and knives animes, right? I mean, he does, but only with you and ONLY with you will he let his inner Magical Girl enthusiast ass shine. Because he LOVES Magical Girl animes. That’s probably the reason and one point of time why he wore red ribbons around his arms, he wanted that Sailor Moon experience and Tim might’ve just teased him about that era without knowing his love for Magical Girl animes and Jason might’ve flipped and freaked the fuck out and started chasing him down the manor.

Jason watches Sailor Moon, Madoka when he feels edgier than usual, Cardcaptor Sakura, every Precure series, Tokyo Mew Mew, man has all these shows somehow. He swears they weren’t through illegal means and he just worked very hard to gather all of them. He also might be a shoujo anime fan because if he loves Jane Austen books, you bet his ass would be reading Fruits Basket, Maid Sama or something because of course he would.

Also a Studio Ghibli fan, although watching the Tale of Princess Kaguya might make him feel too much, especially getting pissed off with the dad who forces his daughter into a wealthy life without her input and- yeah, you gotta calm him down as he cries bitterly and sourly with a pout on his face.

The two of you can go on and on about debating about unclear endings of animes all day long. You know the “AND SHE WAS A PRINCESS” video? That’s Jason.

Great man to watch anime with, and he’ll gladly be your Tuxedo Mask to your Sailor Moon (and not the “But you did nothing meme- or the other way around- he don’t mind being the Usagi-). <3

Tim Drake

I’m very convinced this man got into his whole detective shit because he watched Detective Conan and honestly I can’t blame him. Tim has probably the largest vessel of anime knowledge out of all of them. He doesn’t really have a specific genre he likes but he’s pretty fond of old 90s and 80s animes. He can explain the whole lore of One Piece, Fairytale, Pokémon like Jesus Tim, calm down- 💀

I can see him watching Neon Genesis Evangelion, Serial Experiments Lain or Key the Metal Doll because he likes that little bit of horror nature and mystery and thriller in his animes although he really doesn’t mind watching Haikyuu all over again if you want to.

Might introduce you to underrated and/or old animes like Revolutionary Girl Utena, Nadia the Secrets of Blue Water, every Studio Ghibli movie, those kinds of animes that give off the really pretty and aesthetic old anime animations that is just so pretty to watch and with really good storylines that both of you can cuddle on a couch together and watch. I bet he even watches anime with you even before you two got together, so you guys pretty much have “watching anime together” as part of the foundation of your relationship. Owns so much manga that you can’t even count, too.

Just… don’t make him watch those really slow burn, comedy love animes, specifically Love War. Not that he don’t like romance animes, he watches Ouran High School Host Club and Your Name, trust me, but Love War? He is going absolutely insane because of it.

“OH MY GOD- PLEASE JUST KISS ALREADY. ME AND S/O ARE ALREADY TOGETHER FIVE MONTHS AGO ANF YOU TWO ARE STILL TOO PROUD TO ADMIT YOU LOVE EACH OTHER WHILE BLUSHING- JUST KISS ALREADY-” <3

Damian Wayne

Damian likes anime. Would 100% go to an anime convention with you as a date if you’re up for it. He doesn’t mind (surprisingly- just for you only-).

He doesn’t necessarily like showmen animes although he has enjoyed a few, but he really loves slice of life, I feel. It just feels like he wants to put himself in a normal life and with a tad bit of drama in it like what the characters go through. The touching ones like Hyouka or Natsume’s Book of Friends.

Also animal related anime maybe except Beastars because he didn’t understand shit-?? He calls that peak anime. Aggretsuko, Chi’s Sweet Home and My Roommate is a Cat?? Damian loves this shit, he watches it intently with his arm around you. Even if he doesn’t smile, you know he loves it by the way his eyes sparkle.

Just don’t tell his brothers. He will seriously feel betrayed if you do so because he only watches these kinds of shows with you: the cute animal ones that are actually wholesome and/or funny.

The whole family is into Studio Ghibli, and he is no exception. He feels like it’s the best kinds of anime to watch with you when you guys just want to turn in for the day and huddle up on the couch. It’s one of the rare times he relaxes and softens and he’s glad to have quality time with you. <3

Duke Thomas

He likes anime! Studio Ghibli is definitely a favourite of his and he would gladly watch it together with you! He also love a fair bit of Shounen animes, the more popular ones like Jujutsu Kaisen, One Piece, Haikyuu, or Spy x Family. He likes them a lot!

A big fan of romance animes too: Ouran High School Host Club and The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya (if you two are in the mood to huddle on the couch together and cry).

Duke doesn’t mind any kind of anime so long as it doesn’t have too much horror or gore like… Higurashi. He gets chills when that anime is mentioned. D-Don’t watch it for your own sake if you don’t know. And if you do, avoid it with him at all cost because he will.

Duke also like singing some good anime songs with you and you guys can go crazy and dance around, just not as dramatic as Dick.

He would be super excited to spend a date with you watching shounen anime movies like from Jujutsu Kaisen and he would be so hype to spend time with you being a fanboy while also sharing that romantic air for the shared love of anime between you two and the love that you two share, although that love is far stronger. <3

Reblogs help! ^^

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frogchiro · 10 months

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did you see that warren cole posted his motorcycle on his instagram?! it's given me some maaaaaaajor thoughts about biker graves, maybe even in a modern cowboy/rancher au? like imagine him taking you on rides through the desert and he's so distracted by your chest pressed against his back and your legs spread behind him that he runs out of gas because he just drives so far and him and reader just end up in the middle of nowhere... they end up doing a walk of shame to some dusty ass motel and have tired lazy sex PAHAHAHAHAHAHA (i love you, and your writing. i always will! sending infinite love! <3)

YES I SAW IT AND HHRRNNNN the way that I need that man is astronomical, like, interstellar level

I think I'm gonna go with a...dad's best friend/neighbour Graves scenario for this one since I need a dilf to just take me away ;;

Imagine Graves coming to your dad one day to show him his new motorcycle and oh he just so happened to mention that he takes his new baby for a ride into the vast Texas desert for a day or two, do a lil sightseeing and stuff like that and your dad would be so thrilled!

Being none the wiser, your poor old dad asked his old military buddy if he maybe could take you with him if it wouldn't be too much of a hassle. He said that while he appreciated you being a good student and generally a very calm and mild mannered girl, he thought that you'd need something...more adventurous to do during your summer holiday from collage and Philip being his trusted friend is the perfect person to do that! He trusted him with his life on the battlefield many years ago and now he will trust the blonde man with his daughter :)

Little did your dad know is that it's exactly what both you and Philip were hoping for, literally the perfect opportunity. You and your handsome older neighbour were in a,, let's say secret relationship, at least for the time being and every little sliver of time together was precious ;;

And so you quickly packed the few things you could, climbed onto the bike and off you two went, on a nice, relaxing trip, just the two of you until it didn't end up as relaxing as you though it'd be ;;

As much as Philip prides himself to be a man of iron self control with you it just slips away way too easy, but its one of those things he adores about you, how easy and young he feels when he's with you. Unfortunately this time it didn't come as handy as usual. You weren't supposed to travel too far, just around 100km, stay at a motel for a night or two, have some passionate intimate moments just between two lovers and then right back to put you back into your pa's arms with a pat on the head and call you a 'good kid' but as usual, everything went wrong.

As shameful as it is Philip got a little...distracted. The distraction being the feeling of your warm, soft body and the feeling of your pillowy boobs pressed tightly against his leather jacket clad back and he might have happened to drive a bit too fast for a bit too long and drove straight by the motel you were going to stay, with you not paying attention either being distracted too by all the pretty sights and Phil's cologne and musk :((

All was good and cool until the bike started to rumble and slow down into a dead stop. You drove too far for too long, you're out of gas and it's getting dark. Perfect.

