#and i will live and i will probably shave my head a thousand times. and come up with new names | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

damiansgoodgirll · 10 months

Note

are r up for writing about gavi if so could you do gavi reacting to u pranking him telling his a guy did ur brazilian wax? if not that’s ok but can u then do it with kylian?

i’m not really a gavi fan so i hope you don’t mind i made this with kylian 🫶🏻🥹

kylian mbappè x reader

Prank goes wrong

you saw this video on tiktok right before you had your wax appointment and you had this mischievous idea to recreate the same with kylian, even though you wouldn’t be filming it you couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

“hey baby!” you said almost screaming once you got back home from your appointment.

“hey mon amour” he said from over the couch “come here next to me” he aimed at you for joining him on the very large and comfortable sofa he had in his living room.

“how was your day?” you asked him.

“boring. no practice, nothing to do…you were gone all morning and the house was pretty silent without having you here” he confessed.

“i’m sorry baby…you knew i couldn’t cancel my appointment today” you smiled to him and kissed him.

“i know i know…by the way, how did it go?” he asked, focusing all of his attention on you.

“oh pretty good! you know, the usual girl who wax me was sick today so i had someone else to do it” you said trying to act natural.

“oh, was she good?” he asked.

“yeah, he was really really good” you said, not looking into his eyes yet.

“oh great…wait, he?” kylian asked you turning off the tv.

“yup…no one else was able to do it this morning, but they have this new guy and he’s actually really good” you said once again.

“but-but where did you? you know…where, which part of your body?” he asked you trying to keep it cool.

“oh, i shaved my legs, my armpits and my vagina” you said completely normal.

“hold on…you’re telling me you had a man touching you down there?” he almost screamed.

“what? he wasn’t touching…he was just doing his job kylian, why are you so pressed? you’ve never acted like this when it was one of the girls doing it…” you said.

“exactly! those were girls! today you had a man! a man! a man who basically saw you naked! isn’t this illegal?”

“why should it be illegal kylian? he was simply doing his job…i don’t get why are you so mad…” you tried to look hurt but inside you couldn’t stop laughing, this was evil but you were having so much fun.

“but-but…a man? seriously? he touched you down there y/n…a man!”

“you probably said man a thousand times already…kylian, i don’t get why you are so mad, he was just doing his job…” you tried to resonate with him but he was actually pissed about it.

“i’m not mad!” he screamed and you looked at him “okay…i’m mad…not mad mad, just mad, i don’t know okay? i don’t know how to feel! a guy saw you naked down there and touched you and i don’t care if it was his job that shit should be illegal! a man? no way that’s crazy! you know what? give me the name of that place…i want to get waxed too…” he said and that was the moment you completely lost in and bursted out laughing.

“why are you laughing? it’s because i wanna get waxed too?” he asked you.

“no…no that’s not the reason” you said between laughs “you’re so jealous i love you kylian”

“i don’t get it…” he looked like a lost puppy.

“no man touched me down there…” you kept laughing.

“then how did he wax you?”

“kylian…” you had tears in your eyes because you kept laughing “no man waxed me, it was all a prank” you said.

you couldn’t decipher the look on his face. he went from mad to confused, from confused to sad, from sad to relieved and from relieved to speechless.

“so you thought this was funny?” he asked you and you nodded “why would you think it would be funny? i was about to get fired a man that doesn’t even exist!” he said.

“you are so jealous you would even get a man fired for me?”

“well if a man saw my woman naked i would have his head on my table…” he said smirking at you.

“oh my - you’re something else” you kept laughing.

you both spent the rest of the day laughing about the prank you did but what you didn’t know was that kylian was already working on how to get revenge on you.

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sometransgal · 1 year

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OK so here's a weird feeling that I'm not sure any other trans girl has. I have a tiny dick. Like, too tiny to use. I feel sometimes that there's a weird expectation (maybe not the right word) that trans girls have large dicks.

Idk, it's a weird. It makes me feel real self conscious. That on top of body image issues and dysphoria makes me feel inadequate. Like I'll never live up to someone's ideal.

Idk this feelsramble. Do you or anyone you know get a similar feeling?

You're sending this to a long time member of the small girldick club so I can very much understand where you're coming from. I've struggled with the same when I was younger and less confident in myself because there can be expectations set on trans women (in certain circles on the internet anyway) to have average to above average cock size.

There is this sort of perfect trans woman image that develops in our communities. It's typically a combination of the aesthetic and personal preferences of the group and more broadly the preferences of the racist patriarchal society we find ourselves in. This is something I've brushed against fairly often. The trans community as a whole has some major issues with plus size trans women, and as a plus size trans woman, it can really mess with your head to not reach that idealised version of trans femininity.

So how do we combat that feeling when it comes to things we cant change like our dick size? Well we let go of the idealised trans woman. We simply stop holding ourselves to the community standards that are hurting us. Instead we hold ourselves to a personal standard. We change the things we can change, whether it be the small everyday things like shaving or the larger scale things like HRT. We try to improve ourselves compared to ourselves. Small steps really add up towards improving the whole, something that's been said and ignored thousands of time but remains nonetheless true in my experience.

That all being said it's not easy to ignore the standards of our community but trust me as a trans woman, nothing is more liberating. We are so heavily policed for our bodies from outside communities it bleeds into our own and we can be fucking awful about it. If you're not a skinny, pretty, passing, white woman then you've definitely felt this. I find it helps to unplug from the internet on the days that the feelings are particularly bad. I like to take that time to go do something that makes me feel pretty or nice. For me its a nice long bath, for you it'll probably be different. The broader community can like what it likes and be what it wants to be, I'm going to be a me that I love.

Now i do also want to take time to deconstruct the whole concept of "small penis bad, big penis good" too. Frankly its all a bit silly to me? Small cocks have perks and downsides, big cocks have different perks and downsides. Neither should dictate desirability because neither is an indicator of sexual performance. Fucking take it from me, I've a tiny dick and I've made thousands of people cum over the years. Sex is so much more about listening to your partner, catering to their tastes, techniques, foreplay, and so much more than fucking penis size. It's very very silly to me personally that bigger is seen as better.

So anyway... in summary of my own rambly answer: Don't try to be the perfect trans woman, be a a better you for you. Whatever that you looks like.

#god this answer took me hours to write and rewrite #i had a lot of thoughts on this and wanted to get them down as clearly as i could #i really hope this helps anon

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harryforvogue · 3 months

Text

Part One | Chapter Five: From Eden

Hyde Park, London, England

March 1916

"Hey."

The distant voice reaches my ears along with the crunch of the leaves under heavy approaching footsteps. The end of the chapter is near and I won't allow myself to be distracted until I finish it. Not bothering to pick up my pace, I continue calmly reading, waiting for the person calling me to come closer. In the back of my head, I am aware of who it is, because only one person addresses me as just "hey", and that person is not a matter of importance to me up against my book, so I deliberately do not look up.

The voice rings out again, a thick accent. My shoulders drop in resignation as it dawns on me that he's not going to leave me alone as he's never been one to drop a subject in the past. The young man comes closer until he's blocking the sunlight I rely on. I look up at the shadow looming over my sitting figure, shielding the sun with his body. I hold a hand over my forehead, eyes squinted as I look at his darkened face in the shade.

Harry stands over me in his usual business attire that he wears when helping his stepfather at his shop in the city, his hands in his pockets. "If I may have a word with you."

Returning my attention to the book, I flip the page nonchalantly. "Speak."

"Your return to the house is requested. It's almost lunch time."

"And they've sent you to get me?"

"Well, the park is on my way back. Why can't you just sit on the bench instead of getting your dress dirty?"

I check the benches, the wood ruined by the sun. "I'm not too fond of getting sunburnt."

"I see." Harry adjusts his pants and crouches in front of me. He watches me for a second before lunging and taking the book from my hands and holding it in the air out of my reach. I scowl and try to grab it, but he moves to sit beside me, his back against the willow tree I'm under. "It's not even in English."

"English is not my first language," I protest sarcastically, reaching for the book, but he twists his body away. "Give it back!"

"How can you sit here?" he asks mildly, still flipping through the pages. "My ass would hurt after a while. You're sitting on tree roots anyways."

"Give my book back!"

He closes it and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Curse the stupid book for being so small. "It's lunchtime."

"I told your sister I would be out for a while. She's not expecting me back for lunch."

Harry frowns, green eyes transparent under the harsh glare of sunlight. "My mother will have my head if you're not fed."

"That's not my problem."

The corner of his mouth lifts up. "Oh, is it not? I've been thinking about this for a while, how you probably enjoy it when I'm scolded because of you."

"Is this your final hypothesis?"

He nods proudly. "It is. Tell me, do you enjoy hearing me get yelled at because it's happened more times than I can count since you've started living with us again. I can always tell my mother that you prefer to sleep under this tree and then maybe you'll finally leave us alone." Harry rests his head back on the tree truck, waiting for an answer. Now that the sun is out of his eyes, it streams over his pale, smoothly shaved skin, highlighting the summer freckles that weren't there in the winter.

After the final semester, I moved back in with Thea as the girls' dormitories became unavailable for the summer. As I wait for a job to become available in the fall, I have taken Harry's room once more. Returning to France does not seem like an option as I've become familiar with England and prefer it over my homeland. The busy city of London and exciting people has persuaded me to stay. France, to me, reminds me of the dull memories in my life in which I'd be subjected to living in a cold house with the lack of interaction from my family. Thousands of miles from them now, I am more in communication with them now than I was before arriving in England for school. Thea has kindly allowed me to stay in her house for the summer as we both wait for jobs to open and earn enough money to find a place of our own.

Harry is finished with his education, having graduated a semester before me, and repeatedly likes to remind me how I have taken control of his room.

I'm unsure how to approach Harry's friendship, if I can even call it that. Vastly different from his sister, conversations with him always seem anything but real and I often find myself staring at him, wondering if he's even comprehending my words. I haven't seen him in the months I was at school, but returning has reminded me of his fickle personality. One moment, he's complaining about something unimportant and the next moment, he's making fun of me for things such as reading under a tree in the park on a summer's day.

Most of the time, his words aren't scathing as they are playful, and that's why I respond to him. If it were anyone else, I wouldn't give them the time of day.

Harry's eyes crinkle as he smiles at me, nudging his shoulder with mine. "I'm kidding."

"I know," I reply. "You don't really want me to leave because I'm your only friend."

My response causes his eyebrows to rise even more. He laughs. "My only friend? That's rich coming from you considering my sister is your only friend."

"It's the language barrier. I don't know how to speak to anyone else," I say dismissively.

"Sure it is."

"I'm also from a different country, in case you've forgotten. You have no excuse. Make some friends and leave me alone, will you?"

Harry's grinning now. "You get riled up so easily. With that little scowl on your face. Really fills me with pleasure."

"You," I say with annoyance, "are incredibly irritating."

"Aren't I?" he beams, standing up. "Come on. I know you're hungry. Let's go."

Harry holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it, but I bat it away, standing up by myself, wiping my hands on my dress. We walk side by side in silence, though I know from a mere glance at his face that he's trying to come up with something witty to say. I wait for it patiently, taking the time to come up with a good comeback as well.

Harry's company is better than no company, though I'd prefer it even if it weren't my last option. On most days, I don't see him as he spends almost all day at his stepfather's printing shop, but he's always there at dinner, kicking me under the table or stepping on my foot, passing it off as an accident, making remarks that would make an average person want to commit a crime. Harry, though he's annoying, makes me smile and makes me want to converse passionately with him. I find that arguing with him is a fun pastime and I look forward to our banter whenever I catch a fleeting glimpse of him in the kitchen right before he leaves, or when I arrive home from the cafe at the same time as him and he lets me enter with an open, gentleman-like gesture though he's anything but a gentleman.

Our shoulders briefly brush against each other again. We're almost back at his home when he speaks again. "I wanted to ask you something."

I gave him a look. "No, you can't have your room back. Look, I've bargained with your mother so many times. She just thinks I'm more deserving of the larger bed. It's not my fault you're so big."

A dimple indents his cheek and his curls fly as he shakes his head. "No, that's not it. Though I must say thank you for trying to help me out."

I shrug. "What is it then?"

Suddenly aware of how close we are to his house, he slows down and waits for my steps to lessen as well. I curiously peer at him, his eyes darker and pink mouth pursed. He smooths his hair back with a quick hand. I'm always jealous of how his curls hold and how mine refuse to despite the hours I put into maintaining them.

I violently remember the kiss he laid on my mouth on New Years.

Harry begins to fidget, suddenly terribly uncomfortable. The matter seems to be quite serious so I match my pace with his and wait for him to begin speaking. I stop walking when he reaches out and grabs my elbow. "It's bad," he tells me gravely.

My stomach drops. "What? Is it serious?"

"It's an issue of the heart," he says.

Perplexed, I urge, "Are you sick?

"Yes."

"Why do you sound like you're dying?"

"I might be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's my health. It's declining. I need to know something or I may drop dead."

My heart thunders in my chest, suddenly alarmed by his quiet, somber tone.

"Oh God," I whisper. "Tell me."

He's never been this serious, not a trace of a smile on his face or a flicker of humor in his transparent otherwise mischievous green eyes. Whatever is bothering him must be extremely anxiety-inducing. Perhaps he's actually dying and needs me to speak at his funeral, or be the one to break the news to Thea who is unable to handle any kind of disastrous news. What could it be? A recent flu has been taking people out every single day, but Harry boasts about his good lungs and sinus on the daily when he sees me sneezing due to my pollen allergies. Could he be wounded? If it's a matter of a vital organ, like his heart as he said, there's no cure outside of surgery. I imagine Harry laying on the operating table, doctors looming over him with determination on their face. I shudder and shake my head to remove the image from my thoughts.

