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dmitriene · 3 months

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THOUGHTS ABOUT SIMON WITH CLINGY GF.

cw: fluff, comfort, slighty suggestive, clingy behavior, intimacy, mentions of sex, many cuddles, established relationship pairing: bf simon riley x gf fem reader

authors note: just something little and silly before the fic i will post in the weekends

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

simon was literally perfect for cuddling with, a wide body chiseled by army training, countless missions and his complex past, voluminous biceps and broad shoulders, toned and slightly hard muscles that became more than limp with time, age, and your comfort.

the muscles of his abdomen became softer and softer each time and even had a little fat on them, not like something bad, on the contrary, it was one of the most comfortable pillows in the world, quite often you lay on his stomach while resting, noticing how periodically he tensed and his muscles became harder under you before relaxing, his wide fingers tangled in your hair.

hugs with him were pleasant, as if being in the paws of a bear — pressing into his round, vast chest, causing him some embarrassment and hoarse coughs, but one way or another he would still circle you with his hands, squeezing carefully, as gently as he could, not wanting to hurt you, pressing himself into the top of your head, gently and hoarsely muttering, allowing you to feel how his chest rumbles — «feeling comfy, love?»

the answer is always the same, — «mhm, yeah», whenever the question is asked and at what time, you felt more than comfortable around him, literally sticking to him, your hands were always on him — hugging, feeling, stroking his tense muscles before starting to massage them, tracing his scars on his naked torso when you lay together in bed or washed, allowing you to look at the scattering of different types of traces of his past and outline each one, linking your fingers with them like constellations.

simon loved your behavior, oh, he more than adored the feeling of how you clinged to him and hugged him — his muscles went limp and any worries literally evaporated as soon as you touched him in an affectionate, gentle manner, as if your whole being was focused on him, to him, it's seems that you touch him like a fragile figurine, because most of the touches he has experienced are rough handshakes, slaps on the back or shoulder, the barrel of a gun near his temple.

you were the epicenter of his love and tenderness, when you first started dating and he contacted you, simon was ready to swear that every word of love and touch brought him almost to tears, something inside him was constantly tingling and responding, screaming, like an inner child — no matter how hardened a soldier is, there is a fragility hidden within him, masked and covered by roughness, and simon more than deserved to open up and allow himself to feel, cry, love, and laugh.

moving on from the sad, most of your time was spent in the bedroom — not counting the typical activities after which the neighbors complained about the noise, and the sheets needed to be changed from wet spots, and not to mention your wobbly legs and bucking knees, as well as a slight burning between your legs from how his tongue, fingers, and girthy cock spent a lot of time in your aching cunt.

you often lay in an embrace just relaxing, be it regular days or the days after he returned from deployment, or while watching tv whose position in the bedroom was quite comfortable, you had freedom of action both to watch your favorite programs and to snuggle up to his muscular, voluminous thigh — pressing your cheek into hardened softness and wrapping two arms around him, squeezing his leg until simon practically fell asleep, leaning on the headboard and soft pillows, lazily combing through your hair and stroking your head, your ear and your cheek, relishing in softness, mumbling somehow thoughtfully and sleepily — «you're so soft, lovie, bloody squishy toy»

a loud giggle escapes your lips at his words as you nuzzle into his thigh before lifting yourself up and crawling towards his arm as he lifts it for you, allowing you to position yourself so that he can wrap his arms around you, burying your face in the softness of his chest, while you whisper — «mm, you're soft too, si»

he frowns slightly, grumbles a little tiredly before squeezing you tighter, completely relaxed while crumpling your body in his arms over your clothes, content with the softness under his rough fingers before muttering — «'m not»

— «you are, you're soft, i can cuddle with you like if hugging a bea — ah!» you don’t have time to finish your sentence, pressing into his chest and looking at his closed eyes with fluttering light eyelashes when he pinches you over your clothes, it still hurts a little, though, before he is patting this place as if in pity when you let out a squeak and a whimper, but actually forgetting about the pain immediately when he scoops you even closer to his body and commands a little sternly, using his lieutenant tone — «shush it, be good and lay obediently, eh?»

and who in their right mind would refuse such, roughly speaking, request?

no one, so you calmly relax, and, finding yourself literally squished in his arms, you allow your eyelids to become heavy for a brief moment and fall asleep with him, burying yourself in the top of his hair while he fidgeted slightly against the softness of your chest with a relaxed sigh and quiet snoring, limp next to you and squeezing his arms around your waist like a lock, surrendering to a short moment of sleep and the comfort of your presence nearby, even if your hands periodically squeeze his chest area, just by accident.