You'd lie if you said you weren't at least a bit scared, after all you were literally in dead nowhere with the nearest town being at least 120km away, it was getting cold due to night approaching and Philip was cussing like a sailor trying to reach a towing company but to no avail, it was late already and no one would help you until tomorrow morning. As much as Graves was pissed off he vaguely knew the area having gone on bike drives here a while ago and he could remember there being a motel not too far away, maybe a 15 minute walk. Sure it was a dingy backwater hole with a shady looking old man behind the counter but better that than staying out here for the night right? Plus he could see that you were getting scared and so began the trek to the motel with you helping him pull his bike along the road.

After finally getting there, your fingers stiff from cold and from pulling the heavy machine you thanked all of the gods above and almost cried with relief and happiness when you saw the old blinking light of the sign of the motel. You didn't even care that it looked like the shadiest place on earth, all you wanted to do was to take a shower with Phil and jump straight into bed but,, it looked like the blonde male had other ideas ;;

What ensued was instead of you going right to bed and sleeping this eventful day off, way some sleepy, lazy and absolutely tired love making and it was the best you and Phil ever had <3

The way the older man was barely moving above you, your tired and sore bodies pressed together as close as can be with Philip thrusting his strong hips against you gently, his hot throbbing cock a warm and comforting weight inside you, right up against your cervix but not with the usual rough, fast pace but just resting there, taking in each others warmth in the otherwise cold motel room<3

Your breaths mingled hotly with each other as you lazily kissed before Philip returned his head back into the crook of your neck and started lazily making out with the sensitive skin, his hips barely moving at this point but it was the warmest and most comforting feeling you could ask for.

Tomorrow Philip would fill the gas tank in his beloved bike up to the brim so you could safely and uneventfully return to the motel you were initially going to spend your time but honestly? If someone were to ask you you'd say that this was the more or less perfect romantic getaway <3

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #this is so fucken shitty #i was so sleepy while writing this so i'm sorry if it's badly written ;;#cod x reader #cod mw x reader #philip graves x reader #graves x reader #philip graves

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imagopirateversion · 1 month

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It’s a Pirate Life for Me!

Why I am an adult who still believes in the pirate philosophy and is not willing to change.

An essay by: a person who really hopes future employers will never find this, but will still put their name at the end of it.

Painting credits: Pirate Boarding, Andrey Serebryakov

Can One Still Call Themselves A Pirate in the Twenty-First Century?

There are two answers to that question, and both of them are "yes".

Pirates do actually exist today: there were around 120 incidents of maritime piracy and armed robbery against ships reported in 2023 and around 115 in 2022 (source x). So yes, one can define themselves a pirate in the twenty-first century in a very literal sense; which is not what I'm trying to do here, of course.

While the world has changed and piracy has (almost) ceased to exist, thanks to stories, legends and media, the idea of piracy has become completely detached from the practice. This has led to a concept of "piracy" that has very little to do with sailing, stealing, and killing, and a lot more to do with what most things become over time: philosophy.

What no longer exists in practice in our era (and sometimes what never existed at all) has become a way of living: think about cowboys, goths, hippies, punks and so on. All these things are much more than aesthetics: each one has its own vision, its own practices, its own style, its own way of living; in other words, its own philosophy.

This text is about pirate philosophy and its origins.

First Things First: Why Did People Become Pirates?

Piracy did not appear out of nowhere in 1600; it's ancient and we have proofs of it existing as a practice since ancient Egypt (read more here). We automatically think of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when we talk about piracy because that period is known as the Golden Age of Piracy. Precisely between 1650 and 1730, there were thousands of active pirates, some of them infamously notorious, as Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, Calico Jack, Bartholomew Roberts and, of course, Blackbeard himself. But why did that happen? Well, the answer is complex but can be easily summed up in a single word: money. The world was changing, and as Lord Cutler Beckett explains so brilliantly in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest: currency was becoming the currency of the country, especially in England. Ruthless landowners forced small farmers to leave their lands, while smaller tradesmen were challenged by larger businesses. Everyone wanted more, and those who couldn't adapt to the new world's rules became unemployed and were forced to move to urban areas to look for work or poor relief. The cities became overpopulated and soon there weren't funds left: distressed people had no hope of making a better life (source x). For this people, piracy was nothing more than a way out: it was either submit to the new society and starve to death, or rebel and survive. What would you have done?

What Kind of People Became Pirates?

Piracy soon became the best choice for many people. Not only for unemployed men who couldn't find a better way to survive, but also for those who, for various reasons, couldn't fit in. people who couldn't conform to societal norms weren't just discriminated against or isolated, they were often killed. That's why, even though piracy wasn't an easy life at all, many people preferred it. So, who were the pirates?

Sailors usually didn't make enough money to survive, and the discipline was extremely strict. Many of them ended up starving, getting sick, and dying. It's not surprising that many chose to become criminals and sail as pirates (source x).

Teenagers, often orphans with no money or future. Young men might have to endure seven-year apprenticeships before they could make an independent living, while piracy offered them a way to earn money quickly (source x).

Rebellious against the oppressive conditions imposed by their governments, specially from the Navy.

People discriminated because of their race. Black people in particular often had no social opportunities all, but could find acceptance within pirate crews, where camaraderie transcended racial or ethnic differences.

People with a religious belief that was considered heretical or nonconformist by the mainstream society could often find themselves persecuted. Pirate crews comprised members from diverse religious backgrounds and were generally more tolerant of religious differences.

People with a criminal background, who were offered an opportunity to start anew and be part of a community, two things that the civilized society couldn't give them.

Queer people, particularly homosexual men. Homosexuality was a crime at the time, often viewed as negatively as piracy, if not worse. Piracy was a male-dominated world; although for a long time media tried to portray pirates as "turning" gay due to the absence of women among them, the truth is that many gay men were pirates because they were gay. Homosexuality was so common among pirates that they had something very similar to same-sex marriage. It was called "matelotage": a legal civil union that bound two sailors together in an informal partnership, uniting one's fortune and future to the other's, and was respected by ship captains and pirate crews (source x).

Women. The majority of pirates were men, but not all of them. In a world that was not at all kind to young girls and women in general, it was not uncommon for them to disguise themselves as men or marry a pirate in order to become one. There have been notorious women pirates, some of them captains, such as Zheng Yi Sao or Huang Bamei (source x).

In short, outcasts. Individuals rejected by society, unable to find their place, and unwilling to conform to strict societal rules.

The Adventurers

There were a few people, a minority of course, who willingly chose piracy even though they had a normal, conforming, and even wealthy life. It's the case of Stede Bonnet, The Gentleman Pirate; he was born into a wealthy English family and inherited the family estate after his father's death in 1694. Despite his lack of sailing experience, Bonnet decided he should turn to piracy in the spring of 1717. He bought a sailing vessel, the Revenge, and travelled with his paid crew, capturing other vessels and burning other Barbadian ships. His story, apart from giving us one of the best pirate stories in the history of media, is significant because it provides evidence that piracy wasn't just about necessity; it was about identity. Piracy had become a way of life long before it was romanticized by the media.

The Pirate Life

What was it about pirate life that was so tempting for so many people? Life on a ship wasn't easy at all; the work was tough, the food was poor, and anyone could die at any moment, whether due to illness, sinking, or murder. Nevertheless, there was something that made it all worthwhile: freedom. People who have had no possibilities nor future in society found in piracy the opportunity to live by their own rules. Civilization's norms had no reason to exist in an uncivilized society; no master telling you what to do, no morality, no societal standards, no need to impress or perform. If you wanted something, you simply had to find a way to get it. That meant you could possibly starve to death, but it also meant that you had a chance of getting everything you had ever desired, and eating and drinking until you died, and in the civilized society you didn't have that chance. You could choose to sail and never touch land again; you could choose to marry or not to marry, to have a family or not to have one, to sleep with whomever you wanted to, to practice your religion. You could change your name and be who you wanted to be. Pirate life was the realization of that question most of us have asked ourselves at least once: 'What if I disappear tomorrow and start all over again somewhere else?'.