"Ready?"

I nod firmly. "I'm ready. Tell me."

He blinks and lets his shoulders drop. "I want to take you out. When I have time of course, but I wanted to know your answer so I can make plans."

I glance down at his hand holding my elbow tightly and then back at his stern face. Anger runs through my veins as I tear my arm away and smack his shoulder, hard. "Putain de merde. You said you were dying!"

"Well, I may as well be if you reject me," he argues, crossing his arms. To my horror, I realize he's still being serious.

"I hope you have never asked a woman out because this counts as guilt tripping!"

"It's only guilt tripping if it works."

"God!" I growl. I step forward and open the flap of his jacket, snatching my book away. Then, I turn around and begin walking away from him. "I can't believe you."

Harry's heavy footsteps follow me. "You didn't even give me an answer!" he demands. "Annaliese!"

I whirl around and thrust the edge of my book into his chest. "If you asked like a normal person, you would have had an answer by now!"

This seems to break Harry out of his trance, eyes lighting up. "You haven't said no. Is that a yes then?"

"Did you hear me say yes?"

"Damn, you're annoying." He runs a hand through his thick hair.

My face is red. A couple on the street turns to curiously watch the scene unfold. "I'm annoying? You just convinced me you're dying to get a date out of me!"

Harry purses his lips and considers this. "Well," he finally says, grinning, "did it work?"

"No!"

Before I can walk away, he grabs my elbow and tugs me back. "Alright, you feisty woman. I'm sorry. How can I ask you out without embarrassing myself? I thought it was clever, but I'll ask in plain terms. Go out with me."

"You're not asking, you're demanding! God, why can't you just be a gentleman for once in your life?"

"You ask for so much, don't you? Will you go out with me or not?"

I watch his expression carefully, searching for a hint of sarcasm. "Fine," I growl, breaking my arm from his grasp. "But no more pulling on me like a child or else."

Harry smiles. "Or else what?"

I look at him up and down. "Or I'll tell your mother."

He begins walking again and I follow him. "Wow that really frightens me," he says plainly.

"It should."

***

Harry ends up taking me to dinner the following weekend, dressed very nicely in his suit, his white shirt matching my flowing white dress. I'd be lying if I didn't find it immensely odd to be holding the hand of something I'd grown close to after such a rocky start, his fingers slotted between mine, his hand frequently against my back, protectively weaving me in and out of the crowds on this particular warm spring night.

Though my hair is tied back with a ribbon, the wind keeps whipping it into my face, causing me to have to release his hand and redo the braid, and after the third time, Harry tightens his hand around mine so I can't fix my hair, giving me a pointed look that says "leave it."

We're at a restaurant called "La Plage." One look at it makes me crouch over and laugh while Harry tucks a hand into his pocket and watches me confusedly.

"A French restaurant?" I laugh, wiping the corners of my eyes. "You're taking me here?"

"Well, I thought you'd be most familiar with it," Harry says, ears pink. "Do you wish to go somewhere else?" He looks around at the empty street.

"No no!" I insist, reaching for his hand, dragging him to the front. "Let's stay."

Not only am I out to ridicule Harry for his decision, but the universe is too, as the restaurant is locked with a sign that says "CLOSED" in big letters on the front. I see the familiar tic in Harry's jaw and fire in his eyes when he reads the sign. He turns away and sighs.

"Nothing is going right tonight."

I lace my fingers with his and laugh, pulling him away from the restaurant. "Let's go somewhere else. We'll walk for a bit though."

"I'm sorry," he says, beginning to walk down the dimly lit street. Small lanterns hang around the street lamps, doing little to properly illuminate the place. The cobblestone of this street, however, is nicely made, perhaps even fresh. I imagine riding my bike here at a time like this where there's nobody but us. "I should have suspected when there was no crowd. It's a pretty popular place."

"It's okay," I tell him sincerely. "I really don't mind where we go. Maybe this is God's punishment for trying to guilt trip me into going on a date with you."

Harry bites away his smile. "Are you religious, Annaliese?"

"Oh, not at all."

"Why not?"

"Well, I've never felt much importance on the matter. My parents are religious, but I don't see why. I mean, there are a lot of things that happen that I believe God would have prevented from happening. Are you religious? Am I offending you?"

Harry shakes his head, his neatly combed curls coming loose with every step. "I'm the farthest thing from religious, don't worry. I just like hearing thoughts about it. Religion itself is very interesting. Practicing, to me, is not." He slants me a look through his curls. "Most people I know are very religious. And they're different religions too. I can't see myself ever being like that."

"Me neither," I nod in agreement. "But, I don't blame people for finding that safe space. If they want to put their trust in something they believe in, then as long as they don't bother me for not doing the same, I don't think there should be much emphasis put on our differences."

I look down at our shadows, Harry's taller than mine by a few inches. His steps are larger than mine, but I'm doing well to keep up. We're strolling, hands clasped together, swinging them occasionally.

Harry is the next one to speak, a few moments later. "How long will you be staying in London?"

"Until August. I haven't seen my parents in a while and they'd like to see me for my birthday."

Harry nods. "Your birthday is in August? How old will you be turning?"

"22."

"Wow you're young."

I pull back and glance at him. "Aren't you 22 also?"

"Yes," he laughs. "We're both very young, aren't we?"

"We're adults," I point out.

"Yes, we are. But mentally, I don't think we're anything but kids still. Sometimes," he says, leaning in to whisper in my ear, "I'm still afraid of the dark."

"You must be in hell walking down this street then," I reply teasingly, squeezing his hand. I feel the ring he wears on his middle finger cuts into my skin, but don't say anything.

"I would be," he answers, pursing his lips, "if you weren't here with me."

I have been on dates before, but they've never quite felt like this one. The sound of his deep voice makes my heart race, and when he says things like that, even in passing, my heart threatens to stop altogether. I'm thankful it's dark so he can't see the scarlet flush on my face, and I put a curtain of hair between us, demanding the blush to go away.

"Sorry," Harry chuckles quietly, standing back straight. "I don't mean to make things awkward."

I pick my head up and shake it. "No! No, you don't make it awkward." His eyes twinkle in the barely there light. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Well, it's not really a question. More like a statement, if you will."

"Tell me, Annaliese."

When I'm with Harry, I don't feel weak. I feel like I have the advantage in these conversations even if I'm battling with him and losing the fight. When he says hurtful things to me as a joke, I don't want to cower and wait for him to stop talking so I can stop hurting. No, I want to say things back to him, plant my foot down and raise my voice. The best thing is that Harry reciprocates and argues back. And I do love it very much when he argues with me.

"I haven't stopped thinking about the way you kissed me on New Years. When you took me to my room. I've never been kissed like that," I admit, looking down the endless road in front of us. "It was really nice, Harry."

Instead of replying, Harry stops walking in front of a street lamp and when I glance back at him, ready to make amends if I've made anything awkward, he pulls me to him quickly and presses me to the pole.

There's nobody on the street, but I wouldn't even care if there were. Harry's mouth is warm on mine, his hands on my waist, pulling me tight against his firm chest, hips angled perfectly with my hips. And then, suddenly, his hands are in my hair, and his mouth is off mine, now pressed to my cheek, holding my head in place as he plants audible kisses to my face.

"I haven't," he whispers in the midst of kissing my cheek, "stop thinking of it either. I didn't know how you felt about it since we never really talked about it. I didn't... I didn't want you to think I was kissing you because I was drunk."

I realize my arms are on his shoulders and I push myself off the pole to take his mouth again, kissing him repeatedly to give him my answer.

"To be fair," I whisper, "I did consider for some time that you were just drunk."

"I wasn't," he answers honestly, softly kissing my throat. "God, I haven't stopped thinking about that night."

I breathe out a laugh, burying my own fingers in his hair when he kisses me again.

"Do you think this will make Thea upset?" I ask him, gazing up at his startling green eyes. His hair is ruined now thanks to my wandering hands.

Harry smiles. "I don't care," he tells me, leaning down to kiss me again with his now swollen lips. "And you shouldn't either."

At that moment, I don't care at all. I'm in Harry's arms after months of dreaming about it. I don't know anyone named Thea when he kisses me. I barely have any memories except for these kisses we share. I kiss him and kiss him and hold him tight.

That's when I decide I'm going to stay with him.

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dhorrl · 6 months

Text

Bar Encounter

Stardew Valley

Shane/Reader

Trigger Warnings: smut mostly (some anal play, otherwise just regular old from behind action.), drinking.

Some reader description (my farmer has blue hair, so when I wrote this I had that in mind)