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live-love-be-unique · 1 month

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Crossing All The Lines

Summary: Callsign: Tink. Brought into the taskforce as a hacker/ intel specialist, you butt heads with your captain.

#47. Reader is a hacker or intel specialist for @glitterypirateduck O,Captain! challenge

Also, inspiration for a chubby reader and the death of a certain Austrian from @391780, Early I hope I did you proud.

Parings: Price x chubby f reader

Warnings: Idiots in love, female reader, smut with some plot, oral (f!receiving), vaginal sex 18+ Minors DNI

“It’s your eye in the sky, so to speak” you said, holding the small drone you had been tinkering with before he had walked into your office. You animatedly showed off the newest toy you had been tinkering with, pointing out the features you had added “it has the capability to record and store six hours of audio and video. I’m working on the signal range to extend…”

Price reached over the desk and turned off the screaming you called music that was blasting through your computer speakers “I’m not taking some flying toy into a war zone” he said with finality. Laswell’s recommendation be damned, he didn’t need some little dolly bird tottering around the base in ridiculous shoes telling him how to run his taskforce.

“Oh ok, so will you be letting Gaz know you’re planning on pitching him out the side of a helicopter again to run surveillance or am I?” you say, casting him a smirk over your shoulder as you place the drone on the shelf behind you. Price groaned and rolled his eyes away from you.

You were the newest addition to the taskforce, at Laswell’s insistence, she claimed you were the best intel operative she had encountered in years. She had pulled a few strings and called in some favours with the higher ups that Price could only fantasize about knowing to get you after you had saved their arses with some quite impressive hacking skills.

To say you weren’t what Price had been expecting was a massive understatement. The day you were introduced to the team, you were all bright colours and sparkles in a sea of soldiers. Hardly military issue, as you arrived on base, you had poured your soft, rounded curves into that dress. A wiggle-dress his mother used to call them, and ridiculously high heels. The sight of you made his mouth water and his hands itched to feel your soft skin and overflowing curves. Soap and Gaz took to you instantly, bestowing you with the callsign Tink because of your love for tinkering with random projects or Tinkerbell according to Soap, Ghost took a little longer but your preference for a proper cup of tea and non-judgmental attitude towards his unwillingness to show his face quietly won him over.

The only one you hadn’t bonded with was Price. You butted heads and frustrated each other. Trading snide comments and jabs. Price did appreciate the fact that you kept a jar of sweets on your desk that you made an effort to keep stocked with his and the lads favorite treats and he had to admit that, Laswell was correct, your hacking skills were second to none.

Price watched as you spent the first three weeks of your time on base bringing in new trinkets for your small office. Candles, figurines and a small cactus that Soap didn’t notice until he sat on one day. You admonished him for weeks until he brought you in another, non-spiky one. “I’m sorry, Tinkerbell, forgive me?” he’d pouted, holding out the small succulent towards you. Your office was an explosion of colour like you, and there was always music playing, you’d even created a playlist with Soap and Gaz.

But…on more than one occasion not that he would admit it, Price found himself in his office late at night surrounded by the cloying scent of artificial strawberries from the candles you preferred to decorate your office with that seemed to follow you around, with his hand furiously fisting his cock. Your bratiness was like catnip to him. Every cheeky little sass you threw his way made him harder than ever.

You yourself, never thought you would be one to enjoy it when a man yelled at you but with Price’s gravely, low voice and the sheer broadness of him…damn...you couldn’t count the nights you spent with the absolutely non military issue neon pink vibrator between your legs imagining it was Price instead, his booming voice echoing in your ears as you came. Your embarrassing crush on the captain had stopped you from dating, all bar a handful of dates with that very tall Austrian colonel from Kortac, you thought he had ghosted you after your dates but came to find out that he had died from ingesting strychnine poison in a Romanian brothel after sleeping with a married woman.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your voice pulled Price back to the present.

“There’s nothing to hear, we’re not taking that thing” he pointed towards the shelf.

“It’s already been cleared. You just have to control everything don’t you?”