Piracy in the Modern World

In our eastern, civilized, technological, capitalist society, we don't need to be part of a crew and sail to be pirates. Piracy as a practice was defeated thanks to pirate hunting in the eighteenth century, but you can't kill an idea, can you? Ideas not only persist, they evolve and adapt to the changes they're forced to face. When we say "pirate" in today's world, we mean a lot of different things:

Sea Pirate: a person who attacks and robs ships at sea;

Software Pirate: a person who appropriates or reproduces the work of another for profit without permission, usually in contravention of patent or copyright;

In Italy, we have a way to describe people who ignore the Traffic Laws, 'pirata della strada', literally 'pirate of the street';

In sexual slang, the word 'pirate' is used to define someone who sleeps around, who constantly looks for casual sex.

The term 'ass pirate' has been used as a slur to describe homosexual men.

In short, the term in today's society is used to describe someone who breaks the rules, whether they are actual laws or societal standards.

If we consider everything piracy represents as a concept, as an idea, in modern society, and put it together, we can sum it up in three words:

Freedom, Anarchy, Resistance.

Freedom

'Freedom' is such an abstract concept it is almost impossible to define. It's widely discussed in philosophy, particularly the question: is it possible to be truly free? As soon as we built a society, in order to gain benefits, we had to partially sacrifice our freedom. We can't freely steal from our neighbors, but in doing so, we ensure our neighbors won't steal from us (at least, we hope). It's a simple concept. However, there's a line beyond which the benefits we gain aren't worth the sacrifices we make to obtain them. This has occurred repeatedly throughout history; it happened in the Golden Age of Piracy, and it was the reason why most of people chose to abandon civilization and sail as pirates, and it continues to happen every day. Whenever a social construct, or sometimes even a law, prevents you from simply existing as a person; whenever your future is dictated by your social status; whenever you're denied free time, enjoyment, rest, and happiness because you have to work ten hours a day just to be paid the minimum wage, if you're lucky enough to live in a country that has one. That isn't a freedom you willingly gave away to have a benefit. It's a freedom someone took from you before you were even born, before you could think and understand that just because everyone acts like it's the normal way of living, it doesn't mean it has to be that way.

Anarchy

It is true that, at least concerning crews, pirate society had a sort of hierarchy, in which the Captain of the ship was at the top. However, it is also true that this hierarchy could collapse at any given moment, considering the possibility of a mutiny, and that, in general, pirate society was anarchic. There has been research on the functioning of pirate society, particularly regarding its potential application in a hypothetical modern society where the value of human life and individual needs are more considered than they were during that era. Most of the work in that sense has been done by Peter Lamborn Wilson in his 1995 book 'Pirate Utopias: Moorish Corsairs & European Renegadoes'. He provides a definition of what he calls 'Pirate Utopias', that are described as "Early forms of autonomous proto-anarchist societies in that they operated beyond the reach of governments and embraced unrestricted freedom" (source x). I highly recommend reading his work and all the other research that followed it if you want to go into detail, because that's not what I'm going to do here (for now).

That being said, this is my personal take on the matter:

In our days, the discussion about Anarchy as a political belief is often ridiculed and reduced to a mere "if there were no rules, people would kill each other". That statement is true; people would. What is usually misunderstood and not taken into consideration is that people who profess to believe in Anarchy do not mean we should abolish every existing law overnight and see what happens. With 'Anarchy,' we mean a hypothetical society in which individuals are free to do as they please, and they willingly choose not to kill, steal, and hurt others because they have no interest in doing so. This hypothetical society is, of course, unachievable; it's what is called a utopia.

Most political beliefs are based on utopias (or dystopias, depending on your vision of them), because a society that strictly adheres to a pure political system is impossible to achieve. There cannot be a perfect socialist society, nor a perfect communist one, nor a perfect capitalist one, and of course, there cannot be a perfect anarchist society. What we can do, though, is aspire to one—or, to use a naval metaphor, we can set the course towards it. We can make decisions, take actions, and build societies around a specific vision.

The western society, for example, tends to a capitalistic system; in brief, money are what our society revolves around. The more money you possess, the more power you wield; your ultimate goal in life must be to gain money so that you can afford basic necessities: food, housing, healthcare and so on. Everything is privatized, leading to the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, being exploited by people whose only purpose is to become even more rich. Consequently, you are forced to wake up every morning at 6 am to work ten-hour shifts for minimum wage. Don't like it? You're free not to live in the capitalist society. You'll probably starve to death, end up living on the street, be marginalized, isolated, persecuted, but still. You're "free" to do it. Of course, this is not a "perfect" capitalist society, it can't be; not until Democracy exists, not until Resistance exists. Still, our society tends towards it.

'Anarchy' doesn't mean we should live in a society with no rules; it simply means we should strive towards it and build a society that is as similar as possible to that utopia, prioritizing the freedom of the individual, but without causing collapse.

Resistance

Most pirates were hardly educated enough to even understand all of that as a concept, of course. They didn't fight for a political idea, most of them fought to survive. Even though it wasn't a utopian society, they still had a shared belief: dissent. Being an outcast means to be disillusioned in how 'mainstream' society works, and we know most of them were, considering their social background. Piracy was, in its own way, a movement of resistance.

Times have changed, and we don't have to engage in naval battles to resist. As society evolved, resistance as a practice evolved with it, and hence Western society has become less and less violent, as have the harmless but powerful acts of resistance.

Every time you protest, you are resisting. Every time you talk back, you expose a normalized injustice, you rebel towards an unfair authority, you say 'no', you go against what's expected from you, you are unapologetically yourself, you refuse to adapt, you decide to ignore or bypass a senseless law, you are resisting. Every time you prioritize your free time over money, you challenge beauty standards, you don't accept a 'that's how it was always done' as a justification. Even when you have fun harder than how you're supposed to, when you rejoice louder than how's considered appropriate, every time you dance like no one is watching you, you are, somehow, resisting.

Piracy in Media

Much of our perception of things we haven't directly experienced is filtered and conditioned by media. Even when we study historical periods like the Medieval Age or the Roman Empire, a part of our understanding will always be influenced by the media we've consumed about them. This is because media is often how we were introduced to these subjects: you can get very passionate about Indiana Jones, and so get interested in studying the pyramids and ancient Egypt, only to find out pyramids are nothing like it was portrayed in the movies. Nevertheless, you got interested in studying them in the first place because of Indiana Jones, so as much as you understand and accept that that isn't the truth behind ancient Egypt, you can also accept that Indiana Jones is part of your vision of it, and that cannot change. I know Pirates of the Caribbean isn't historically accurate, as much as Our Flag Means Death and Monkey Island aren't; still, I cannot deny that they have a role in creating a general vision of Pirate Philosophy in the modern world.

There are, in my opinion, three main aspects that come out from the combination of what we know about Piracy as a historical reality and as it's portrayed by media, and those are Hedonism, Nomadism and Camaraderie.

Hedonism

Hedonism is defined as 'the prioritization of pleasure in one's lifestyle, actions, or thoughts'. It's a recurring theme in the portrayal of pirate society; from songs, to movies where Tortuga is depicted as a place where people drink, eat, have sex and fight as they please, to legends that speak of treasures to be found so one can live a life of excess.

The reason for this is related to what we already know about the history of pirates, particularly the society they escaped from. The society of the seventeenth century was extremely strict, both morally and legislatively. Sex outside of marriage was out of the question, and many things that we consider normal today were seen as affronts to decency, often punishable. To be considered a respectable man or woman, one had to follow certain rules. Additionally, many pirates came from backgrounds of extreme poverty, making them prone to indulging in every kind of pleasure when they could.