She scanned the bar with her eyes, searching for a friendly face. She spotted Sam and Sebastian at the pool tables and waved back when they waved to her. She was about to head over there when something caught her eye - there was someone at the far end of the bar she didn't recognize. He had short, unkempt hair with neatly shaved sides, sad eyes, and a hoodie on. Everything about him screamed, "Leave me the fuck alone." Gus, the bartender, noticed her staring. "That's Shane," he said curtly. "Don't even bother." She wondered what he meant by that but decided not to pry, so she grabbed her beer and walked over to Sam and Sebastian. As she did so, she noticed Shane looking in her direction; his gaze met hers before quickly looking away again toward his pint of beer. It seemed like he was just as interested in her as she was in him.

~~~

Shane nervously stepped out of the bar into the chilly night air; his heart was pounding against his chest in a drumbeat of anticipation and excitement, each beat threatening to burst through his ribs and escape into the sky. His mind was clouded with a thousand questions – why was he going through with this? What was it about her that made him feel so alive and yet so scared at the same time? She had been standing across the room and before he knew it, her gaze was locked onto his, as if she made a decision on both their behalf. She walked directly up to Shane and leaned in close to whisper something that sent chills down his spine. He had been sure it was the wrong thing to do if his sober brain was in control, but something else had taken over, something primal and desperate that told him not to let go of this chance. She seemed special somehow, despite all of his misgivings. He knew that this probably wasn't the best way for him to cope with his depression, but he couldn't ignore the feeling that this was more than just an easy escape.

As Shane approached the house, he couldn't help but feel a surge of hope and dread. He desperately wanted it to be true that she had unlocked her door for him, but his fear of rejection threatened to overpower his desire. He hesitantly tested the doorknob; it turned in his hand, and he opened the door. To his shock, he found himself standing in a dimly lit living room with soft music emanating from the bedroom. He hesitated, unsure if he should enter further or turn and run away.

On the one hand, this could be a chance to find someone who could understand him - but at the same time, he was petrified at the idea of rejection. He thought back to the conversation they'd had earlier and remembered that she had said something about a 'fuck'; if nothing else, he could try to use this as an escape from his loneliness. Taking a deep breath, Shane stepped inside and cautiously approached the bedroom.

When he arrived, Shane was mesmerized by what he saw: Her pale blue hair contrasted sharply against her tan skin from long days working the farm, and the pink light illuminated her curves beneath her black sports bra. Shane felt unable to move, overwhelmed by emotions he hadn't experienced before. It felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, unable to decide which way to go. But when she looked at him with such intensity and longing in her eyes, he knew there was no turning back; despite all his fears and doubts, he stepped closer and allowed himself to let go.

Shane's hands shook as he tugged her shorts and panties down, revealing a soft stomach and glistening pussy. He wanted to kneel on the floor in front of her, pushing his tongue dancing between her wet folds; Shane salivated, imagining the taste of her. With a newfound determination, he lifted her legs, flipped her around onto her hands and knees, and pulled her hips towards him. No more eye contact and no more thoughts--he wasn't doing this for any kind of satisfaction or romance. She didn't resist his handling; instead, she pushed her hips back and ground her bare ass over his clothed erection. His cock strained against his underwear and jeans; he was dying to be freed from its confinement and buried in this woman's tight, slick warmth. But at least in this position, she couldn't see any of the extra weight he'd gained since college, anything that would remind him of how lazy and self-indulgent he'd become over the years. Maybe there was still something inside that wasn't rotten yet. Maybe there was still a man underneath all the alcohol and loneliness. Shane couldn't hold back the rough growl that came out as he slid his cock, carefully at first but quickly growing increasingly confident and assertive into her pussy.

While railing her roughly from behind, his alcohol-soaked brain stared longingly at the tight hole just aching to be fondled. He began slowly circling her asshole with the soft part of my thumb. She immediately released a soft, aching moan and began grinding back into his thumb. "Do you want it?" he asked, watching lust flare up in her face and trickle down to her pussy. She nodded firmly, panting between moans and giving him all the permission he needed. Shane moistened my thumb before carefully circling her asshole again and slipping his thumb to his knuckle. Sweat trickled down the small of his back as she grabbed at the sheets and rocked back against him, begging for his fingers to slide inside that unruly hole. Shane enjoyed feeling the tightness of her ass around his finger as she squeezed her pussy around his cock. Seizing the juicy curve of her hip, he shoved his thumb in fully, causing her to scream loudly. She turned her head around, looking into his eyes. "Don't stop, please," she said through quick, uneven moans. Shane shuddered, using everything he could to not cum right then and there.

Shane felt his heart thundering against his chest as she reached down with her fingers, circling her clit. He could feel her inner walls tightening around him in anticipation, urging him closer to the brink of ecstasy. His eyes rolled back as he saw spots dancing before his vision, and she bit into the sheets to muffle her desperate cries. Her hips moved faster and faster until a guttural wail tore from her throat, and her entire body shuddered beneath him. Shane followed her over the edge seconds later, feeling his cock swell impossibly inside her before erupting with hot ropes of cum. He roared out his pleasure as he emptied himself, clinging to her sweat-slicked hips with an iron grip. He slumped onto the bed over her, still gasping for air and admiring the sticky evidence of their lovemaking that was dripping from her pussy like honey from a comb. Shane couldn't believe they had just experienced 15 minutes of blissful passion.

He had a moment of clarity; he knew he needed to leave. As he fastened his jeans, he thought about what he should say. "Uh, thanks... I guess I'll see you around." He cringed at the sound of his voice, knowing it sounded insincere. Before he could make things any worse, he quietly slipped out the front door.

#stardew shane #stardew valley #stardew valley shane #shane sdv #stardew valley farmer #sdv

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scleramotif · 1 year

Text

My name is Patrick Bateman. I live in the American Gardens Building on West 81st Street on the 11th floor. This is my confession. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I’ll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the s hower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion. If you're watching this tape, I'm probably dead– murdered by Paul Allen. Paul has been building a meth empire for over a year now, and using me as his chemist. Shortly after my 26th birthday, he asked that I use my chemistry knowledge to cook methamphetamine, which he would then sell using connections that he made through his career with the DEA. I was... astounded. I... I always thought Paul was a very moral man, and I was particularly vulnerable at the time – something he knew and took advantage of. I was reeling from a cancer diagnosis that was poised to bankrupt my family. Paul took me in on a ride-along and showed me just how much money even a small meth operation could make. And I was weak. I didn't want my family to go into financial ruin, so I agreed. Paul had a partner, a businessman named Gustavo Fring. Paul sold me into servitude to this man. And when I tried to quit, Fring threatened my family. I didn't know where to turn. Eventually, Paul and Fring had a falling-out. Things escalated. Fring was able to arrange – uh, I guess... I guess you call it a "hit" – on Paul, and failed, but Paul was seriously injured. And I wound up paying his medical bills, which amounted to a little over $177,000. Upon recovery, Paul was bent on revenge. Working with a man named Hector Salamanca, he plotted to kill Fring. The bomb that he used was built by me, and he gave me no option in it. I have often contemplated suicide, but I'm a coward. I wanted to go to the police, but I was frightened. Paul had risen to become the head of the Albuquerque DEA. To keep me in line, he took my children. For three months, he kept them. My wife had no idea of my criminal activities, and was horrified to learn what I had done. I was in hell. I hated myself for what I had brought upon my family. Recently, I tried once again to quit, and in response, he gave me this. I can't take this anymore. I live in fear every day that Paul will kill me, or worse, hurt my family. All I could think to do was to make this video and hope that the world will finally see this man for what he really is. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.

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thistechnologicalterror · 4 months

Note

Thoughts on Commander Cody?

I HAVE LOTS OF THOUGHTS ON COMMANDER CODY.

HE WAS THE ONLY OTHER ONE OUT OF OUR LITTLE GAR GROUP (CONSISTING OF MYSELF, MY APPRENTICE AT THE TIME, KENOBI, CAPTAIN REX AND OF COURSE, THE FAIR COMMANDER), TO ENTER SERVICE INTO THE EMPIRE.

I NEVER KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM AFTER THE EMPIRE ROSE, BUT I WOULD HAVE THOUGHTS (I WOULD, AT THE TIME, HAVE CALLED THEM DISTRACTIONS, AS THE MURDEROUSLY RAGEFUL WOULD, BUT I STILL HAD THEM).

HE WOULD BE CALLED A "GENTLEMEN AND AN OFFICER", MUCH LIKE HIS GENERAL WAS, HE DID NOT NEED THE RULE BOOK BECAUSE HIS HONOR, INTEGRITY AND COMMITMENT ALREADY LIVED AND BREATHED THE RULE BOOK.

( I CANNOT IMAGINE HE LIKED ME MUCH BACK THEN. HE CERTAINLY WOULD NOT NOW. )

NO OFFENSE TO MY CAPTAIN. CAPTAIN REX IS HONEST, UPRIGHT AND BY THE BOOK--AS LAWFUL GOOD AS THEY COME--AND CODY OFTEN MADE HIM SEEM LIKE A DANGEROUS MAVERICK THROUGH ATTITUDES ALONE.

( SO WAS I, COMPARED TO KENOBI, BUT I ACTUALLY WAS A DANGEROUS MAVERICK. )

EVEN THOUGH, LIKE HIS GENERAL, HE WOULD BE POLITE, DIPLOMATIC, PERSONABLE AND STILL PULL SOME OF THE MOST DANGEROUSLY RIDICULOUS STUFF WITH A LEVEL OF CALM AND SERIOUSNESS, THAT YOU HALF THOUGHT HE MUST BE INSANE UNDER HIS BUCKET.

( THERE IS A GOOD REASON THAT COMMANDER CODY STARTED HIS CAREER WITH SCARS, AND ALL REX EVER DID WAS SHAVE HIS HEAD FOR FEAR OF BLOND )

AN INSANE COMBATANT (WHO PUNCHES DROIDS!? THEY ARE MADE OF METAL AND DEATH), AN OFFICER'S OFFICER, BORN TO COMMAND AND FACE EVERY DANGER THE GALAXY HAS EVER KNOWN AND PROBABLY A FEW IT DOES NOT.

PART OF HIS HONOR AND HIS CODE (HA-HA, OF COURSE HE IS CALLED COD-EE) IS A DEEP SUPPORT AND LOVE FOR ALL HIS BROTHERS, IN SPITE OF THE PROFESSIONAL FRONT HE HAS, AND A MAJOR TENDENCY TO ADOPT SHINIES, ANY SHINIES, ALL SHINIES.

( ESPECIALLY ODD ONES OUT, SUCH AS BLOND CADETS WHO BITE HIS OLDER BROTHERS DURING KING-OF-THE-HILL AND CAPTURE-THE-FLAG TRAINING GAMES. IT WAS ADOPTION AT FIRST SIGHT. )

( I QUITE IMAGINE HIS FIRST MEETING WITH CLONE FORCE 99 HAD SIMILAR PERCUSSIONS. THEY DID NOT STAND A CHANCE--THEY WERE CODY'S NEW LITTLE BROTHERS NOW, AND THIS WAS IMMUTABLE )

I USED TO THINK THAT HE HAD IT PERFECT--HE COULD BALANCE THE LOVE OF BROTHERHOOD WITH THE WEIGHT OF WAR. BUT AFTER YEARS OF SERVICE MYSELF, I KNOW THAT THAT IS AN IMPOSSIBILITY. YOU WILL NEVER GET SUCH A THING RIGHT--BECAUSE THERE IS NO BALANCE IN WAR. THERE IS ONLY SACRIFICE.

AND THE HELL HE MUST HAVE GONE THROUGH, KNOWING HE WAS SACRIFICING KIN AT EVERY CAMPAIGN, AND EVEN HIS ADOPTEES, IS UNIMAGINABLE.

... SO.

I HEAR TELL THAT HIS NAME IS ACTUALLY REPUBLICIZED MANDO'A, FROM THE WORD "KOT" OR "KOTE" MEANING "STRENGTH" OR "GLORY".

( EVEN HIS NAME IS DIPLOMATIC--I DO NOT MIND OLD MANDO'A, BUT THE MANDOLORIANS AND THE JEDI HAVE A LONG HISTORY (THOUSANDS OF YEARS) OF SLAUGHTERING ONE ANOTHER AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY--THE COUNCIL WOULD HAVE... ISSUES WITH A HIGH COMMANDER OF THE GAR, SON OF A MANODLORIAN MERCENARY, WHO WOULD HAVE WILLINGLY TAKEN THE NAME OF A WORD THAT WAS OFTEN USED RIGHT BEFORE KILLING JEDI. )

( REPUBLICIZED, THE NAME SIMPLY MEANS "HELPFUL", OR IS OFTEN A FUN LITTLE PUN ON THE WORD "CODE". )

HELPFUL CODE, STRENGTH AND GLORIOUS SLAUGHTER.

A PERFECT OFFICER FOR THE CODA OF JEDI AND REPUBLIC, A GOOD SOLDIER WHO WOULD FOLLOW ANY ORDER, EVEN IF THAT ORDER WOULD HAVE HIM TURN HIS BLASTER UPON HIS FRIEND AND GENERAL WHEN HE NEEDED HIM MOST.

HOW... INSIDIOUS.

SUCH IS THE NATURE OF THESE WAR GAMES.

... I NEVER FOUND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM, AFTER THE CRESCENDO OF ALL THINGS. I WILL HAVE TO CARRY THAT REGRET.

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secondjulia · 5 months

Text

The Last

OH can we reshare our own stuff now?! Because I literally just realized it is the Exact One Year Anniversary of my FIRST SANDMAN FIC EVER! And it came with a pic 💔

Rated: G Warnings: Major character death (But, like... in a good way?) Ao3 link

The stupid thing was that Hob still wanted to live.

His stomach had taken to tightening painfully. Tears, which had been so rare in his long life, tickled at his eyes as if they could sense that the dam would soon break. The physical sensation forced up memories of those rare times when the dam — when he — had broken. Half his village killed by plague. Poor, brawling Robyn dead in a tavern. Eleanor, who never got to see a time or place where childbirth was safe. And the poor, nameless child who got not even the tiniest fraction of the long life Hob had lived.

All were long dust.

Hob wondered if their atoms had broken down so wholly by now that they’d eroded into the air, gone into the breath of the world, or been sucked into green, growing things, become leaves that fell in autumn, then dried and crumbled into more soil, more dust on the air.

Probably. It had been so long. They were everything now.

Most people were everything now.

“Some rabbit, my lord?”

Hob smiled, and the impatient tears retreated. “Not your lord.”

He took the meat. The ancient, wrinkled hand that had given it to him rested against his cheek. The woman’s other hand made a gesture, palm against her chest in the vague shape of a cross, a symbol whose roots were almost totally lost to her age. Then she patted the rough whiskers on Hob’s jaw. His hair had grown thick and wild again, and only offering slight protection from the mosquitos. After centuries of shaving in conformity with grooming trends — smooth chins one decade, carefully shaped goatees the next, clipped beards and mustache trends requiring various levels of upkeep going round and round like a carousel — there was something oddly satisfying about reverting to his natural state. As he sat beside the fire in rags, wiping charred rabbit drippings out of his beard, it felt almost like he’d come full circle. A medieval peasant back on campaign, nestling close to the brief comforts of fire and friendship, putting off humanity’s horrors.

“I know my eyes are half blind,” the old woman said as she sat down beside Hob. Her speech was a lovely, woven thing; after thousands of years, its threads were barely recognizable as the descendant of his own mother tongue. “But I see you, my lord. Looking today the same as yesterday — and every yesterday. Young as ever.” She looked sideways at him, her cloud-white hair catching the golden light of the fire, lips pulled up in the tiniest of knowing smiles. “Eternal, as they say.”

“It’s just the firelight, love. Flattering as it always is. You look just like you did when I first tumbled from the forest and into your arms.”

The tiny smile broke into a laugh. She sank her teeth into a hunk of rabbit, then shook her head, grinning. “Lying’s a sin, my lord.”

“No lie.” Hob kissed her temple.

“Respectfully, if you’re here to save us, you might want to get a move on.” She coughed, a chopped, dry sound that had chased her for years now.

Hob rubbed her back. A silent ache swelled in his own chest. She was so young — a tiny spark of eighty or ninety years. It was hard to tell exactly. There were no calendars at the end of the world.