“I’m the captain for a reason” he muttered, stubbornly.

You scoffed “god, I bet you couldn’t last one day without controlling everything”

Price leaned forward, open palms resting on the desk in front of him, staring down at you “try me”

“What?”

“You heard me…try me, doll”

You can’t tell who made the first move as your hair was wrapped tightly in Price’s hands as he pulled you against his lips in a heated kiss. He groans deeply as your teeth nip sharply at his bottom lip.

“That dress looks divine on you” he smirks, pulling away from your lips breathing heavily.

“Thank you-”

“How easy is it to take off?”

You smirked, turning your back towards Price, moving your hair over your shoulder and glancing over your shoulder at him.

Price licked his lips as his hands slid slowly from your waist up your back. His hands made quick work of the zipper as he slid the dress down over your shoulders, placing a gentle almost loving kiss between your shoulder blades.

You turned to face him as you dropped your dress to the floor. You felt exposed as Price’s eyes raked over your near naked form.

Price couldn’t take his eyes away from you. The lacy navy coloured lingerie hugged your soft, rounded curves perfectly. Your eyes locked with his as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Tell me you want this” his eyes bore into yours as his hands toyed with the waistband of your underwear “tell me you want me”

“Price…”

“John, call me John…please” he whimpered.

“Please, John”

“Fuck” he uttered as he dragged the lace over your hips and down your legs. You shuddered as the cool air met your soaking core.

He pushes your legs apart, pressing little kisses on your inner thighs, before nuzzling his cheek against you, breathing in your scent as he lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder.

He looks up at you, eyes blown out with desire. Before you had a chance to think of a witty retort, he dives in, tongue sliding through your folds. You fall back against the desk with a soft groan as your hands find his hair, gripping tight as he laps at you like a man starved. “Fuck,” he moans against you. “You taste so fucking good.” He spreads you apart, adding a finger into the mix, he thrusts it in and out of your eager hole as his tongue laps at you. You moan softly, hand still tangled in his hair as you arched your back, body chasing his tongue against your heated skin.

“Stop wriggling” he gritted out, his voice strained as his calloused hands gripped the plush of your thighs.

“Make me”

Price chuckled as he grabbed your waist and lifted you, you squealed and wrapped your legs around his hips as he sat you on your desk “just once, will you do as you're told?” His hands on either side of your hips, holding you firmly against him.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You smirked, locking your ankles behind his back and pulling him closer.

Price grunts, gripping your thighs against his waist as he leans forward and leaves wet, sloppy kisses along your shoulders and up the column of your neck. His teeth nip and bite at the delicate skin, marking you, claiming you as his own.

“You have no idea how much I want you”

“Oh I think I get the idea” your smirk as his lips continued their path towards your chest. You ground against him and chuckled as you felt the rumble of a moan in his chest.

“I want to ruin you”

“Please…do it”

That was all the encouragement he needed as he hurried to undo his belt and shove his pants to his ankles.

“Your hand feels so much better than my own” he rasped as you wrapped your hands around him, lining his cock up with your pussy. You moaned against each other's lips as he sinks into you. The stretch to accommodate him is nothing short of delicious. Your grind against him as he bottoms out.

Your eyes meet as he pulls out of you before snapping his hips back against you, filling you so completely that it steals the air from your lungs.

Your hands grip anywhere you can as Price rolls his hips up into you, the way you squeeze him spurs him on as you writhe and keen underneath him. Your nails leave crescent shapes in the skin of his back as he looms over you, his arms caging you against his broad chest.

Price couldn’t stop himself, he kissed at the skin of your bare shoulder, bared his teeth and bit, hard, you yelped. Oh shit, he thought, have I gone too far?

He stopped and looked into your eyes, searching for any type of distress.

“More” you purred. You’d be the fucking death of him.

He smirks as he can feel your body tightening around him, you’re getting closer and he isn’t far behind as he slams into you with one final snap of his hips. His lips find yours as you moan into his mouth, tongue and lips clashing together as you come.

Your door swung open “about time” Ghost muttered as he closed the door again.

“So…that was…” Price stumbled out as he pulled out of you, picking up your dress that laid crumpled on the floor. He gently pulled it over your spent body. Resisting the urge to drop kisses to any sliver of skin he could see.