Hedonism isn't just a perpetual search for pleasure; it's actually an ethical philosophy that is grounded in pleasure (defined as the avoidance of pain as much as possible) as the only intrinsic value and therefore the only reasonable expression of ethical good. This philosophy of life can be easily connected to the anarchist society that we described earlier; a society that doesn't have rules and in which you don't have a 'place' or need to 'contribute,' since your only purpose as an individual is to pursue pleasure.

I personally believe in Hedonism as an ethical philosophy, particularly Psychological Hedonism, as much as my research of pleasure doesn't prevail on someone else's.

Nomadism

One of the things that fascinated me the most about the Pirate Life as portrayed in media, was the idea of embarking on a journey that would never end. Our society is a stationary one, and I actually think there's nothing wrong with that. My perspective on this matter has nothing to do with morality, ideology, or politics. Being stationary is good; the human species would have never evolved if it didn't stop and build the world as we know it. This is simply a personal preference and stems from my absolute intolerance and repulsion at the idea of being born and dying in the same place. I've always yearned to explore, to see as much of the world as I could. The concept of 'borders' has always bothered me; I firmly believe in cultural exchanges and in learning about how other human beings live in different parts of the world. Of course, I acknowledge that without nations, traditions, and populations that are local and bound to their territories, there wouldn't even be cultures to discover or different societies to explore. So, this is about me, not a hypothetical, utopian society. I'm the one who always wanted to travel without ever stopping; I've never felt like I belonged in any one place or that there's a good enough reason to settle in a single nation and miss out on all that there is to see out there.

Camaraderie

Pirates encompassed men and women with all different kinds of backgrounds, nationalities, beliefs, ideologies and identities. While we speak in absolutes, in a society with no moral or legislative boundaries, factors such as who you were, where you came from, who you slept with, or what you believed in simply didn't matter. You were a pirate, and that was enough.

The official definition of camaraderie is:

"A feeling of friendliness towards people that you work or share an experience with".

In this case, we could even say "towards people that you share a lifestyle with". Being realistic, in a historically accurate pirate society, it's plausible that hate towards differences and minorities still existed, considering the strict and mentally bigoted society most pirates came from. However, we're talking about individuals who chose to leave that society, probably because of its strict and mentally bigoted nature. It's reasonable to assert that this particular kind of hate was at least less prevalent in the pirate society than outside of it.

Piracy in media undoubtedly plays a significant role in romanticizing the sense of brotherhood and companionship felt among pirates; we saw Pirate Codes, Brethren Courts, battles in the name of a common ideal, epic friendships and romances, songs that speak of a union strong enough to beat death itself and slogan such as "Long Live Piracy!".

What attracts me the most about it is that camaraderie as a concept exists in basically all societies or communities with a shared aim or belief. However, there are always rules that need to be followed, and the risk of being excluded and losing the privilege of deserving such camaraderie is always present. The idea of fidelity toward one's society, community, or even nation is essential for its survival, ensuring that those in power maintain control over their adherents, citizens, or believers. The pirate society is the only one I've stumbled across that doesn't need it. The feeling of brotherhood within these people doesn't need any kind of loyalty, proper rules or the fear of losing privileges to make sure that the community keeps existing. That's because the pirate society is made up of people who have already betrayed, renounced, and lost all of their privileges to be there. All they have is that sense of brotherhood and friendship. They exist in a reality in which none of them belongs anywhere and that, somehow, becomes a sense of belonging; one that doesn't need to be continuously shown or respected, simply because it's the only thing that keeps them there.

I believe that is the only reality in which camaraderie and freedom can coexist in a society, and I think it's one of the most beautiful and powerful concepts I've ever seen portrayed.

Conclusions

We finally arrived at the end of this... yeah, let's call it 'essay'. It was more than two weeks ago when I wrote the first word. It was meant to be brief and simply a way to put in words an intimate belief. I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it, mostly because I rarely share such deep thoughts with people around me; though, I'm trying to change that. As all human beings I strive to find belonging and as a true pirate, I never found anywhere to do so. So, to find but one person who reads this until the end and finds themselves to agree with my view, it would make me immeasurably happy.

Thank you if you made it this far, even if you don't agree with a single word I've written, because you dedicated part of your time to me, and I appreciate it.

If you find syntactic errors, please consider that english isn't my first language and also that grammar is a made up concept anyway.

Don't forget to be free, to resist, to pursue pleasure as much as you can, to explore and to show camaraderie not because you have to, but for the sake of it.

Fair winds t' ye!

Imago

#pirates #pirate philosophy #piracy #long live piracy #long reads #essay

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kingarthurtournament · 1 year

Text

The Once and Future Contestant: Revival Round 4-D

The winner will join the quarter-finals!

Arthur Pendragon (BBC Merlin)

"he's my babygirl and also insane and the most bisexual man ever and stupid and kind and good at swordfighting and has the world's worst parental issues."

Arthur Pendragon (The Mechanisms)

"He's a cowboy. He lives on a space station that's slowly falling into the sun. He's in a poly relationship with Lancelot & Guinevere. He's got a trans son. In the end, he's the sole survivor. Hes even got a great song about his tragic fate."

Sailor Venus (Sailor Moon)

"The leader of the Sailor Senshi who protect the moon princess. Died and was reborn like Arthur and has a Holy Sword she pulled from a stone"

#king arthur tournament #revival round #round 4 #take two!#bbc merlin #the mechanisms #hnoc #sailor moon

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topguncortez · 1 year

Text

Do I Wanna Know?

synopsis: It's your friend's bachelorette party, and she drags you to The Hard Deck where a certain brunette stripper catches your attention

word count: 3.3k

warnings: stripping, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence, mentions of being cheated on, sexual tension, mentions of prostitution

A strip club was not on the top of your list of things to be at this Saturday night. You could probably name about a hundred other places you would rather be at, but it was your best friend’s bachelorette party. Even though you had been hailed with the lovely title of maid of honor, you left the party details up to her sorority sisters from college.

You loved Malia with all your heart. She had been your longest friend, sticking by your side through everything. Your bond was really sealed when she stood in the same handicap bathroom stall as you took a pregnancy test at some random Walmart. But that bond had become somewhat weak when she went to NYU for college and you stayed back and got a two year degree at the local community college.

“A strip club?!” Malia’s cheery voice sounded out from the middle of the party bus. Also, not your idea whatsoever.

Malia seemed to be having the time of her life as she wore a white fringe dress with a sash across her body and in glittery gold writing it spelled ‘future bride’. One of her sorority sister’s had given her a sparkly white cowboy hat to try and complete the look. Everyone else was told to wear black, so you dug out a black off the shoulder dress from the deepest parts of hell, aka your closet. You were surprised that you even still had this dress.

“Everyone deserves one last dance!” Jessica, no Jennifer, you were pretty sure her name was Jennifer, shouted and held up her red solo cup. That was one thing you didn’t like about sorority girls, they never seemed to grow up.

You walked somewhat behind the group as they got off the bus, your feet were starting to ache from bar hopping earlier. You were probably the more sober one among the group, choosing to opt out of the fireball shots at the last club. One of the girl’s gave her name to the bouncer, a tall tan man with a mustache, who smirked and then walked their group into the club. You rolled your eyes at the sign above the door.

‘The Hard Deck’

You knew it was a play on words since the club was near the port. San Diego was known for its dirty dingy clubs that were more than just strip clubs. With the military base so close by, restless sailors were always looking for a way to blow off some steam when they reached port. But this club was a lot nicer than most, whoever owned it obviously took pride in their business.

The bouncer led your group to a section right at the front of the stage. The sorority sister who booked the section winked at the bouncer before he left. You huffed as you sat down in a chair as far away from the stage as you could get.

“Hey,” You turned your head to see Malia sitting down next to you, “Thank you for coming out tonight. I know none of this can be easy. It totally sucks that Justin broke-”

“Let’s not talk about my sham of an engagement,” You shook your head and grabbed Malia’s hand in yours, “This is your night. You’re going to be the future Missus Malia Pfifer.”