No. That was the wrong way of thinking about it, of course. The end of the world. The world was thriving. Coyotes had reached all around the Hudson Bay for Christ’s sake! Their screeching howls punctured the night. Mosquito clouds had blown clear up to the North Pole, though thankfully the modified, disease-resistant ones had beaten out the old species. Thank god for ancient technology.

The world wasn’t ending by a long shot.

It was just people who were ending.

Everybody except Hob.

The woman beside him let her hands fall into her lap, the hunk of rabbit forgotten for a moment as she worked against her ragged breath.

Her name was Mina. They had been lovers once. Ages ago, before the world had tired her, and the void at the end had loomed so heavily over Hob.

As everything went to shit and humanity moved like a great tidal wave and then crashed and petered out, Hob had done what he’d always done: survived.

He tried fighting. For a while, with everything in chaos, there was plenty of soldiering and mercenary work to go ‘round. He tried not to care. It was the trade he’d been raised to, after all. He’d spent his formative years — and a century besides — fighting poor blokes who’d just wanted to live as much as he did. He’d never really had anything against the French or the Yorkists or the Lancastrians. All he’d had was a sword in his hand and some asshole telling him who should die that day.

It was bullshit, and Hob knew it. He’d known it then, too. Death was stupid, and it was stupid to rush it upon everyone with endless power struggles and redrawn maps.

So he’d given wide berths to the battle zones. He bounced around making his way into increasingly insular bands as humanity dwindled. It wasn’t always awful. Hob had to admit that, especially in the early days of the fall, he’d had an easier time than most. Experience as a medieval peasant was useful in the end times. He’d never been a craftsman or farmer, but he knew how to use his hands and make do and walk for ever and ever.

And he knew how to move on before suspicion could fall too heavily upon his unchanging head. A new generation of witchcraft accusations had sprung up as they tended to do in times of upheaval. Sometimes people swapped in words like alien for witch or conspiracy for magic. Once, he ran headlong into a very confusing lizard hysteria; Hob still didn’t understand that one.

But it was all the same. Fear and suspicion and bloodshed.

And hunger. More than once, that deep gnawing hunger had found him again. Starvation so profound that the pain alone would have killed him if he’d let it.

Hob wandered what felt like every continent, seeing fewer and fewer people and more and more stupid death. Death of every variety imaginable. Fire. Flood. War. Disease. Famine. Drought.

The last people were shockingly gentle. By the time Hob had stumbled out of some chokingly overgrown boreal forest and into their camp, he didn’t have the strength to fight or flee even if they’d been monsters. But Mina, leader of a couple dozen peaceful wanderers, had taken him in and shared their modest home and let him tag along as they followed the food or fled disaster.

Of course, even amid the kindness and generosity of his latest found family, there was tragedy. Child mortality had soared as the world crumbled. The last two children of Mina’s people had died a few years after Hob’s arrival when a cave shelter had collapsed. Hob had marveled at how such an old pain could burn so fresh and white hot. Disease had come home, too, and eventually it became apparent that no new children were going to be born.

Over the decades that he’d called this place home, Hob had travelled alone, too. He had taken to wandering far and wide, looking for other settlements, other roving bands of the species. But by then, even word of others had disappeared. He never found another living group.

And so as the people around him grew old and sickened and fell to the cornucopia of threats Earth holds specially for humans, and Hob remained.

The gentle people never did call him a witch, though at some point someone had started a rumor that he was an ancient god returned to the world in its final days. No one could agree on which one. Only bits and pieces of the old religions had survived, and nobody knew their stories well enough to settle the debate.

“G’night, my lord.”

The last woman alive closed her cataract-clouded eyes and leaned against his shoulder. Hob smiled into her hair and put an arm around her. He let the last scrap of companionship and the golden glow of the fire comfort him. All in all, though it’d had its horrors and sorrows, the very end of humanity wasn’t particularly painful.

It was the day after that Hob feared.

He gently carried Mina to a rough blanket and lay down beside her. As he listened to the raggedy breathing, puffs of green began to dance in the sky. Before he had come to the foolishly named New World, Hob had never seen the northern lights. He’d stayed away from the poles for most of his time on Earth; back when more of the planet was habitable, it seemed like the sound choice. But now watching the bright splashes overhead, he felt an ache in his chest, like a physical wish to have spent millennia like this, bathed in this kind of beauty.

Mina’s people had stories about them — god’s tears, was it? Or gods’ tears? Even knowing they were just solar wind particles, Hob thought they were godly.

After watching the painted sky for a long time, Hob realized that the labored breath beside him had gone silent.

It was a silence that swallowed the world.

Coyote’s screeched and the vibrant night buzzed all around him — louder even than when he’d been a child. But none of it touched the silence that had fallen on Mina.

An abyss cracked open inside Hob.

He had never feared anything so much as he feared the empty world. After all, it had never been that he was afraid of death, it was just that wanted so badly to live. To have experiences, to drink and fuck and make friends and—

And all was now dust or soon would be.

Hob waited some time until Mina had stiffened and gone cold and he knew for sure that he was alone. And then he dug a grave as dawn was just blazing over the horizon, washing out his own wavering fire.

When it was done, he dropped his shovel and sank to the ground. The abyss yawned wide, and a paralyzing emptiness reared up and took him. His mind went blank. His body stilled. The train of thought that had hurtled him through the ages now drove him into oblivion.

“She died in peace.”

The deep voice rumbled through the breaking dawn like the voice of Earth itself.

Hob raised his heavy head.

“My friend…” Hob’s own words were a broken, aching pain. He looked at the perfect face cut of marble, wreathed in shadow. The one intermittent pulse of his life, counting out the centuries, salving the loneliness. “My stranger.”

“She left the world, in a dream of something she had only ever heard of in Stories,” his stranger said, his eyes skating over the rough grave and the haphazard cross Hob had tied together for no one to see. “A thing she had always wanted to see: snow.”

Even in the presence of his beautiful stranger, Hob’s heart twinged painfully.

“It was, perhaps, not quite the weather phenomenon you would have recognized,” his friend continued, “but it was a sight to behold nonetheless. Maybe even more lovely for its coming out of fantasy. I admit, I enjoyed the sight after an age without it.”

And yet you could not save any of it. Mina. Snow. Earth.

Only me.

Hob hung his head, a deep feeling of unworthiness rushing into the void in his heart. What right had he to outlive it all? Hob had often marveled at his sheer dumb luck, the absolute mockery of fairness that was this universe where he, a drunk braggart, got to keep living through no talent or effort of his own. But here, finally, at the feet of his beautiful stranger at the end of everything, the magnitude of it crushed him.

It had been millennia since Hob had prayed, and never to this, his one true patron. He had long learned that his stranger could or would not stop the horrors of the world. There were rules, Hob knew, though he did not know what those rules were. But now, for the first time in a long time, he felt a wild, stupid urge to beg. To pray as fervently as any obsessed ascetic or flagellant for salvation for a world that deserved it more than he did.

But reality pressed too hard in around him. The finality of humanity had slammed down with a force he couldn’t fight.

A question hung between them.

The man like ice and shadow looked down at Hob with gentleness bordering on pity. For a heartbeat, his lips moved slightly, silently, and Hob could feel his stranger’s reluctance to speak the words, to twist the pain in Hob’s chest.

But speak he did.

“Do you still wish to live?”

And Hob answered honestly as he always had, a stupid answer, “Well, kinda yeah,” He tried to grin at the that dumb spark of resistance that had persisted through centuries of tumult, through war and witch trials and civilization and chaos. But his words wavered as if tears were pressing in on them, begging to wash away the last of his hardheaded resistance to the inevitable. “But… that’s not really the thing to do now, is it?”

“The choice is yours,” his stranger said simply, letting the words rest between them as they always had. No force, no judgement, no advice.

Hob sniffed. “Everybody’s gone?”

“They are.”

He’d had to check. In the hours since Mina’s breath had gone silent, a part of Hob had wanted to walk over the entire Earth, just to make sure. There were, of course, no televisions, no phones, no internet. Not even telegraphs. Nobody born in the last thousand years had ever spoken to someone out of range of a human voice. And yet that stupid spark in him had flared ever so slightly at the prospect of plodding across the whole of the Earth’s crust, seeking — as he had always done — for life.

Hob’s head sunk deeper toward his chest. Tears that had been long trapped fell freely. He was at this point, he thought, entitled to a moment’s self pity. He’d fought through a lot over the years, he could let himself have a spot of despair.

He wiped his cheeks with one hand and raised his head. The sun had risen fully now, and when Hob looked around, he realized that the ragged, grassy stead he’d shared with Mina last night wasn’t quite the same. Instead, it was a lush green meadow with butterflies alighting on a rainbow of flowers, singing birds flitting overhead, and the gently shush of water flowing in the distance.

“Where’s Mina?” Hob asked.

“She has gone to the afterlife of her people,” his stranger said.

“Oh, that place.”

“Do you wish to follow?”

Hob hesitated then shook his head. He didn’t know where he wanted to go. He’d never wanted any afterlife, just life and life and more life.

The question still filled the air.

“I guess it’s time, isn’t it?” Hob said. “Whatever comes next… Wherever I go…” A thrill of fear sprouted in his gut. “It’s time.”

“You could stay here,” his stranger said quietly, almost shyly.

“You’re sticking around then, are you? In this…” Hob looked around at the world that had sprung to life around him, his lord’s world, and he had no other word for it. “…heaven?”

“This is the Dreaming. And there are more creatures than humans that dream. More worlds than Earth where dreamers lie.”

“Any where I’d fit in?” Hob asked hopefully.

“None that could sustain a human body,” his stranger said. “You would be suffocating continuously on atmosphere that burned you with every breath. Or watching your skin slough off under radiation too severe for any species of Earth to endure. Or walking on ground that charred your feet to the bone with every step.”

“Oh. Right then.” Hob shivered at the horrific images. (And the tiniest, fading part of him still wanted to see it all.)

“But my duties are not even close to over. My land extends to all worlds where creatures dream. If you forsake your body, I could show you things you never imagined. Carnivorous flowers with beautiful minds. Palaces built by stars. And the delightful parties thrown by the stars themselves.”

Hob sniffed again. He wiped the last of the tears from his face. “Well. That sounds like an adventure.”

And then came a sight so rare that Hob had missed it more than the gentle dusting of snow at Christmas or the internet or London or human civilization itself: his stranger smiled.

“I am glad to hear it,” his stranger said. “And so, please, Hob Gadling, let me first introduce my sister.”

A woman walked across the lush meadow. She was dressed all in black, and her feet were bare.

Hob knew her face immediately. First a memory flashed — an age-old image of a smiling face in a smoky tavern, a pair of kind eyes across the room from his stranger’s own icy, amused gaze and mocking words. Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?

But no, it was more than that. A deep recognition, like some eternal chord had been struck, and it radiated through him back to the beginning. Here was a great friend he had been parted from for far, far too long — and yet also a power so vast and deep that it dwarfed even the lifespan of humanity.

He had been about to rise. But now he stopped, struck still by awe and recognition. “My lady.”

“Hob.” The woman greeted him with the kindest smile he’d ever seen. Greeted him as if they were indeed the oldest and fastest of friends, going back even before his stranger walked into his life.

She held her hands out and Hob took them without hesitation, letting her guide him to his feet as his stranger came to his other side. Something pinched in Hob’s chest, and he crumpled slightly. But the soft hands of Death and the cool hands of Dream were on him, and he straightened as if a weight had fallen away.

“You’re alright,” Death said. “You’re alright now.”

“As you always will be,” said Dream, “from now on. Now, Hob Gadling, let us see the universe.”

#Sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #death of the endless #fanfic #my fanfic #my Sandman fanart

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z0nic · 2 years

Note

I live in the American Gardens Building on West 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I’ll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion. There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me. Only an entity. Something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there

My name is Walter Hartwell White. I live at 308 Negra Arroyo Lane, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87104. This is my confession. If you're watching this tape, I'm probably dead, murdered by my brother-in-law Hank Schrader. Hank has been building a Virtual Youtuber empire for over a year now and using me as his recruiter. Shortly after my 50th birthday, Hank came to me with a rather, shocking proposition. He asked that I use my Live2D knowledge to recruit talents, which he would then hire using his connections in the Japanese utaite world. Connections that he made through his career with Niconico. I was… astounded, I… I always thought that Hank was a very moral man and I was… thrown, confused, but I was also particularly vulnerable at the time, something he knew and took advantage of. I was reeling from a cancer diagnosis that was poised to bankrupt my family. Hank took me on a ride along, and showed me just how much money even a small indie channel could make. And I was weak. I didn't want my family to go into financial ruin so I agreed. Every day, I think back at that moment with regret. I quickly realized that I was in way over my head, and Hank had a partner, a man named Motoaki "Yagoo" Tanigo, a businessman. Hank essentially sold me into servitude to this man, and when I tried to quit, Yagoo threatened my family. I didn't know where to turn. Eventually, Hank and Yagoo had a falling out. From what I can gather, Hank was always pushing for a greater share of the business, to which Yagoo flatly refused to give him, and things escalated. Yagoo was able to arrange, uh I guess I guess you call it a "hit" on my brother-in-law, and failed, but Hank was seriously injured, and I wound up paying his medical bills which amounted to a little over $177,000. Upon recovery, Hank was bent on revenge, working with a man named Riku Tazumi , he plotted to kill Yagoo, and did so. In fact, the bomb that he used was built by me, and he gave me no option in it. I have often contemplated suicide, but I'm a coward. I wanted to go to the police, but I was frightened. Hank had risen in the ranks to become the head of the Cover Corp, and about that time, to keep me in line, he took my children from me. For 3 months he kept them. My wife, who up until that point, had no idea of my vtubing activities, was horrified to learn what I had done, why Hank had taken our children. We were scared. I was in Hell, I hated myself for what I had brought upon my family. Recently, I tried once again to quit, to end this nightmare, and in response, he gave me this. I can't take this anymore. I live in fear every day that Hank will kill me, or worse, hurt my family. I… All I could think to do was to make this video in hope that the world will finally see this man, for what he really is.