“Great, it was great” you smile, pausing slightly before standing up on your toes to place a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. He turned his head, chasing your lips as you shared a soft kiss.

“Yeah, it was great” he smiled, suddenly bashful.

#captain price cod #price smut #captain john price #john price #captain john price smut #oh captain my captain

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blackopals-world · 3 months

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Toymaker!Yuu: *doing their work*

Dolly: Can I ask you something?

Toymaker!Yuu: Yes, Delilah.

Dolly: Why can't I see Ortho anymore? Even if he promises to be gentle and not damage me.

Toymaker!Yuu: Do you remember that story I told you? The one I read when you were first made? "The Steadfast Tin Soldier"

Dolly: Yes, the one where the one-legged toy soldier fell in love with the one-legged ballerina figurine.

Toymaker!Yuu: Do you remember the end?

Dolly: *sad* He was tossed into the fire by his owner and the ballerina fell in too.

Toymaker!Yuu: Right and do you remember the villain. The Jack In a Box ?

Dolly: Yes, he was so mean to the soldier.

Toymaker!Yuu: But maybe you should think about it from his perspective. He told the Tin Soldier to not look at the ballerina and ultimately that led to his doom. Had the Soldier not gotten distracted he wouldn't have fallen out of the window and had he not been so attached to the ballerina he wouldn't have ended up back at the house and been burned. Perhaps the Jack in a Box had seen many toys like the Soldier and ballerina who were damaged and knew if brought too much attention to themselves they would be destroyed.

Dolly: I don't get it.

Toymaker!Yuu: I'm saying that even if it seems mean I'm doing what I think is best to keep both you and Ortho safe.

Dolly: But I want to see Ortho!

Toymaker!Yuu: *sigh*

#toymaker!yuu #yuuniverse #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland incorrect quotes #twisted wonderland ortho #ortho shroud

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ofsappho · 2 months

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THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be! Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

#dune #the dune books #dune books #dune movie #dune 1 #dune part 1 #dune part 2 #paul atreides #chani #paul atreides x you #paul atreides x reader #timothee chalamet #lady jessica #paul x chani #paul atreides x chani #paul atreides x you x chani #dune fanfiction #the knife of muad'dib

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midnightfire830 · 5 months

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[Fades into existence. Quietly places this on the floor. Fades out to the void]

Here’s more for this Lost Toys “AU” This weeks edition: The Cupbros.

Starring Cuphead as the toy soldier figurine and Mugman as the toy knight figurine.

For this Lost Toys AU each character is designed to be a certain toy I believe reflects their personality and situations in IM. For the cupbros I decided to make Cup a soldier to represent his willingness to obey a higher power. Or, rather, his fear of the outcome if he disobeys. I then chose Mugman to be a knight to represent his willingness to pursue freedom in comparison to his brother. Also because Calix Animi. Plus Cuphead’s willingness to go to extremes to survive. And mugman wanting to change and persue chivalry, honor, good morals, etc, etc.

Never mind the fact I pretty much dressed up Cuphead as my first fictional crush… ahem… 👀

I’ll have to get into backstories at a later time but that is all I have for the time being!

Enjoy the Christmas vibes! (It’s after Thanksgiving so I’m allowed now! Haha!

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year

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very loosely based on this post from @ddarker-dreams.

Scaramouche collects dolls.

He won't admit it's a collection (because a big, scary Harbinger would never actively seek out something as childish as dolls), nor have you ever heard him refer to them as anything other than 'antiques', you have working eyes, and you can see that the objects of his fixation are of a certain type, with a certain pasted, acquired through a certain method - always fished out of gutters or bought off the shelves of run-down pawn shops, repaired by Scaramouche's surprisingly adept hands, and posed in one of his many estates among other members of his collection. You think he sympathizes with them, an abandoned doll in his own right. You know that, despite his protests, he can't stand to see another discarded toy go forgotten.

None of his dolls go neglected, but of course, he has his dearests. He seems to prefer those of cloth and porcelain over wood and clay, favors the softened, simply-dressed babydolls you might find in a child's toy chest to the delicate, life-like figurines who'd be more at home behind glass. His absolute favorite looks quite a bit like you, and you've long since stopped trying to convince yourself that this fact was simply a terrible coincidence, even if you don't think you'll ever find the strength to admit it aloud.