Malia squealed and stomped her feet. You couldn’t help but giggle at her excitement. Malia always reminded you of a golden retriever, constant energy, always a ball of sunshine. You were truly happy for her and her fiance Max, it was the timing of everything that couldn’t have been worse.

A week ago you had walked in on your fiance Justin, who was Max’s best friend and best man, in between the legs of your coworker. He had tried to justify the scene, telling you it was an accident, but you were smart enough to know that you don’t just fall in between someone’s bare legs. You threw the ring at him, as well as some other items until he got out of your house. You called Malia in tears and she was over so quickly you knew she broke traffic laws. She spent the night helping you dump glitter into boxes of Justin’s clothes and put them in your driveway for him to get in the morning. You knew that if you needed to hide a body, Malia would be the one to call.

But you also didn’t want to be the dark shadow in her way. Her wedding was three weeks away, and this was her night to let loose before she took on the role of the doting wife. She had already accepted that role so well and there weren't any legal ramifications about it.

“Well, as long as you are having fun. And hey! Who knows, maybe you’ll meet your future husband here!” Malia smiled.

“This isn’t Magic Mike, Mals,” You chuckled. Malia just shrugged and kissed your cheek as a redhead, who you think is named Amanda, walked over with a fat stack of ones and a tray of shots. You sucked in a breath and looked around the club. If you couldn’t beat them, you might as well join them.

— — —

Everyone had their own pre-show prep. Some of the guys went over their new dances in their heads, some of them lathered oil on their abs to make them shine just that much more, some popped pills and snorted white lines on a tray, some of them did a last minute workout to make their muscles plump a bit more, and some of them sat on their phones and looked through tiktoks.

Rooster was the last of the options.

He felt confident in his dances for the night. He hardly changed up his routine from week to week, knowing that simple was better. He worked out a couple hours before work so he had time to shower and knew for a fact that he didn’t stink. He also hated putting excess baby oil on him, it made everything slippery and he has had one too many slips on stage. And he stayed away from the drugs that floated around the locker room. He had seen one too many guys get hooked on the junk and fired for not being able to perform. Stripping was about all Rooster had going for him, and he was not about to do something stupid.

No, working at a strip club wasn’t what he imagined he would be doing when he was a little kid. He thought he was going to be a pilot, but one stupid mistake cost him his whole future. He had nowhere to go, no higher education than a high school diploma, and was facing jail time. That’s when he stumbled across the Hard Deck. It was the middle of the day, and from first glance he thought it was just a regular bar, but when he walked in, he quickly learned it was not. He was about to turn around when a sweet voice called out to him.

“Boys! I told you to keep the bathrooms clean! I am not your damn maid!”

Rooster looked up from his phone, hearing that voice that had called out to him all those years ago. Penny Benjamin, aka their house mother and partial owner of the club. She had welcomed Bradley with a plate of food and a place to lay his head. The only thing she asked in return, is that he worked to pay his keep. At the time, Rooster didn’t know a single thing about dancing let alone stripping, but Penny told him not to stress about it. Declan, the MC and mainshow boat took Rooster under his wing and taught him everything he needed to know about working the stage and getting the tips.

“Sorry mom,” Rooster said and gave Penny a lopsided smile.

“Not your fucking mother, Rooster,” Penny pointed at him, “Keep this shit clean, or I’m taking wages for a cleaning fee.”

“Payback said there’s a bridal party in the house,” Jake said, taking a seat next to Bradley. He was one of the ones who lathered more oil than necessary onto his abdomen, “You know what that means.”

“Horny middle aged women trying to pull my pants down?” Bradley said, looking up at him.

“No, more tips man,” Jake rolled his eyes, “Bachelorette girls are fucking crazy. Fucking wink at them and their pulling their panties to the side.”

Bradley tossed his phone onto the counter in front of him and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair started getting a little long, but the women in the club seemed to dig it. He trimmed up his mustache a bit and put some light makeup over his face. That was another thing Bradley never thought he would do, put makeup on his face. But Declan said it helped bring in tips, so Bradley wasn’t complaining as he put foundation powder on his nose.

“Declan also wants us to do It’s Raining with the new kid,” Jake said and Bradley groaned. He looked over to the other side of the room where Bob, the newest recruit, was going over the steps to It’s Raining. It used to be a trio between Bradley, Jake and Javy. Bob wasn’t the average looking stripper. He wasn’t supper ripped, or had an oversized ego. He was cute, and had just the right amount of muscle on him. He also looked no older than eighteen, which made the two-time divorced mothers go absolutely feral.

“Fucking Coyote just had to get a concussion,” Bradley mumbled and pushed himself up from his chair, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Thinking about a lil Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” Jake smirked at himself, flexing his abs in the mirror. He wore a pair of tight Wranglers with an obnoxious belt buckle. He was shirtless and had a red bandana tied around his neck. He picked up his black cowboy hat from the counter and put it on his head, “What about you? Another 80s rock song?”

Bradley rolled his eyes, “Not sure yet. Depends on the crowd. If you crash and burn then I know that I shouldn’t do country.”

“Ha, ha,” It was now Jake who rolled his eyes. He took one glance at himself in the mirror and winked at his reflection, “See you on the flip side, Rooster.”

— — —

You hate country music. And what made it even worse was the blonde haired green eyed stripper who was dressed as a cowboy, grinding his junk into your friend’s face. He traded his black cowboy hat for her white one, and pulled her up on the stage. You stifled a laugh as you watched Malia turn as red as a tomato as he dragged her hand down his abs, landing on his crotch.

So far you had been impressed with the guys that had been up on the stage. You felt a bit uncomfy with the baby-faced one who danced to some remix of Toxic and Pony. He might’ve been slender but he sure could move his hips. You thought Jennifer was nearly going to have an aneurysm for how much she screamed for the stripper’s attention and stuffed money into his jeans. You also found it quite comical how red he turned when he had to push her hands away from him and scramble for his shirt before going off stage.

“Alright, alright,” The MC, who had introduced himself as Declan said, walked back out on the stage. Your eyebrows raised as you noticed him now wearing a tight pair of leather shorts, “A little birdy told me that we have a bride among us. . .” He talked low and slow, trying to be seductive, but you could not take a man in short shorts seriously, “Where is the lucky lady?”

“Right here!” Malia said, shooting her hand up.

Declan’s eyes went to her and he kneeled down right in front of her. Malia blushed profusely and bit her lip, “Your poor husband is going to have to ward off men for the rest of your lives.” You rolled your eyes, “Do you wanna know your surprise?”

“Oh yes! Yes!” You choked on your whisky at the breathless pleas from Malia. If you didn’t know better you would think she was getting railed instead of standing in front of a forty year old male stripper. Declan smiled and stood up on his feet.

“Well, ladies, I think you better take cover, would hate for you to get. . .wet. . .”

“Of fucking course,” You rolled your eyes at the entrance of the song, meanwhile the other girls lost their damn minds.

Three men stepped out on stage as smoke filled the stage. You recognized the two from earlier, they had changed into black jeans and yellow rain jackets. You had to give it to the Hard Deck dancers, they could actually do more than grind on the ground and do body rolls. You sat back in your chair and watched as the three of them moved on stage, and turned around to face the crowd. Your eyes locked on the tall brunette in the middle with the ridiculous porn stache. He caught your eye and winked at you as he slid forward on his knee, pushing his open raincoat back to show off his abs.

— — —

Bradley hated this song more than anything. He thought it was a cliche and Bob was half a count behind. It had been Declan’s idea about a year ago, and it had become almost a weekly thing that they’d do for the bachelorette parties in the club. It wasn’t that Bradley hated sharing the stage with others, it was that when the three of them were on stage, women tended to look at Javy or Jake more. But not her. Her eyes were locked on him, roaming over his abs. He smirked as he moved forward, as Bob and Jake took the sides of the stage. Bradley felt the confidence go through his body as he tossed his head back and held on to the ridiculous yellow rain hat, and thrusted his hips into the air.