#toad's factory lap 3

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librettistalibrarienne · 1 year

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Pome31

Andrew Zimmern is clearly a lizard. Why else do you think he eats so many bugs? My nephew’s flabbergasted I think these things without any drugs Except for meds - meds are the new drugs in millennial music Rock is dead long live muzak! Autistic lipstick! Marxist linen! Break your legs free from the prison of denim Or sweatpants, shave them if you’ve never! Now don’t if you’ve always! Start hanging around people who make you wish you’d never wished you were dead I’ve never been east of texas or north of NYC but I’ve been at least a hundred thousand people in my head. Start being a person who is only ashamed at having been ashamed at things she’s done. Play recorder in a twee pop band like it’s the 80s or the 90s or some time before that entire concept went belly-up Program the Roland for a minimal synth act because it’s probably never not going to be the 80s ever again!

Join a monastery join an ashram Buy an ice cream truck and blast shashmaqam Wear diapers kill fedorases Get a goat named “anagnorisis”

#queer poets on tumblr #queer poetry #queer poems #poets corner #poetblr #female poets #my poem #poetry #poetrycommunity

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starfleet-jelly · 3 years

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Some Vulcan Headcanons

They have like no base in canon just things I thought about Vulcans most of them don’t have evidence either. Most of my Vulcan fanfics will probably be based off these headcanons, I’ll be adding and editing this post whenever I feel differently or think of new things~ 💕

* Vulcans can outrun humans with speed, however humans can outrun Vulcans by distance.

* Vulcans are better climbers

* Vulcans have death grips. Once they have you, it’s gonna be difficult to get away.

* They have slightly longer fingers, better for climbing!

* Vulcans can’t jump as high as a human can, however, it isn’t by much, a couple inches at most.

* Vulcans eat a lot more than they are shown. Even though they have slow metabolisms they have dense muscles that need lots of protein, luckily there are lots of high protein grains and vegetables on Vulcan.

* Ancient Vulcans were cave dwellers. The caves provided protections of predators and kept them cooler in the extreme heat of Vulcan.

* Due to the fact that the seas are small and in few numbers on Vulcan, most Vulcans cannot swim, however, in coastal towns, more of them have the knowledge on how to swim, but it seems most Vulcans still prefer to not to go for a dip. There is always the odd duck who loves to swim though.

* Before sonic showers, Vulcan use small bucks of water with a rag, or more commonly sand to bathe with

* Because of their muscles and flexibility, Vulcans don’t take a lot of fall damage, even a Vulcan child could fall from the a height that would easily kill a human and walk away with minor injuries

* Vulcan have very strong leg bones and muscles because of the slightly higher gravity than Earth

* Vulcans in the north prefer spicier food while people in the south prefer food with little, if any, spice. Humans to try the food are often stuck with something that seems boring to them, or just downright painful from the spice

* Because of their telepathic abilities, Vulcan babies need a lot of skin contact in their first few months after birth. It is not uncommon for a Vulcan mother or father to carry their infant child to their bare chest, even in public, usually tucked into their robes

* Because Vulcans are touch telepaths children get a sense of calm from their parents when they are in contact but also form familiar bonds, lack of touch can lead to malformation and damage to new neural networks in the infants brain

* Vulcan toddlers are volatile, they have yet to master their emotions and tend to throw fits over many things. Skin contact, such as hugging, holding and cuddling, from their parents usually calms them down. It’s common for children from ages 0-5 to sleep in their parent’s bed as they need near constant contact. During this time Vulcan parents begin to tech meditative practices such as hymns and monturas. As Vulcan children grow older, parents will begin to slowly step away from skin contact in exchange for led meditations

* On Vulcan, it is common practice for one of the parents to stay home and raise the child or children, however, if one of the parent die, close family such as grandparents or aunts and uncles will also help take care of the child or children.

* Young Vulcan children (5-12) do not completely suppress their emotions, they do however learn not to express them. Bullying, fighting, and rebellious behavior is not uncommon for this age group.

* For older Vulcan children (between 13-25) who have difficulty controlling their emotions, even with led meditations, the child is usually sent to a monastery for education.

* Vulcans aren’t fully mature until after the age of 30.

* Vulcans usually don’t experience Pon Farr until after the age of 30, usually between 30-35, but there has been some outliers. Some Vulcans can go through Pon Farr as early as 26 and as old as 40, but this is uncommon and usually means there is a health problem.

* Both male and female Vulcans go through Pon Farr.

* I don’t care what anyone tells me, Vulcans do and will have sex outside of Pon Farr.

* Vulcan ear shape is hereditary. The more curved ears you see on Spock, Sarek, Taurik are less common than the flat ears you see on T’Pol and Tuvok

* Vulcans with light colored eyes tend to have bad vision and worsens with age. They tend to spend more time inside because the sun can be unbearable at times. But Vulcans with light colored eyes can see in the dark better than Vulcans with dark colored eyes. Light colored eyes was a mutation that only accrued after urbanization of Vulcan.

* Vulcans are cold to the touch, like someone who has been outside without a coat in winter. Because they’re naturally cooler Vulcans don’t need to sweat to keep cool. If ancient Vulcans got too hot they could move into caves to cool down.

* Young Vulcans (under the age of 10) and old Vulcans (over the age of 130) have a difficult time keeping warm. On modern Vulcan it is fixed with indoor heating and cooling.

* Vulcan has many hot springs, most of which are underground, and are popular. However most tourists, such a humans, cannot use them as most are too hot.

* Vulcans have two different types of robes. Robes they wear during the day that keep them cool, and robes for night to keep them warm.

* The silk that Vulcans robes are made of are actually from a plant. The plant produces a silk like substance that is sticky to prevent animals from eating it. It’s very strong and ancient Vulcans scrapped the silk from the plants and ate them. Modern day Vulcans grow these plants near the seas in the north and far south near the pole.

* Other Vulcan clothing is made from wool from an animal that is similar to sheep and alpaca. Their wool is usually use to make evening wear. The wool also used in the making of blankets, pillows, and rugs

* The soles of Vulcans shoes are usually made from a hard woody root, which were better for walking on rock. Vulcan shoes can also be made from a type grass that is common on Vulcan, which are better for walking in sand. Shoes for military are made from rubber.

* The reason why Vulcans in tos have all kind of different hair styles is because at that time period Vulcan youth wanted to rebel against common standers, it’s also why T’Pring did not wear a traditional Vulcan wedding dress.

* It’s common for Vulcan women to cover their hair, whether it be long or short. Not only does it keep their hair clean from sand but it also protects their head from the sun.

* There is actually a wide variety of fashion on Vulcan, differing types of robes, dresses, and suits. Most common colors are usually neutrals but silvers, blues, purples, and greens are common in the south while golds, reds, oranges, and yellows are more common in the north.

* The common Vulcan bowlcut, humans call it, is more common in the government and military of Vulcan. The short hair is easy to maintain and keep care of. Many Vulcan citizens has varying hairstyles and most depend on what region they live in. It is not uncommon for Vulcan men and women to have long hair, especially if they do not work in manual labor.

* Most Vulcan men shave their faces. There are many reasons for it, such as, it’s cleaner, easier to maintain, keeps them cooler, and it looks more professional.

* When it comes to body hair, it is 50/50 on who shaves. The area around the reproductive organs are usually maintained but not shaved, as for legs, arms, and under arms, some areas it is more common to save than others. Young Vulcan men usually shave their chest, but as they get older is more uncommon.

* Vulcan women have on occasion worn makeup. Buying makeup on Vulcan is uncommon, many women on Vulcan grow plants that can be use for make up such as flowers that can be ground for lipstick or a crushed leaf for rouge. These plants usually have other uses such as medical or as food.

* Sehlats are not the only pets Vulcans keep. They also keep small rodents and occasionally a ferret like animal too.

* Vulcan pet names are usually old Vulcan names no one uses anymore or names of monsters or animals from ancient Vulcan literature.

* Sehlats aren’t fed meat, but instead high protein grain and vegetables and eggs. Sehlats are naturally omnivores but the need for meat was bred out of thousands of years.

#Vulcans #star trek #Vulcan headcanons #star trek headcanon #Spock #t’pol #Soval #t’pring #Tuvok #vorik #sorry for tagging random Vulcans this applies to them too doesn’t it?

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coulson-is-an-avenger · 3 years

Note

kisses 21 jm!

For the prompt “we’ll face this together” kiss. TY SAHAR!!! OKAY I accidentally had one (1) jonbinary idea and then it ended up being SO FUCKING LONG (like 2.5k long) so uh. yeah. Warnings for descriptions of dysphoria, mentions of kidnapping and self loathing, and Jon getting pretty close to a panic attack. Also disclaimer, although I am nonbinary, I’m not transfem, so if there’s any critiques surrounding that, don’t hesitate to let me know. Stay safe y’all!

Jon’s face itches as he faces the mirror like an old foe. It’s long held an image that hurts him to see; aged by unfathomable horrors and dotted with marks like a canvas before a child’s paint tipped fingers, and these days he can’t even be sure that his reflection looks away from him when he turns his head. But, the devil it holds at the moment is the simple reflection of his short beard, and his face itches at the reminder of it.

It isn’t a physical itch. It lurks under the skin, poking and prodding at his senses, rubbing him the wrong way as he lays his cheek on his pillow, leaving a distracting echo when his chin brushes against Martin’s during a kiss, scraping at the inside of his skin as he stares at himself and takes in the sight of it covering his chin.

He scrubs his fingers over his eyelids. He isn’t ignorant, he realizes the discomfort he feels is most likely somewhat gender-related, but it’s… his relationship with his gender is complicated. In a lot of ways, it’s been such a mundane concern recently that he’s somewhat lost track of where he stands with it, but he remembers how it felt to first wear a skirt into the archives, all those long years ago. How gentle Sasha had been with him back then, even if the memory pinches the back of his head and grins with too many teeth and a short haircut that he knows now was wrong. But the Stranger cannot take that act of kindness away from her, even if it took away the face he remembers sharing it with.

He had felt like he was becoming something new, then, staring at a new path, freshly paved in his life, open to the possibilities of self discovery and certainty. Then his life had been riddled with worms and his friends had been carved out, one by screaming one, and he was on the run and set alight and kidnapped and disabled and nearly killed and kidnapped again and nearly killed and—

Jon remembers, vaguely, a flash of what had happened in the month he was… gone. He doesn’t remember most of what happened in that place. Probably for the better, he tells himself, but he does recall one thing. One very simple thing, really; that he hadn’t been able to shave, and he remembers the itch being all he could focus on for days at a time.

One of the first things he had done after stumbling through Michael-now-Helen’s door-not-deathtrap was drag himself to a sink and shave his face raw, burned hand be damned. His skin had suffered afterwards, nicked and irritated beneath its smoothness, and he had taken some strange, morbid comfort in the blemish he was able to inflict, after so many days of hearing hollow voices sing of its beauty.

This is a dangerous line of thought, he realizes, hands pressed against the bathroom sink, his heartbeat starting to pound in his ears. He desperately does not want to think about that, not here, and preferably not ever again, if he can help it.

He tries to bring himself back to the here and now, grounding himself in the feeling of porcelain under his palms, but the victory over his mind is a hollow one, unfortunately, as it brings him right back to the itching under his skin.

He’s not sure if this itch is exasperated by his own self consciousness, or by the lingering sting of the Lonely that threatened to separate him from himself, but it builds until its all he can feel in his skin, on his face, and he finds himself lunging across the counter, knocking things over in an attempt to hunt down Martin’s razor.

Jon had lost his own somewhere in the chaos of living in the archives, but he’s sure he saw Martin trim his own short beard when they first arrived at the safehouse, so it must be here, he thinks, ripping open drawers, it must— aha!

His fist closes around the razor, hidden under the sink next to a small bottle of shaving cream and Martin’s testosterone shots, and he barely gives a thought to what he’s doing before raising it to his dry cheek, just needing this thing off, and—

“Jon? You know that’s not how to do that, right?”

Jon whips around like lightning, his back to the sink and the razor clenched in his fist against his chest like a talisman, breathing heavily.

Martin had been smiling slightly as he entered the bathroom, but the expression quickly falls from his face as he takes in the panicked look on Jon’s face, and the erratic motion of his free hand, clenched into a fist at his side and twitching in an attempt to calm himself. Martin steps forward quickly, outstretching a hand.

“Jon, love? Are you alright?”

Jon fixes his eyes on Martin; kind, beautiful Martin who still goes a bit grey at the fingertips and the eyes when anxiety seizes him, Martin who has always been there, always been there, ever since the beginning. Jon anchors himself as he looks at that familiar, beloved face, and tries to take a breath.

“I-I don’t know,” He manages, because this all feels very silly now. He’s a grown person standing in the center of a bathroom, clutching his boyfriend’s shaving razor like it’s a weapon, for God’s sake, all because of what? Some facial hair? Good Lord, he’s being ridiculous. “Probably, I just… um.” He trails off, gut sinking as emotions spiral through him, too fast to pin down and name.

“Okay,” Martin says gently, shuffling a step closer. “Why do you have that?” He gestures to the razor in Jon’s hand, and Jon twitches, holding it closer.

“I need to borrow it,” He explains, stumbling. “I can’t- I need-“ He makes a frustrated noise and tries to get his thoughts to align. He inhales deeply and tries again. “I need to …shave. This-“ he gestures jerkily towards his face. “This is too much.”

Martin nods carefully, eyes glued to Jon’s face. “Too much?” His question is as gentle as his eyes, and Jon has to glance away for a moment, overwhelmed by being seen.

“It’s… complicated,” He begins, the fist pressed to his chest beginning to lighten up. “It… it just itches, all the time. Like- like a thousand ants under my skin, w-which is ridiculous because it doesn’t actually hurt or itch or- or anything, it just…” he glances back to Martin’s eyes, furtive and desperate for him to understand. “I need it to stop.”

“Oh,” Martin softens even more before Jon’s eyes, his face melting with understanding and sadness. “Oh, Jon. I didn’t realize you were having dysphoria.”

At the word dysphoria Jon glances sharply up, uncertainty fraught on his face, and Martin backtracks quickly.

“Or- s-sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. Is it-”