It's the only doll that lives in his personal chambers, on its own little raised platform beside his vanity. You know better than to get rid of it (he'd once had each of a soldier's fingers broken for accidentally tearing the arm off a decaying ragdoll, and while you doubt he'd be so harsh with you, it doesn't seem wise to test your luck when it comes to comparing his sick obsession for you to the protectiveness he feels over his ever-growing hoard), but you try not to look into its glazed-over eyes, to avoid acknowledging the longmoment Scaramouche takes to run his fingers through its hair every morning while you pull a comb through his. On his demand, of course.

He seems to be under the impression that every doll needs a proper caretaker, and he's chosen you as his.

He has clothes tailored for it, too, a hand-stitched wardrobe that eerily mirrors yours. You've never caught him in the act, and you know he'd never let a servant touch anything so precious to him, and yet, it seems to be adorned in a new outfit every day, dressed in miniature kimonos or fur-trimmed coats equipped with every detail of the real garment - down to the red thread you often use to refasten loose button and torn clasps. The likeness is uncanny, the similarities too drastic to ignore. That might be why you loathe it as deeply as you do.

Once, while Scaramouche busy meeting with some nameless Snezhnayian offical, you'd found his doll displaced from its pedestal, left on the center of his bed, lying on its stomach, clothes disheveled and hair in a state of disarray. Out of solidarity with your fellow captive, you'd attempted to move it into a more dignified position, but your fingertips brushed against something cold and slick, your eyes falling to the translucent stains that ran in distinct stains across its fine clothes, and--

And, you hate it. You hate that it's another version of you, made small and helpless and delicate. You hate that it shares your face, and your clothes, and your subjugation underneath a man too cruel to treat even what he holds closest to him with kindness. You hate that there's nothing you can do to protect so much as a toy from Scaramouche.

You hate that there's nothing you can do to protect yourself from so much as a heartless, soulless, unfeeling doll.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere prompts #yandere drabble #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere wanderer #wanderer x reader

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customstatues · 1 year

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Custom Caricature Figure Luc Deveraux Jean Claude Van Damme Universal Soldier 1 Available for order here sculf (ecrater.com)

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maddie-grove · 9 months

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Most Common Problems Faced by My Childhood Dolls (Grouped by Type of Doll)

Baby/Companion Dolls: life-threatening diseases; bullying by other dolls at school; my dubious discipline style; my divorce from my imaginary husband Jake.

Groovy Girls: bullying by other Groovy Girls; life-altering gymnastics accidents; feet too unwieldy for go-go boots.

Barbies: false witchcraft accusations; real witches; tuberculosis; kidnapping; the time Ken and his brother Adam started a polygamous cult; bullying by other Barbies (whether in a normal high school or a beauty pageant or a cult); basically anything bad that happened to female movie stars in Hollywood under the studio system; the challenges of raising a million Chrissies and Kellies and Stacies and Skippers and similarly sized off-brand child dolls with little help from Ken or Adam; sibling rivalry (including an East of Eden-style mess between Ken and Adam).

Dollhouse Families: my friend Emily C. (I was Emily S.) stealing the mom doll from my old Fisher-Price family, leaving John (the dad) a widower, so when I got a new family a few years later, I decided that John should marry Patricia, the mom of the new family, which made it necessary for me to interpret Robbie (almost certainly meant to be a dad doll) as Patricia's teenage son, which was obviously very emotionally confusing for Robbie and exacerbated the usual tensions of a newly blended family.

Clothespin Dolls: Nancy, Alice, and Lily, the three charming clothespin dolls made by my genuinely talented great-aunt Beth in the 1960s or 1970s, were grown-up sisters who had a complicated dynamic (both Nancy and Lily had serious psychological and/or substance abuse issues, so Alice had to take care of them and Nancy's children and her own children) and also experienced nineteenth-century-literature-style problems, like diphtheria and ice-skating accidents and bear attacks. The clothespin dolls that I created myself as a tween/young teen were not as well-made, but their problems were generally limited to normal high school bullshit (not even the kind where you get poisoned or kidnapped!).

Miscellaneous Medium-Sized Figurines (mostly fast food toys of Disney characters and mini-Barbies): various passive-aggressive rivalries between groups (mini-Barbies vs. movie/TV characters, Disney vs. non-Disney, movie vs. TV, protagonist vs. non-protagonist, etc.); a lack of eligible bachelors (leading to unwise marriages, such as Belle from Beauty and the Beast marrying a temperamental Space Jam monster); ennui.