When the song ended, Bradley was out of breath and had probably 200 hundred dollars shoved into his waist band. Jake took extra time getting off stage, enjoying the young women swooning over him, and returned the white cowboy hat back to the bride to be. He knew that she was engaged but he couldn’t help that electric feeling when she placed a quick kiss on his cheek before placing his cowboy hat on his head.

“Did I do alright?” Bob asked, huffing and puffing for air. He grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge and handed one to Jake and Bradley, “I know that’s yours and Javy’s thing.”

“You did alright, Floyd,” Jake said and took a gulp of water, “It’s just this part. . .”

Bradley ignored whatever Jake was explaining to Bob about the dance and walked over to the DJ booth, telling him what song he was going to do tonight. He had spent the last two weeks working on it, and it was Declan approved yet, but Bradley didn’t care. He knew that it would catch the eye of the girl in the crowd again.

Bradley quickly wiped the sweat off his body, and change out of his yellow rain jacket, deciding to just go without a shirt. He peaked out from behind the black curtains and noticed her still in her spot, a bit behind the group of young women who stared up at Fanboy with wide eyes like kids on christmas. She looked bored and for whatever reason, that spurred Bradley on even more.

Call it what you want, but Bradley Bradshaw liked women who could give him a run for his money.

Fanboy walked off the stage giggling, running a hand through his curls. That was one thing that Bradley liked about Fanboy, he was the comedic relief they all needed sometimes. He told Bradley to break a leg and patted his shoulder before dipping back into the dressing room. Bradley let out a breath and shook out his shoulders as his song started. He nodded his head to the beat and when the guitar started strumming he walked out on stage.

He could hear the whistles and cheers of the women, but he wondered if she was cheering for him. The DJ had placed a black chair in the middle of the stage for Bradley to use. Usually, he’d pick a girl from the audience to sit in it, but it didn’t feel right unless he was picking her.

Bradley closed his eyes as the voice of Alex Turner filled his head. His body moved with muscle memory as he struted around stage, using the chair to his advantage. He opened his eyes as he turned the chair around backwards and sat down, rolling his hips as he did. She still had that same bored expression on her face and it fired him up even more.

He wasn’t sure what caused him to do it, maybe it was the eye roll or maybe it was the way she sipped whisky from a rocks glass, but he jumped off the stage and swaggered his way over to her. The same bored expression never leaving her face as he flooded her personal space.

— — —

Malia’s jaw hit the floor as the porn stached man jumped off the stage and walked right to you. You clenched your jaw and tightened your grip on the glass. He was skilled, clearly spending more time practicing his routines than anyone else here. You wondered if maybe he was an actual dancer before he decided to strip.

He was intoxicating and you thought his song choice was interesting. You sucked in a breath as he stood in front of you, he rolled his hips, pushing his junk towards your face, but you kept your eyes trained on his face. His eyes were dark, but you could see that they were honey brown. He smirked as he dropped to his knees in front of you. And damn you for opening your legs for him to slot in between them.

You knew the rule of the strip club, no touching costumers unless they consent, and he did a good job at remembering that. He placed his hands on either side of your chair as he lowered his head towards your lap and snaked his body back up to look at you. He was trying to get a rise out of you, to see you break and stick money into his waistline. But you were not about to give him that satisfaction.

‘Crawlin back to you, never thought I’d call’

He was going to push the limits, you could tell by the smirk on his face as he grabbed your glass of whisky from your hand, and took a drink. There was a glint in his eye and you nodded your head subtly, giving him permission. He grabbed your jaw, digging his fingers lightly into the skin to get you to open your mouth.

You kept eye contact with him as he spit the brown liquid back into your mouth. You swallowed without a second thought, your eyes on him the whole time. He smirked and wiped a dribble of whisky from your lip before setting the glass back in your hand and going back to the stage, making sure to put an extra swing into his hips.

“Dude!” Malia swatted your arm, snapping you out of your trance, as the Arctic Monkeys' song came to an end, “What the hell was that!”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked down at your now empty drink and then back at your friend, “I’m not entirely sure. . .but I liked it.”

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konigsblog · 8 months

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Farmer!Graves omg⁉️ I love the idea of farmer/cowboy!Graves just spending his whole day fixing some things Ina barn etc and coming home to us, his little house spouse, and makin' some sweet love as we were baking😭🩷 he looks like a jerk/fuckboy on the outside but I imagine he's a really sweet man.

Also take care of ya, don't overwhelm yourself with too many asks, your well-being's more important xx

~🐸

farmer!graves ... 🌾🐓🐄

definitely smokes a ton and curses like a sailor, a lot of people don't like him down in the village for his blunt tone, but those who do either know him well, or find him funny. buys apples, bananas and all other fruits for his little housewife back in the village, buying from some stands and going into a pub with a close friend of his to catch up and drink a little bit of whiskey.

coming home all sweaty from the texas heat, his musk potent as he cracks the door inside, seeing you bent over and looking in the oven to make sure your dinner isn't burnt!! bends you over the counter and shushes you with a cigarette between his teeth, smoking inside — which you hate — and pealing off your panties and pushing your apron back.

god, he fucks you so nicely. slow, sloppy thrusts while he praises you for being so tight for him. your moans addictive and like encouragement to him, broad hips smacking against your ass while he holds your hips with his large, calloused hands :( spurting hot cum into your wet, sloppy hole and fills you all up, your cunt dripping with pleasure before he heads out to the farm again, leaving you breathless and panting with his thick load oozing out your hole slowly.

#orla speaks #farmer graves 🐓#graves x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #graves x you #graves cod #cod graves #graves call of duty #phillip graves x you #graves mwii #graves mw2 #philip graves #cod philip graves

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ruexsdrty · 9 days

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Petty Thievery

Pairing: The Ghoul x Reader

Note: Mentions of the game Fallout 4 setting/gameplay because duh I played it too fucking much.

Gloved fingers gripped at the slicky thin bobby pin, twisting and turning gently just in the await of that sweet click. The wind was strong tonight but her overhanging hood saved her eyes from the unforgiving—and probably radioactive—sand. It was ironic that a radaway bag hanged on the inner side of her coat while she donned a gruesome ghoul mask on her face like second skin.

She had found it hanging alone on a wall shack in the corner of an empty costume house when she was seeking cover from the blazing raiders and mutants outside. There were a few of them until she had shot one with her .308 pipe revolver, awaiting a horde of sick grunts and snarls only to be met by silence. That was when she realised that it was no feral, just a harmless mask. Those were probably zombie masks but, well, there was nothing she couldn't fake.

‘Well, I had this idea...’ she narrates, her eyes catching the glimpse of a distant man coming towards her again through the sides of her vision. She wasn't mistaken, that silhouette was distinctively clear in her head. Only one man she knew held himself with grace and sickening danger altogether. The cowboy hat, the overhanging coat... ‘And when I thought I could handle lying about being a ghoul with wastelanders and other ghouls alike, I wasn't fucking counting him.’

Her fingers trembled as yet another bobby pin snapped, spitting curses under her breath that would make a sailor blush. She heard the familiar reload click of a shotgun a few feet away.

“Tell me why I shouldn't just shoot you right now, sweetheart.”

Oh, yeah, that voice. She knew it, was familiar with it. She has had one too many run-ins with him whenever she played the role of a runaway vaultie, and she could recall none of them to be pleasant. She just hoped he won't recognize her voice.

The flickering neon board hung overhead, a few lights hanging off its hinges, it read, ‘Pharmacy’.

“Nothin' wrong with a woman trying to survive,” She grumbled with an intentioned rasp in her voice, deepening it. ‘We practised this,’ she told herself to take deep breaths, ‘Just don't overdo it.’