“N-no, Martin, it-it’s fine.” Jon waves Martin’s nerves aside and finds that he finally has a decent enough hold on his own to lower the hand that had been pressed against his chest. He turns around in the bathroom and sits down on the edge of the bathtub, sighing heavily. “It might be dysphoria, I don’t…” He hesitates, chuckling slightly. “I’m not quite sure I know it well enough to place it. Gender hasn’t exactly been… a priority these days.”

Martin nods and follows him deeper into the bathroom, setting down the lid of the toilet so he can sit on it and listen to Jon blunder through his feelings.

“It might be? I mean… I know I’m not a man, per say, but it… I mean, it could also be so many other things at this point. It’s just- I know it’s stupid to overthink, but—“

“Hey, hey,” Martin cuts him off, extending a hand to brush against the side of his knee. “It isn’t stupid, Jon. You don’t have to have a label or a reason in order to be uncomfortable. It’s- you’re allowed to call it just that; uncomfortable.”

Jon nods, looking down at the hands clasped in his lap.

“I know. It just hit me so suddenly, I-” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead, careful to avoid brushing any of the hairs on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Martin murmurs, and his hand rests more solidly on Jon’s knee. “Is this alright?”

Jon nods mutely, and lets himself expel some more of the tension in his shoulders as he focuses on the motion of Martin’s thumb sweeping softly over his knee.

“It reminds me of the circus,” Jon breathes after a moment of silence, and Martin’s hand stills against him, attentive and horrified. “When- when they…” He inhales sharply, willing his voice not to break. “Well, I couldn’t very well shave it,” He clenches his hands into fists again, still holding the razor tightly in his right. “Got it off as quickly as possible once I could.”

Martin exhales. “I remember that. I thought you just… I dunno, just really nicked yourself. I didn’t think about… yeah.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, keeping his gaze on the hand on his knee. “I-I mean, I definitely did, nick myself that is. I wasn’t really thinking about doing it properly, I suppose.”

“Like just now?” Martin asks, kindly, gently, not judging. Jon feels his chest pinch anyways.

“Yes.” He admits quietly. Martin leans down to press a careful kiss to Jon’s knee.

“Okay, well, this time we’ll do it properly,” Martin raises himself from the toilet seat, reaching down into the cupboards to pull forth the shaving cream and a towel, and holds them out towards Jon.

Jon blinks, looks at the objects and then up at Martin, unsure of what’s being offered. “Sorry?”

“You still want the beard off, right? Let’s just make sure you don’t upset your skin,” He cracks a humorous smile. “Then it’ll actually start itching.”

Jon takes the can from his hand, but still frowns. “Us?”

“I- yeah,” Martin shifts his weight, fidgeting with the towel. “I can help, if that’s alright with you. You don’t… always seem to handle mirrors the best? And I’ve helped shave another person before so… yeah. If you want.”

Jon’s world stutters to a blushing halt. Martin’s right, he doesn’t like to linger on his face in mirrors even on the best days (of which today is certainly not one) and as much as he’s accustomed to doing this himself, what Martin is promising is intimate; an extension of vulnerability and the promise of a care that he hardly takes with himself. The more he considers it, the more finds himself tentatively wanting it, and he nods carefully. He trusts Martin, he’s decided a thousand times by now.

“Alright,” He agrees, and smiles.

Martin smiles in response. “Alright. Do you want me to um-” He gestures with the towel in his hand, and Jon nods.

Martin makes quick work of running the towel under the tap until it’s warm, and then wringing it out so it’s ready to actually use. He takes his seat again and tips Jon’s head back with a hand to lay the towel gently overtop, letting the warmth seep into his skin. It’s more effort than Jon usually puts in, or used to, when he did this more regularly, but he finds it’s a nice feeling, and he almost misses it when Martin takes the towel away again.

“Right,” Martin continues, looks pointedly to the can of shaving cream in Jon’s hand and Jon hesitates.

“Ah. Maybe not that part? Th-the actual shaving is fine, but-”

“Oh! Yeah, of course,” Martin nods, not questioning, and reaches forward instead to gently take the razor itself from Jon’s fist so he can use both hands to get the shaving cream on his face. Jon surrenders the razor, forcing himself to trust it in Martin’s hands, to trust that Martin won’t just leave him hanging.

He tries not to think too hard about the feeling of the cream on his skin. It’s a far cry from lotion, so it doesn’t bring up any sense memories, thankfully, but it’s still an uncomfortable texture, and he focuses on the sound of Martin’s breathing to keep himself from slipping.

Fortunately it doesn’t take long; soon enough Jon’s finished, wiping his hands on his trousers, and then Martin’s shifting closer, taking Jon’s face in his hands like it’s something precious, something to be loved and cared for. He is very close, his dark brown eyes nearly black with focus as he gently reaffirms that Jon’s sure about this, and then the cool razor swipes across Jon’s cheek.

Jon’s heart lurches in his chest, a messy combination of nerves and gratefulness, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move at all, and just watches Martin focus with gentle certaintly as the blade passes over his cheeks again and again in careful, confident strokes. His fingers whisper at Jon’s chin when he tilts up his head and swipes the blade carefully up the top of his throat, brow furrowed and tongue poking out of his lips in concentration.

Jon holds his breath, wills his heart to still, but it’s alright, with Martin it’s always alright. His hands are warm as they cup his cheeks, tilt him this way and that, thorough in their task, and his fingertips are gentle as they lift his chin and brush away foam and ghost over his throat. He never even comes close to nicking him, and Jon feels a great warmth unspooling in his chest, stinging his eyes.

“All done,” Martin finishes triumphantly, his face breaking into a grin as he hands Jon the towel again, lets him wipe off his own face.

There’s no coarse texture as the fabric touches his face, no itching or discomfort as it drags over his chin, and the steady drumbeat of wrongness that had pervaded him for weeks finally, finally dissipates, unblocking his lungs and releasing the tightness from his shoulders. He runs a hand over his chin, and finds a shy smile quickly taking over his face, affection and relief filling him up from the inside out and spilling onto his features.

“Thank you,” He breathes, and Martin matches his smile with one of his own, and nods, nothing but respect and affection in his eyes.

“Any time,” Martin says seriously, before reaching out to take Jon’s hand and slowly bringing it to his lips, giving Jon ample time to pull away. “You don’t have to struggle with this stuff alone,” He murmurs against Jon’s knuckles. “It’s easier together.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon’s response is quiet, and Martin kisses his hand then; gentle, and full of reverence. Jon finds that he could melt right into the floor and be happy for the rest of his life.

He reaches up to pull Martin down into a kiss, gentle and insistent and grateful, lacing his hands in his hair and sighing against his lips at the sensation, noting how nice it feels to kiss his boyfriend without his itching skin pressing at his thoughts.

The kiss stays chaste, and eventually Jon pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together, keeping his eyes closed, reveling in it. “Together, then.” He affirms, and Martin smiles.

“One way or another.”

#sorry this took forever but in my defense im insane so here we are #the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #tma fic #jonmartin fic #jonbinary #nonbinary jonathan sims #gender dysphoria #YES it’s a shaving fic ok listen. listen. im 🥺#my writing #answered #set in the safehouse!!

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dameronology · 3 years

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the art of self care {sam wilson x reader}

summary: after a long week at work, sam wilson waits for you at home

warnings: language

ok i haven’t written for sam in a LONG time so i really hope i manage to do his character justice, but this is just some very short fluff. it’s entirely self indulgent because i am currently mid-depressive episode and want nothing more than for him to HUG me but we move. enjoy :)

- jazz xx

p.s this is spoiler free!

Sometimes, you wished that the world had a pause button.

Just so that you could sit down and breath. Or cry. Or better, yet both. Because being an adult could be a goddamn tiring experience and wrestling a thousand different things at once was absolutely exhausting. Even though you’d pulled your weight at work all day, you’d still made a half-hearted promise to your boss to come in early on Monday, and the pile of paperwork resting in your hands as you stumbled through the front was a sign of a late night ahead. Two things which entirely sucked within themselves but only got considerably worse when paired together. It was nights like these that made you want to thank whichever god there was that somebody had invented the espresso martini. And, at least of all things, it was Friday. Thank fuck.

As you walked up to your apartment, you were hoping and praying that Sam was already home. He’d been pulling a lot of long days lately, dealing with his tasks in the Air Force and juggling all the work that Steve Rogers had made look so effortless. You’d always been proud of Sam, but not in the way you were right now. He hadn’t just taken on the mantle that his late friend had left behind, but he’d made it his own role. His selflessness and bravery was finally being recognised, even if it took Sam a little while to see it himself. There had been a late of late nights, and a lot of conversations between the sheets about whether or not he had what it took to be Captain America. That’s when you reminded him that he wasn’t - he was still Falcon, through and through, now just with a little more responsibility. Whether he had the shield or not, everything he stood for was completely admirable and entirely fucking worthy.

But the righteous and honourable Sam Wilson wasn’t what you needed right then - you just wanted your boyfriend. The one who gave the best hugs and made the worst coffee. The one who could serve up a six-course meal like a professional chef but always managed to burn his toast. Your Sam, and the version of him that was saved specifically for you and the little world within the four walls of your apartment.

The sound of the Friends theme gently filled the air of the flat as you stepped inside; the kitchen light was off, but the glow from television and the buildings across the street lit up the living room on the other side. Sam was completely passed out and dead to the world, clutching his phone in one hand and a beer in the other. That’s why he hadn’t answered your text earlier. Not that you were - if anything, you were quite happy to see him getting some sleep.

You cringed slightly at the bang of the door shutting behind you. Sam stirred slightly, brown eyes fluttering open. You half expected him to groan, or let out a whine that you’d woken him. Instead he grinned, slowly holding out his arms to you. That had always been your thing - his little signal for you to get the fuck over here so I can give you a hug. Dropping your bags to the floor beside you, you kicked off your shoes and made a bee-line for the sofa, immediately dropping into his lap.

It was like heaven. The material of his worn old plaid shirt was soft against your skin, and he smelt ever so slightly of the after-shave that you’d brought him for Christmas last year. You buried your head in neck and let out a tiny sigh of relief, gripping onto his shirt as his arms came to tightly wrap around you. He was good at reading people, but especially you. He could always tell when you’d had the best day or the worst, just from the demeanour you held.

‘Long day?’ He softly asked. His hand trailed down your back, gently rubbing circles.

‘Hmm.’ You murmured. ‘Got a lotta paperwork tonight and an early start tomorrow.’

Sam did grumble then. ‘I thought you said you were going to try and take on a bit less, baby.’

‘I did say that.’ You nodded. ‘I also said that I was going to start going to the gym, and that I would teach Bucky how to use Facebook. I say a lot of things.’

His chest shook slightly with a laugh, and he held you a little closer. ‘It’s Friday. Take a night off.’

‘My boss said she wants it done by tomorrow.’ You replied.

‘Screw what your boss says.’ Sam shot back. ‘I’ll have a word with her.’

‘It’s okay.’ You pressed a kiss to his jaw. ‘I can hold my own.’

‘I know.’ He gently smiled. ‘Let’s compromise - if you go in early on Monday, you take tonight off?’

‘I like that.’ You nuzzled against him. ‘An early night sounds good too.’

‘I’ve got you.’

Sam slid one arm under your leg and the other behind your back, lifting you off the sofa with ease.

Your bedroom was only a few steps away, and though the sudden lack of contact made you pout, it quickly disappeared when the soft sheets enveloped you. The bed rarely ever got made these days, so it was a constant tangle of sheets and pillows - the perfect place to nest after a long fucking day. Sam went to work on doing the rest, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it your way without so much as a word. You pulled off your own clothes and pulled it over your head, smiling at the feeling of the soft cotton.

The mattress dipped beside you and he threw the covers over you both. He’d clearly been ready to go to sleep for hours - it made you feel a little guilty that he’d waited up for you for so long, but the thought that he’d done so at all quickly overrode that. It was tiny things like that which screamed Sam Wilson. He’d found a way to intertwine your lives so intricately that you both slotted perfectly into each other’s daily routines. Co-existed in the best way possible and did it so peacefully. Of course, there were times when you squabbled, and nights where your shared stubborn tendencies butted heads, but when it mattered, you were a team. He had your back and you had his.

Sam reached out to you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you back against his chest. He always liked to sleep holding onto you; whether it was to comfort him or to protect you, you didn’t know. Probably both. Either way, you wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your head, resting his chin on your shoulder.

‘I love you.’ He quietly murmured.

‘I love you too.’ You replied. ‘Thank you for looking after me.’

‘Thank you for letting me.’

With that, you finally shut your eyes. Falling asleep wasn’t something that usually came either for you, but that night, it didn’t take long at all. It washed over you like a faint sense of relief, tugging you away from the stress of reality and into a little world where it was just you and Sam. The only world that mattered.

You were just about to completely dive off the edge and into a beautiful REM cycle, when Sam suddenly sat up.

‘We forgot to brush our teeth.’

tags: @megmeg-chan @meshlababy @phoenixhalliwell

link to marvel/star wars writers/readers discord server - if the link has expired, drop me a message & i’ll send a new one :)

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson fluff #sam wilson imagines #sam wilson x you #sam wilson hcs #avengers x reader #avengers fluff #avengers imagines #avengers x you #avengers fanfic #avengers imagine #marvel x reader #marvel fluff #marvel imagines

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futurewriter2000 · 3 years

Text

Back Home

A/N: The fact that I spent 15 minutes looking for a gif and still didn't find the one that would be perfect, I gave up and just put a photo on. I love this fic however, one of my favorites and I hope you will too.

REQUEST:hiiiii! i hope you’re having a wonderful day, filled with sunshine & rainbows !! 💫✨ may i please request sirius x daughter! reader imagine where the reader is staying with sirius for the first time since he went to azkaban and when she goes to bed he tries to tuck her in but struggles because the last time he’d have done it, he probably would’ve read her a story but she’s presumably grown out of that by now and so he’s not really sure what to do ? 🥺🍄

All those easy days finally led to now- today. He had prepared thousands of different speeches, conversations, scenes inside his head but when it came to those last moments of seeing you for the first time since he had been taken away from you, nothing could make his heart beat faster than the simple thought of that. His hands were clamming up, his fingers were snapping due to all the anxiety, his knuckles cracking, his golden family ring twisting on his middle finger...

Nothing could have prepared him for today. Not thousands of different speeches or comforting words of his best friend, who had been taking care of you for the last few years. Maybe that was a bit comforting; for Remus to keep his promise to him, even though he thought he was a murderer, he still took you in. Remus with his good wolf-like heart, despite all the things he believed.

He told Sirius you wouldn't care how he was dressed but Sirius had changed about seven times already. Tie or no tie? Bow or no bow? A jacket or a blazer? Jeans or pants? Hair combed or natural? Shaved or not shaved?

It all led him to here; him pacing up and down the living room, twisting his family ring on his finger as another mistake has caught his eye. "This probably should be put away?" he continued to look at the black family vase. "KREACHER!" he shouted and the small elf appeared from thin air.

"Yes, Master-"

"Put this vase away. Hide it, throw it- I don't care. Just get it out of my sight." he spoke nervously and the elf obeyed, cursing under his breath.

He heard the door open and a loud laughter echo through the hall. Your laughter- it wasn't as small and high as he remembered it to be but it was still yours- that he definitely knew.

"Oh this place hasn't changed at all, Moony." you said as you had looked around the hall, a nostalgic rush of memories running through your head. "Grandpa told me he always hated this portrait of him. Said his nose was too large."

Sirius chuckled. That was true. He always did hate the portrait of him in the hall but never said anything because of his wife.

"Never said anything because of my wretched grandmother." you repeated his thoughts.

"Your grandmother was more than just wretched, Paddy." Remus smiled and grabbed your luggage. "I'll take these upstairs. I think you remember where your room was."

"Up, left, three doors down." you finger gunned him and made your way through the hall.

When you entered the living room, you were alone. Nothing but the same old black leather sofa, the magnificent fireplace you used to warm up with your grandfather when you visited- though where is grandpa. You swore his jar was right on the fireplace. A dark ugly vase.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked around if somebody has placed it somewhere else. When you did, your eyes met his.

Your breath got caught in your throat and you felt yourself standing completely still. Something cut you in half, maybe the way he had watched you but when you came out of your shock, you realised it was still the same warm, fuzzy, homely feeling that washed over you.

"Wow." he smiled, looking at you from head to toe. Your hair was long and he was quite surprised because when you were a child, you always hated long hair. Too much brushing- you used to say. Your eyes were welcoming, bright and similar. He used to tell you that they reminded him a bit of his younger brother, Regulus. He used to have that same welcoming and bright look in his eyes when he was a little boy. It wasn't much in the shape or the colour but in they way they saw the world, which scared him and inspired him at the same way.

You were not a little girl anymore. You had grown. You had gotten curves and a womanly-like shape. Of course, jeans and a leather jacket. Reminds him of himself when he was your age. Your face was full of youth and you looked taken care for.

"You're definitely not a little girl anymore." he said as he tried to catch his breath.

"Yeah." you smiled, sitting down and looking a bit around. "Twenty. Even I'm starting hard to believe it." you smiled and patted the seat next to you.

"Twenty." he sighed under his breath. He felt his heart sink and his shoulders slump. He had missed everything. From your childhood, to your first day at Hogwarts, your first date, graduation,...

"You haven't changed much." you said and he looked at you, laughing a bit.

"You think so?"

"Yeah." you shook your head. "Your hair is still long, your eyes a bit tired."

He kept quiet. Yes, he was tired. He was exhausted from hiding all the time, from living in that prison, filled with revenge for that rat. "He calls you Paddy still." Sirius smiled, referring to the nickname Remus had given you. "He used to do that from the moment you were born. Little Padfoot, he called you."

"Oh, he had told me all about the day I was born. You fainting in the middle."

"I just had to lay down for a while, okay. He's over-exaggerating." he started to defend himself.

"Bet." you laughed and he joined you.

"He told me you're training to become an Auror."

"Yeah. Guess, I take after my old man." you smiled brightly at him, melting his heart into a puddle of love and pride. When you saw him melt in front of your eyes, you put your hand on his knee and gave him a comforting look. "I always believed you were innocent. I just could never prove it."

"Oh, darling." he couldn't help himself, pulling you into a hug and letting tears fall down his cheeks at the words you had said. "I don't think you know how much I needed to hear that."

---

The whole experience of being here felt nostalgic. You knew you had been here before, stepped on those same stairs, dug your toes in that same rug, put your watch on that same night stand,... even the sheets felt as light and silky as it did when you were only a child. You didn't mind spending your time here. Your grandmother was strict, more than you heard but your grandfather was soft, nothing like you had heard from Remus or your dad or Regulus... not that you remember your uncle much. You had some faint memories of him but he simply disappeared one day and neither of your grandparents wanted to mention his name ever again. A forbidden name but it was his room, you occupied and whenever you laid here, more connected you felt to him and your roots when your father was away.

You spent weekends here or week days here. Remus was always in search of jobs and some months he couldn't provide for the both of you so you had spent some years here. Your grandfather melted at your sight, he simply adored you and he reminded you so much of your own father. Your grandmother always told you that you had made him go soft but grandchildren tend to do that. You knew she was softer to you as well, more than she was with your father and your uncle. Your grandfather said that she wanted to do right by you, not drive you away like she did with her sons. He knew because he did just the same.

There was a knock on the door that took you far away from the old memories. "Come in." you said gently and a curly-head lad popped his head in.

He gave you the usual smile- just the one that had been filled till your 6th year of life.

"I came in here to wish you good night." he said as he entered the room, keeping something behind his back. "Oh wow." he looked around the room, feeling a little chill run down his spine as the memories of his brother ran through his mind. "It's just as I remember it. You didn't change it much."

"No. I didn't feel the need."

"I wonder where is he." Sirius said in a low whisper, barely audible to you. You decided to let go of this topic.

"I wanted to ask you something."

He turned back to you and sat down at the edge of your bed. "Shoot."

"What happened to grandpa?" you asked, causing Sirius' eyes to furrow. "His ashes? Did you spread them anywhere?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The urn. It used to sit up on the fireplace. It was a large black one. I know this place he used to take me just before he passed away. Only me and him knew about it. He never told grandmother about this place and he made me promise that it will be out little secret. It's a cave somewhere in Ireland. Cliffs of Moher, I believe."

"Wait..." he stopped you a bit. "That big ugly black vase was filled with his ashes?"

"Yes?" you raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh..." he felt his cheeks flush and you could see his eyes bulk out.

"Have you done something to the urn?"

"No, no. Of course not. I just put it in a much safer place." he lied and you could see right through it. He definitely did something to the urn but you let it pass, since the object in his hand pulled more of your attention.

"Alright. What's that in your hand?" you pointed and he quickly looked down.

"Oh, this." he pulled it out and it was a big thick book- a book you had a clear memory of. "It's silly, you probably don't remember it anymore."

You let out a laugh. "You're joking, right?" you sat up gently took the book away from him. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard!" you let out another excited laugh. "How could I not remember this? You used to read it to me every night. I could not fall asleep without it."

Sirius felt his poor heart explode in his chest. God, you still had that little girl inside of you. The one he tucked in every night but always resister with your tiny little legs because it was always too hot.

"I thought you'd have outgrown it.." he said quietly.

"If my friends ask me, yes but between you and me-" you leaned forward and whispered. "This is a little secret."

He let out another laugh. "Would you like me to read it to you again?"

You smiled widely. "I'd love for you to read it but dad-" you said and is eyes snapped to you, wide in surprise as it was the first time you had called him that in so many year. "- wouldn't you rather... get the Urn back first before Kreacher throws it away?"

"Probably a good idea but I'll be back." he stood up and ran out of the room, causing you to laugh at the sight but when he did come back with his father in his arms, he already saw you asleep in your bed.

He gently put his father on the desk and made his way to you. The book was open in the middle, one of yours and his favorite tales. He scooped the book up and placed it beside the vase. Then he remembered just how much his father hated these fairytale based books, so he pushed it far away from him.

"Even when your dust, I can't trust you." he said, narrowing his eyes at the vase before going back to you and observing you for a moment.

If he really thought about it, he didn't really lose you. Maybe time did take a way some of the precious memories he wanted to share with you but you turned out beautiful. You turned out to be this amazing, forgiving and understanding angel that still loved to read fairytales and take care of people when they were already ash.

He grabbed the edge of the covers and pulled it up to your chin, tucking you neatly just as he would when you were a child. Then he could hear something happening at the foot of the bed and see your bare feet poking out. He let out a small laugh.

"Some habits stay the same." he said, pushing away the strands on your forehead and giving you a gentle kiss. He then quietly took the book and his father, smiling that he gets to spend the rest of his life, creating new memories with you.

#sirius black #sirius black imagine #harry potter #marauders #marauders imagine #marauders imagines #remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #james potter #james potter imagine #sirius black x reader

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

Text

Play For Me (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

A/N: This could be read as a part 2 to Goodbye Kisses but it can definitley be read as a stand alone. This takes place after the events of Blessed Are The Peacemakers mission. Here is my RDR2 masterlist and here is the link to go to if you’d like to be on any of my taglists.

Word Count: 2.0k

Warnings: slight spoilers for chapter 3, pure fluff

Summary: Rarely does Arthur get a chance to play his guitar. So when he’s stuck at camp healing from a bullet to the shoulder, he takes the opportunity to play.

***

Your eyes flickered around the small group gathered at the fire nearest to Pearson’s wagon. You chewed on your bottom lip when you didn’t spot him among the faces there.

“Come have a seat with us, Y/N!” Sean patted the empty chair next to him. His words drew everyone’s attention to you.

“No thank you, Mr. MacGuire.” You looked over to one of the tables where poker was sometimes played or where Tilly or Mrs. Grimshaw played dominos. The table was empty.

“You look lost.” John commented.

“Just lookin’ for Arthur.” You sighed. “He’s been gettin’ more and more restless with havin’ to stay at camp, especially since he’s been gettin’ better.”

“How is his shoulder doin’?”

“Still hurts him, but he can move it. I’m sure he’ll have trouble with it the rest of his life.”

“Yeah. Well, I haven’t seen him.”

“He probably slipped out while you were busy lookin’ the other way.” Bill snorted. “That’s what I woulda done with all you’re nagging.”

“And that is precisely why you haven’t found yourself a nice girl like Y/N.” Karen gestured to you.

“Thank you, Karen.” You smiled at her.

You excused yourself, turning to make sure none of the horses were missing. Arthur’s horse was still hitched right next to yours, but you knew very well that he wouldn’t take his horse. If he truly had left camp, his horse would be the first thing you’d look for.

As you were approaching one of the two areas the horses were kept, you spotted Hosea brushing down Silver Dollar.

“Good evening, Hosea.”

“Ah, Y/N!” He glanced up only momentarily before returning to brushing the horse. “Good evening to you.”

“Have you seen Arthur? I’ve been lookin’ all over for that man and I swear….” You trailed off, shaking your head.

“Oh, don’t you worry about him leaving camp.” Hosea chuckled, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t dare leave camp before getting the okay from you and Mrs. Grimshaw. I spotted him earlier taking that guitar of his down towards the water.”

You turned your head to look in the direction of the lake.

“I didn’t even think to look down there.” You thought out loud.

“How’s he been with having to be on bedrest?” Hosea tucked the brush into a pocket on a saddlebag and buckled it up before moving around to the front of Silver Dollar and rubbing his nose.

“He did fine at first…. For maybe the first four days. But then he wanted to get up and at least do somethin’ around camp.” You absentmindedly picked at your nails. “He hates not doin’ nothin’. He’d rather be out there gettin’ shot at and startin’ fights at saloons than be here and have me gettin’ after him for not listenin’ to me.”

“Oh, I know. Always made such a fuss when he was younger and he had to act with manners.” Hosea smiled fondly. “But he cares about you. That’s why he listens to you.”

Your eyes met him for a few moments, something inside your chest swelling at his words. Had Arthur told Hosea this? Or was it that easy for Hosea to see?

You looked away from him, tucking a few stray pieces of hair behind your ear.

“I better go see if he’s down by the lake.” You took a few steps away from him. “Thank you, Hosea.”

“Anytime, my dear.”

***

You found Arthur sitting at the base of the tree that grew near the edge of the water. He sat with his knees bent slightly and his guitar resting in his lap. He wore a pair of jeans over top of his gray union suit. The sleeves of the union suit were pushed up to his elbows.

As you drew closer to him, you could hear the quiet music coming from the instrument.

Sensing someone was watching him, Arthur turned his head to look back in the direction of camp. He caught sight of you and the look of panic and concern that someone had caught him disappeared. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You’ve been hidin’ from me.” You pulled up your skirts just a little so you could sit on your knees. You sat next to him, facing him so you could see him.

“Just wanted some peace and quiet. Uncle was gettin’ rambunctious. Talkin’ ‘bout how we were like one in the same and best friends now and all that nonsense.” Arthur muttered, shaking his head.

“Oh, he’s just teasin’ you. He knows how easy it is to get you worked up, especially right now when you’re stuck at camp.” You reached up to brush your fingers through his dark blond hair. “Should’ve told me you were playin’. I would’ve come down here with you to listen. You know I love it when you play.”

He looked down to watch his fingers as he strummed the strings. The movements were slow and steady.

“How does your shoulder feel?” You asked softly.

“Hurts, but I don’t think that’ll go away. Just gotta get used to it.”

“What kind of hurt?”

Arthur thought about the answer for a moment while his fingers worked over the strings of the guitar.

“Like someone’s takin’ their thumb and pressin’ as hard as they can right on to the nerves in that one area. It doesn’t hurt that bad. I can ignore it. Annoyin’ more than anything.”

“Can I take a look?”