“Well, darlin',” His southern accent was strong, dripping off each syllable, “Ain't nothin' wrong with a man wanting it all to 'imself, eh?” The barrel of the shotgun dug into the sides of her forehead through her hood. Ofcourse he'd want the whole store. Who wouldn't?

She sucked in a deep, slow breath, quiet and shaky. “That's not nice.” At a loss of words, that was all that she could've come up. She wasn't particularly proud of it, especially when even he couldn't bite back a short laugh.

After a long pause of silence, she huffed, “If you kill me, you can't get it. The lock's pretty tight!”

“Yeah?” He drawled, she peeked through the edge of her hood to catch a glimpse of his uninterested eyes. “And what gives I don't just break the damned glass?”

Again, a silence befell them. “I'm fucked then.” She had stopped fumbling with the lock now, looking at him with distrusting eyes while the wind furled gently against her hood. His fingers repositioned around the trigger.

A guttural growl filled the air as heavy steps shook on the ground they stood on. Their gazes widened at each other. He hit the barrel on her head lightly to accentuate the tension, “Get to it,” he barked.

She returned to pick the lock, the nearing footsteps of the wasteland creature and the edge of the gun digging on her head pushing her hands to shake more. With an irritated groan he knocked the glass with his elbow before opening the lock from the inside. With heavy breathes they rushed inside and pushed the door close.

He turned to her with an exasperated frown. She huffed, a hand to her chest to contain her beating afraid heart. “Don't blame me for having performance anxiety!” He looked at her incredulously like she was crazy.

It was dark, her feet hitting some clutter or the other as she creeped closer to the wall for safety. She stumbled behind the counter and slid down the wall, sitting on the floor as she stared out the glasses in fear. The sudden ticking of radroaches' mantis caught her off-guard and she let out a yelp, fingers curling around the revolver in her holster and shooting the creature before it could close in on her. Silence befell and she collected her breath with a heaving chest. Her legs sprawled in front of her, back hitting the wall in exhaustion but her fingers stayed tightly clutched on her revolver.

The Ghoul clicked his tongue, “You don't sound much like a ghoul.” Was that a joke? A threat? An accusation or just an observation? Whatever it may be, she knew she didn't way to stay around him much longer than necessary.

The fucking Deathclaw outside was an absolute epitome of her bad luck.

Heavy footsteps neared her. It was The Ghoul this time. For some reason, she thought it'd be easier to take down a Deathclaw than this man. “Gun,” he demanded with an outstretched palm in front of her face. She glanced at it once.

“And why should I?”

His foot striked down her wrist, the gun falling out of her grasp to the floor. He stood over her, kicking the gun to the corner and out of reach. His boot planted on either side of her legs. There wasn't much she could to save herself in this situation... or, well, position.

“Smooth skin, soft voice...” He observed, “When did ya' start turning?”

She hasn't done her research. “Seven.” But she figured seven years might hit the sweet spot.

He hummed and leaned downwards, the barrel nudging against her shoulder. ‘Don't panic,’ she met his gaze. He tilted his head down at her, sighing heavily in thought. He laughed short, fingers tightening around the trigger. Gunshots don't kill ghoul, at least not until their brains paint the floor.

"Well, sweetie,” he drawled, his voice deep and ruthless, “Let's see how much of a liar you are, huh?”

Deafening gunshot filled the small store.

#cooper howard #fo4 #fanfiction #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul fanfic #fanfic #fallout fic #fallout fandom #gaming #pc games #video games

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cherubispunk · 9 months

Text

ICHOR. BLOOD. WATER. (part i // ichor.) - Din Djarin x Witch!AFAB!Reader

summary: stranded. alone. a traitor to your people, your family. aeaea is the prison of paradise you call home, and he is the prophecy you like to call an enigma. the 'man made from metal', forged in fire, melted by your spell that is no witchcraft on your part. he is the hunter, you will always be the prey. it is the way as the fates designed it.

a note from lucy: so, its back. i'm officially back! basically, I went through it. accidentally deleted my blog. had to start from scratch. repost it all. but! I'm here. you're here. we're all here! Greek mythology is a huge love of mine. I always like to add a small sprinkling into my fics where possible. and now im writing one based wholly of two greek myths: eros and phsyche, and circe. I've read Madeleine Miller's 'Circe'. I fell in love with it, it's genuinely one of the best books ive had the pleasure of reading --hence the fact that this is heavily based off it in terms of 'lore'. Din is the perfect character for these myths to be translated into fic. So, without further ado, I present to all you lovely people (again lol), my mythology!au; ICHOR. BLOOD. WATER. for @inklore and @psychedelic-ink's haunted hoedown. A three part fic with our beloved space cowboy. I really hope you enjoy it as I put a lot of time and thought into this. I love you all, you wonderful Pedro fanatics.

playlist

wc: 2255 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! mythology!au, no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'Circe' twice in this chapter alone, dubcon, smut, p in v sex (unprotected), reference to past sexual assault (very mild), cussing, mentions of witchcraft, voyeurism, mentions of drinking alcohol, mentions of food and descriptions of eating, choking, breath play, oral sex - f receiving, edging, orgasm denial, toxic relationships, dom!din/sub!reader dynamic, sex as a means for manipulation and control, manipulative!din, stockholm syndrome?

series m.list | m.list

You had done many things under the pseudonym of Circe. Bird. Crow. What your mother and siblings used as a knife to your throat. An insult in the form of a name. One that man whispered in myth around fires. One a sailor would call out in fear upon reaching the shore of any island in the vicinity of Aeaea. It clung to the disgusted curl of their tongue like the tang of sour fruits. Lemons of Sicily. Limes from crete. Wrapped in letter parchment, sweetened with ink.

Across from you is the god responsible for many of those tall tales. In his gold sheathed glory, olive skin gleaming with a ripple of muscle against the warmth of your hearth. Under it flows ichor, steadily. His winged sandals flutter in a twitch every few minutes. A subtle sound that is heard little too often over the lilt of his voice. Hermes. A deity you invited to your bed when he would visit, indulge in the stories of how he stole cattle as mere youngling, delivered messages of ruin to mortals. Travelled the planes of the underworld from the Styx to Elysium Plains. Hades and his sunken eyes on his throne. Where winged sandals would carry him overseas with his travellers cap and staff of entwined twin snakes.

He would sit upon your chair, open his loose lips and a drone would pour out, Maybe to a mortal he would seem all so interesting. One to dote hours of your day to the thick honey like pouring of his voice in your ear. But to you – the witch – a goddess in your own right, he was a mere drag. A rake. A god worthy of being turned to swine at the unjust sight of his curling smirk.

You would have drifted off it weren't for his voice picking up in interest, your ears perking up with it. The high buzz from his drone of white noise faded, ebbing into coherence while his lips drifted in voice. Practised and perfected movement the way any divine being did.

“The fates speak of a man. Made of metal.” He mused, studying his thumb and forefinger as a stand of your lionesses hair was snagged between it. You wished to singe it from his fingertips. “A warrior.” “From overseas of Greece?” Now, and only now, he had your attention.

“Further.”

You muttered a curse under your breath. Where would be further. “He will sail on a ship, strand himself on your shores engulfed with fire. And you shall do as you have before.”

“Take it?” You sneered, sitting forward in your seat, teeth bared at him. “I suppose I shall feed him before he sets his disgusting hands upon me.”

“Oh come now,” He smirked, “Were you not to take him to your bed regardless?”

“I shall sew your mouth shut for such accusations.”

Hermes sighed, rolling his eyes in all his dramatics. Lounging in his seat.

“Circe, you humour me with your feral tongue.”

“And you disgust me with your plight.” “Ah,” he held up a single finger, humour on his face at the top of his curled lip, “I may be bored. But at least I have the world. You, Circe,” he spat, raising a brow in sickening amusement, “have nothing.”