He nodded and quit strumming the guitar. You reached out to start working the buttons on his gray union suit, but before you could even get to the very first one, Arthur was taking one of your hands and bringing it to his lips. He kissed the back of your hand softly, tenderly, his thumb tracing a circle over the space he didn’t kiss.

No words were exchanged as he released your hand and let you go about unbuttoning his union suit. You only had to undo the first three buttons. You pushed the shoulder of the suit down enough so you could see the healing wound on his shoulder. There was a bandage over it, but you pulled it aside.

“How does it look?” Arthur asked, cornflower blue eyes glued to your face.

“Looks a lot better than it did four weeks ago.” You replaced the bandage and pulled the material of his union suit back into place.

“Good. Maybe now you can sleep through the night without wakin’ me up to check on me.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” You began to put the buttons through each eyelet in the suit.

“You worry too much.”

“I’ll always worry too much. You have a nasty habit of drawin’ bad things to yourself, Arthur Morgan. Especially since Dutch has started lettin’ Micah take the lead on things.”

He said nothing.

Your eyes drifted up from his union suit to his face.

“How are you likin’ this beard?” You asked, your gaze flickering over the dark beard he was sporting. He hadn’t shaved since before he was hurt, so it had grown out to be much longer than either of you were used to.

Arthur grunted and brought his hand up to rub his jaw.

“Need to shave it off. It’s too long.”

“I kinda like it.” You smiled. “Think it makes you fit in with everyone else here. Bill and Uncle and John.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

You giggled.

“Will you play for me for a little bit?” You asked him, moving to sit against the tree beside him. “At least until the sun goes down?”

Arthur shifted his hold on the guitar, turning his head to watch you get comfortable next to him. Though you had asked him if he’d play, you had already made up your mind that you were going to sit there and he was going to play whether his answer was yes or no.

“Only for you.” He leaned over to kiss your forehead.

He kept his eyes down, focusing on how he was moving his fingers across the strings. But he could feel your gaze on him, feel your eyes studying the side of his face.

It was so strange how if it had been anyone else staring at him, his stomach would twist up and he’d get too nervous and mess up. He’d want to immediately retreat to the comfort and safety of his caravan. He didn’t like people watching him too much, and especially not too close.

But you weren’t staring at him. You were observing him. Your eyes were soft and kind, taking in every little microexpression he made. You were mapping out his face- as if you hadn’t done it a thousand times before. You were admiring him like he was some breathtaking beauty. And it confused the ever living hell out of him. He couldn’t understand how you were so captivated by him. There was nothing special about him.

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his eye, then when he turned his head to look at you with furrowed brows, you stole a kiss from his lips.

“You’re bein’ soft on me.” He commented, his voice low and quiet. It matched the beautiful sound coming from the guitar.

“I’m always soft on you, Mr. Morgan.” You smiled. Your eyes flickered down to the guitar, unable to hold his intense gaze any longer. “I’m…. Arthur, I know you’ve heard it from me a dozen times in the past few weeks…. But I really am glad you’re okay.”

He pulled one hand away from the guitar, making the music stop, and reached over to cup your cheek. He tilted your head up so you had no choice but to look at him once more.

“Wouldn’t’ve been able to do it without ya.” His breath was warm as it fanned over your face. His lips ghosted over yours and then he kissed the space in front of your ear. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”

You pulled away enough to be able to look into his eyes. Your lips parted as if you wanted to say something, but they got caught in a lump in your throat.

With his brows gently crinkled, he leaned forward to kiss your head.

“Thank you for bein’ strong for me. I know it wasn’t easy for you to see me like that. All…. All busted up and beat to hell. But thank you for takin’ care of me. Thank you for-for stayin’.”

“I love you, Arthur.” You leaned forward against his lips, shivering under his touch. “Even when I’m scared as hell, I-I won’t leave your side. I couldn’t do it.”

He held his breath for a moment, his hand coming up to the back of your head. Then he chuckled. He moved his head so he could kiss your cheek.

“Anybody ever tell you that you might be crazy? I mean, fallin’ in love with an outlaw?”

You giggled softly as his breath tickled your ear, turning your head instinctively. This put your nose into the crook of his neck. You took the opportunity to kiss him on the side of his neck, knowing very well he was ticklish there, and smiled when he brought his shoulder up to his ear.

“Hey now! That ain’t fair!”

“It was too good a chance to pass up.”

Arthur’s eyes found you, but they didn’t stay on you for long. There was something moving behind you that caught his attention. It was Karen and Sean walking along the shore of the lake. They hadn’t noticed you yet but they were heading in your direction.

You could sense Arthur tense up and see the look on his face shift from the carefree, tender one only you got to see, to the more hardened Arthur that the rest of camp knew.

You looked over your shoulder, frowning as you saw the couple idly walking along the shore.

“Come on.” You patted Arthur’s knee. “Let’s go back to camp and change those bandages.”

“Didn’t you just change them?”

“Yeah, this mornin’. It’s past noon. You need to change them again. We don’t need you gettin’ an infection.”

He sighed and muttered something incoherent under his breath as he got to his feet.

“You drive me crazy, woman.”

“That is what I’m here for, sweetheart.”

Taglist: @winterwolf @doggone-cowgirl @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #arthur morgan fluff #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 fic #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic #oneshot #queenxxxsupreme

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ikeromantic · 3 years

Text

Base Villains

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic, approx. 1800 words. This scene occurs in Ch. 13 of the romantic route. Spoilers!

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Following Orders

It was a few hours before dawn when Mitsuhide, Motonari, and Kennyo finally approached the daimyo’s fortress. Mouri and his pirates led the attack. A sensible choice, given the cannon and the fact that no sane person would want any of them behind him. The only sound on that narrow road was the low groan of wooden wheels and the steady beat of marching men.

Mitsuhide was lost in thought, his mind spinning the thousand paths this battle could take. Which led him to rescue his love, and which ended in death, separated by only the slightest action. The most banal of random events. Yet he was the kitsune warlord and he had to know - to plan - and to win.

His thoughts were interrupted by an explosion up ahead. The thundering roar of a ship’s cannon, unleashed at the daimyo’s gate. The reinforced wood didn’t stand a chance. The air around it filled with dust, smoke, and splinters.

Kennyo’s eyes went wide as he surveyed the damage. Mitsuhide didn’t like the shrewd look in his eyes. But whatever Kennyo thought, he kept it to himself. His Ikko Ikki began moving in to fight the daimyo’s forces as they rallied to defend the opening.

Motonari was already moving to the thick of things, plowing through the smoke with his sword drawn. His mad laughter was drowned out by the sound of shouting and the screams of dying men.

“Mouri is a natural at this.” Mitsuhide tracked the opening attack with cautious optimism.

“And you aren’t comfortable with this destruction?” Kennyo’s lips twitched into a brief, mocking smile.

“I never said that.” Mitsuhide drew his sword. “In my blood, in my bones - I want to be here. More than anyone else.” It was a true statement, one that encompassed his nature and his heart’s desire. The battle excited his blood - the contest of man against man, the challenge to survive no matter what stood against you. But beneath that was something even stronger pulling him forward.

A ferocious love for his little one - a need to protect her above all others. The intensity of these feelings surprised him even now. He knew without doubt that he would kill every person inside these walls if it meant she lived. And that he would not stop there, were she still in danger.

Kennyo studied his face for a moment and then shook his head. “You are a frightening man.”

“This from a man that says he willing took up the mantle of demon?” Mitsuhide smiled. “We are all devils here.”

After a beat of silence, the abbot nodded. There wasn’t anything more to say. The two men charged forward into battle.

***

Kyubei was having a very hard time. He’d disguised himself as a servant after stashing the chatelaine earlier. It wasn’t a very good disguise, just a hat and some worn clothing. His sword was replaced with a hidden dagger and a wooden baton. He hadn’t slept - just worked his way through the keep trying to find a way to smuggle the girl out before Ashikaga called for her again.

There were several routes out of the fortress, but all of them were guarded. He could probably get out easily enough - just claim to be another of the messengers sent to gather reinforcements. But the chatelaine . . . with a shaved head, her chest tied down, and some baggy clothes she might pass for a boy. He just needed to find some shears and-

“Put me down!”

He turned to see the shogun’s ‘messenger’ carrying the chatelain like a sack of rice. She was flailing, but he didn’t seem to notice her small fists or kicking feet. Kyubei felt his heart freeze in his chest. This was bad. He had to do something quickly. He drew the small wooden baton and crept forward.

The ‘messenger’ turned and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, she is making so much noise. I thought . . . “ he gestured with the baton as if he meant to hit her.

“Unnecessary. She needs to be awake. To feel every moment of this.” He ran his hand over her rear and squeezed.

The chatelaine shrieked and hit him again, her anger and fear wordless.

Kyubei wasn’t sure how to proceed, but he needed to do something. “I - I can tie her? For you?”

The fortress shuddered from some kind of attack. It sounded like a cannon. Both men turned toward the sound for a brief moment, then the messenger hurried on. Kyubei followed. Whatever his lord’s plan of attack, it had begun. The time to escape was past, and now all he could do was try to protect the chatelaine until Mitsuhide arrived.

Kyubei leapt forward, swinging with all his might at the back of the man’s head.

The messenger sensed the attack and shifted, raising his captive up to catch the blow.

For a moment, Kyubei feared the chatelaine would take the force of it, but he managed to change course mid-swing, his baton whistling through the empty air.

She shrieked and squirmed, trying to get loose. This time, it worked.

The messenger knew he couldn’t fight and hold onto her at the same time. He tossed her aside and drew a dagger. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you are doing, but today you will die.”

“I think not.” Kyubei went on the attack. He had to take the man down fast, before anyone else entered the hall. The wood sang through the air, then collided with one of the daggers. This was only a distraction, the real blow was aimed at the messenger’s knee. Kyubei’s foot connected solidly.

With a grunt of effort, the messenger stayed on his feet. He stabbed toward Kyubei, his intent clear. He wanted to end this fight quickly too. But he lacked the dancer’s grace of his opponent. Despite his rapid thrusts, he could not catch his blade in Kyubei’s flesh.

The chatelaine slowly gathered herself to her feet. Wide eyes tracked the near-silent fight.

Kyubei couldn’t afford to worry about what she would or wouldn’t do while he was occupied. He just hoped she wouldn’t run. That would summon more guards, a complication he couldn’t afford.

The messenger slashed at Kyubei’s throat. He missed, slicing the fabric on Kyubei’s shoulder. A thin welt of blood stained the cloth.

Kyubei struck the man’s hand and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bones. The knife fell to the floor. This didn’t slow the messenger. Just forced him to attack with the remaining blade. It was all Kyubei could do to hold him off. Pain seemed to enrage the man, making him faster and more savage.

“You will pay for that. A week of torture for every finger,” the man snarled. “You will beg me to die!”

“I never beg.” Kyubei gave the messenger a toothy grin. Despite his brave words, he was beginning to worry. This was dragging on too long. Every second they fought brought him closer to being caught. And to make matters worse, he could see the chatelaine moving. If she ran, he would have to run too.

The messenger rushed Kyubei, using his whole body as a weapon. He slammed him into the wall.

The world narrowed to two points for Kyubei. His left hand, as he fought on that side to keep the dagger from his flesh - and his chest, where the messenger kept pushing forward, crushing him slowly.

Then, with a suddenness that bordered on the miraculous, the pressure eased. The messenger stumbled to his right, dropping his knife. He turned, and Kyubei saw the gaping wound on his back.

Behind the messenger stood the chatelaine. She was gripping the knife with white-knuckled intensity. Blood dripped down the blade and stained her fingers.

Kyubei didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the chatelaine and ran.

She went along with him until they’d left that hallway far behind. After several turns and two staircases up, she pulled away from him. “Y-you get away from me!”

“My lady . . . it’s me.” Kyubei framed his face with his hands, covering the bald spot on top and the beard at the bottom. “I am Kyubei.”

The chatelaine’s eyes narrowed, studying his features. Then she dropped the knife and flung herself at him. “It is you! Did Mitsuhide send you? Where is he?” The questions came between breathy gasps as she gave in to her panic.

Kyubei carefully stroked her back, waiting for her to calm herself. “I will answer all your questions soon. Right now, we must find a way out.”

She nodded, dabbing at her bruised and swollen cheeks to wipe away her tears. “I . . . ok. Where do we go?”

He didn’t know which route to take, but there was a secret exit from the shogun’s rooms. A narrow, hidden passage in the wall that led to the servant quarters. With the fortress under attack, that seemed like the best option. Kyubei grabbed her hand and led her on - up toward the tenshu.

They passed several guard stations, but the tense men only waved them on. A servant and a beaten girl were no threat. They were waiting for the marauders - the enemy. And if the sounds of fighting were any indication, they didn’t have long to wait.

Kyubei and the chatelaine were allowed into the shogun’s tenshu. It was lined with the daimyo’s guards. Ashikaga paced the room.

“How dare they! I am the shogun! They should grovel before me. Beg!” He glanced up as Kyubei entered the room.

Kyubei tried to scuttle to the side with her, bowing low as he sidestepped. They only needed to get close enough to the hidden door to get out. Ashikaga should be too preoccupied with the battle to focus on them - at least, that was his hope. But all those plans went up in smoke as the shogun lunged toward them and grabbed the chatelaine’s arm.

“You! Girl! You are my secret weapon.” Ashikaga jerked her to his side. “The kitsune would never risk you. He is weak. Yes . . .” He studied her bruised face.

“Mitsuhide is ten times the man you will ever be. And he would risk anything for his ideals.” She straightened her back and glared up at him.

“I didn’t give you permission to speak!” Ashikaga lifted a hand to strike her.

That was when the door exploded inward. It made a sound like cannon shot as the wood gave way. In the opening stood two men.

Motonari’s face was lit with a feral snarl. His eyes glowed like coals and his sword dripped redly.

Mitsuhide was equally frightening. His clothes were spattered with ruby droplets, his lips curved in a cruel smile. When his gaze found the chatelaine’s face, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Kyubei swallowed. This was going to be messy.

Next: Trust

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #kyubei #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic

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