Your face drained of colour. Your heart aching in its chasm of a chest, ribs pinching. He was right. Your oasis was still a prison. Despite its bars of gold, it still held you. Contained you.

He stood in his victory over you, taking one last look around. “One last thing–”

“Oh, there’s more, is there?” You sighed, staying seated. For all his heirs and graces, he was no more worthy of your respect than the dirt caked to your bare feet in winter's first bite. The god merely crossed his arms, a diving wind rustling the blonde curls upon his head, wrapped in laurels,

“You must never look upon his face.”

You sat in a furrowed brow muddle. He had drifted to the wind, turned to a shimmering spectacle of dust, in nothing more than a blink.

—

He came with a blundering sputter. In a ship that was no ship of wood that sailed on tides. A hunk of chrome with spitting fans of fiery heat. A thwip through your cloudless skies to crash upon sandy shores.

He came…with a child. A green creature with pointed ears similar to satyrs, no taller than your mid calf, alien to you. Wide hickory eyes that masked his face with innocence, having seen things unspeakable to even brave sailors. And when they sat at your table, piled plentifully with sweet figs, legs of mutton infused with rosemary, steamed and seasoned greens, and honey in its jar, the man of metal left all deserted by his lips. His plate was clean, wine untouched in his cup. Never once needing an added refill. Nor did he speak kindly. Rather, reserved. Gruff, distorted by something in his helmet seemingly fused to his head. While the child chewed on the fleshy roasted bone of lamb.

Rhythms of autumn, songs of summer, ballads of winter watched over you and the meadows you walked. Gardens you tended to. Woods you roamed. And he did too. There was something within him. Under that beskar. It called, howled, growled in insubordination. A vulgar hatred of being vulnerable out in this position. Where you held an advantage of both terrain and power.

So he took in a way he knew. In carnal, biting desire paced by him. Phallically. Reversed the role of who won who, made you beg in your own bed, in the drowning pools of darkness. Never to see his face.

But oh so familiar.

The first time he took you was akin to a memory in the very moment it happened. A haze of something so absurd it couldn't possibly have been true. Played out the way it did. The Mandalorian watched while you bathed. In a creek not too far from the path. A rock for your lioness to splay out over, sunbathe and make her coat gleam gold like the ichor in your veins. Her ears pricked at a sound he made. One you did not hear with your head submerged under the clear pool.

She looked up, lifting her whiskered chin from her large paws, and her eyes met his. He did not fret. Nor did he stop and turn away from the great willow he stood below. Only glanced from her to the curve of your bare chest rippling above the crystal waters rippling surface.

From there, he had stalked you to the deeper parts of the forest where even your familiar did not follow. Watched as a wicker basket was tucked under your arm, flowers and mosses being picked from the ground as you went about gathering pharmakeia for your draughts.

He appeared, bringing his musk while his hand clamped down over your parted lips. Pressed your front firmly into the tree, hands scraped gold raw by the silver birch’s peeling bark.

“Don’t.” He growled upon your demand to turn around. “Face the tree.”

And you obeyed in tandem with the hiss of something– his helmet– as it dropped to the dewy floor by your bare feet. A single kiss, seasoned with sparse prickled hairs was laid to the nape of your neck, a wondrous dichotomy to the events yet to unfold, noises of restraint on the tip of his tongue, the back of his throat. The skirts of your dress were gathered in messy haste, undergarments pulled to the side, revealing the shine of your own slick. How you dreamed in secret nights of this very moment. His taking of you, his claiming of your cunt— grunting while he invaded the tightness of your walls, flayed you open forever like a sacred text, ready for him to read once again.

A large palm of his, gloved in leather, pressed to the nape of your neck where the notch of your spine ended and your skull began to curve, thumb pressed to flesh, fingers curled into gnarled hair. You gasped, cold air nipping the back of your exposed thighs, fully clothed still, yet bent to submission by the masculine will of him. Naked.

The orgasm was The Mandalorians. And the Mandalorians alone. You never questioned the burning ache of pending release. Merely let it simmer in the tight heat of your walls at the mouth of your cervix. His noise still stinging in your ears, shocking the breath from your lungs. He took no time. It was a rush for his release. His domination of the witch of Aeaea.

From that moment onwards, you imagined his lips, recited in drugged sleep to the egyptian cotton and goose down of your pillow. His irises. To write a poem on parchment about something you could not see, nor ever would per his and Herme’s telling. Fingertips itching to feel warmth of skin, not beskar. While his armour was smooth, buffed, polished to shine in rays of Helios's chariot, it was cold to the touch. You had his visage mapped in your mind. Well trodden by fingertips such as the paths by the tall cliffs. The Mandalorian. Nameless. Faceless.

He spent each night for a fortnight in your bed. The first, he parted your legs himself, and the rest they were already spayed open for his wanting. He snuffed the candles with his thumb and forefinger, unsheathing them from his gloves before doing so. You watched with intent from the sheets as his visage dominated the tall door frame. Shoulders broad and intimidating the negative space he occupied. Only when he was shrouded in utter darkness did he remove his helmet, climb his way up to your parted lips. Curating a careful path from them, over the column of your throat, descending your navel to the forbidden fruit gleaming, ripe and juicy for his lips. Ready for his first damning lick of your sex.

Like the apple in the garden of Eden, temptation on Lucifer's forked tongue, he delved deeper, rested his naked face between your tensing thighs. Broad arms, still sheathed in beskar curled under them, dragging you closer to his open mouth while your arousal, slick and thick as honey, drizzled out your weeping hole to his open, wanting mout.

His tongue drew ellipsis over the twitching bud of your clit. Thick and firm, the tip pressing into your cunt, following your hot seam down to your quivering hole. He dipped inside, curling it to draw the taste out. You couldn't see his eyes. But you liked to imagine they were open to feast on the sight of your quivering and naked chest the best he could without the guide of the candlelight. Now snuffed into curling stings of smoke. Staring while you were shaking under the pleasure rolling up from your centre and cascading like a landslide down your spine. It made you shiver. The soft plush of your legs swallowing his exposed ears, the small, neatly trimmed curls tickling the sensitive flesh. His coarse beard, scruff scattered in a smattering over his sharp chin scratching your skin.

A low groan rumbled from the back of his throat, your tang dancing with light feet over his taste buds And his nose bumped into your clit as he tasted more. Devoured your cunt like his last meal.

It wasn't long before you felt the burn behind your eyes replicate in knots in your belly. Tightening at the mouth of your cervix while he ate at you. A cry of his name bursting from your chest as he flicked his tongue with vigour. He had one aim in mind. To taste your release. The sticky mess that would coat his lower face.

“Give it to me.” He commanded. And oh, how you tried. You willingly left this realm while he licked at your pussy, his tongue languidly rolling up one side of your labia, up to your clit and circling it, then down the other side to plunge into your tight, clenching hole once more.

You nimble fingers curled into his hair. It was coarse, wispy at its ends where it started to coil loosely. And you gripped it as you ground your core into his face. RIding and grinding into his face that was exposed to your quivering cunt. Not ready to part with the way his ips enclosed around your clit and added enough suction for you to see Ouranos and all the stars that tattooed his blue skin.

You panted a chorus of heavenly oh’s. Breath came in heavy as he pulled back to spit. You felt it, cold in contrast to your own heat, drooling down to your slick entrance. It quivered when he added a finger, curling up from the second knuckle. It was merely one digit. But it stretched you out, had you reeling while he beckoned your orgasm closer to materialising in your belly.

He could smell the musk of you and it was divine.

He had your orgasm building and building into a near state of harrowing oblivion before he let it rip through you. The first wave was one of numbing pleasure. The one that fizzled through your legs until you were nothing but a mere speck for a second. And then it broke, like some great epiphany from him as an enigma.

He stood, replaced his helmet, leaving you boneless. A quivering, babbling mess of sweat and slick in your own sheets.

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