Playmobils: the Playmobils had a nearly utopian society, relatively free from poverty and class snobbery, and generally this diverse group of Union soldiers, stuffy Victorians, pirates, outlaws, royalty, horse girls, milkmaids, and fairies were able to work out their differences peacefully. However, all that progressive modernity had a dark side, most clearly illustrated by the Kafkaesque ordeal of Oliver, a boy who was imprisoned for no discernable reason by an evil psychiatrist and his social worker girlfriend despite the desperate efforts of his mother to free him. Intense wartime romances and infectious disease outbreaks were also common themes.

Fisher-Price Great Adventure Action Figures: these rather hideous but very fun toys (consisting of an anachronistic mix of knights, pirates, cowboys, and Robin Hood's Merry Men) belonged to my seven-years-younger brother, so we would play with them a lot while I was looking after him. Naturally there was a lot of military conflict and criminal activity built into our play (will Robin Hood and his friends be able to steal the treasure from the castle? Will the golden knights or the black knights win the big battle? Who will stop the stagecoach robberies?), but, to entertain myself, I would introduce storylines such as "the Golden Sword Knight is tired of being bullied by the other knights, so he runs away and goes to live in the forest with Robin Hood's gang, where he falls in love with a female outlaw" and "Little John starts a AC/DC-style rock band with two of the black knights and everyone hates it."

Fisher-Price Little People: easily the most provincial of the doll groups, the Fisher-Price Little People struggled with extreme class/wealth inequality, widespread adultery, child abuse, teen homelessness, practically non-existent resources for the disabled, sexual repression, a character known only as "The Pervert," and a killer clown. Every day they went to school and work, and every night they tried to find someone to hook up with and maybe got kidnapped. I only wish my brother and I had been in possession of the motel playset. Think of all the extramarital affairs and drug deals that could have happened there!

Polly Pockets: the Polly Pocket community was dominated by two wealthy factions, a nouveau riche pair of brothers with a beach party house and the royal family. Due to a severe job and housing shortage, plus the local men's habit of not acknowledging their natural children, ordinary Polly Pockets had to struggle and scrape. Compared with the Barbies, there was a lot of solidarity among women (and also Josh, the one working-class boy Polly Pocket). Many of the Polly Pockets were very fragile, including the alcoholic Cowgirl Becky and the agoraphobic piano player Penny.

Paper Dolls: intense status jockeying over who had the most/best clothes, mainly. They also fought about friendships and (if there were any of them) boys, but it ultimately came down to clothes.

#dolls #little john's signature song was called 'ride to hell'#'we're going along on a ride to hell/why don't you come along and feel the trail'#it was not good and everyone was so mad at him

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kruegerslov3r · 4 months

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MERRY CHRISTMAS !!!

As the first light of Christmas morning streamed through the window, Simon Riley tiptoed into his daughter's room, carrying a wrapped present. "Wakey, wakey, Lily! Merry Christmas!" he greeted cheerfully, setting the present at the foot of her bed.

Simon chuckled. "Come on, little soldier. Present time!"

Lily stirred, rubbing her eyes and letting out a sleepy moan. "Daddy, it's too early," she moaned.

With a yawn, Lily tore into the wrapping paper, revealing a toy soldier figurine. Her eyes lit up with excitement, and she let out a delighted scream. "Wow, Daddy! It's so cool!"

Simon beamed, his heart swelling with joy. "I thought you might like it. Now, what do you say we go downstairs and see if Santa's left anything under the tree?"

Lily nodded eagerly, and together, they hurried downstairs, where the room was aglow with the warm light of the Christmas tree. Lily gasped in awe, and Simon couldn't help but chuckle at her sheer delight.

After a flurry of unwrapping and laughter, Simon and Lily sat amidst a sea of torn wrapping paper, sharing a contented hum of happiness.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #ghost imagine #ghost x reader

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pebblysand · 8 months

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Hi can you do me a prompt? Cause I LOVE your writing! 💗

Ginny comes home from the 2014 quidditch world cup-reporting after a long long time away from harry and kids!

did it take me two and a half years to fill this prompt? yes. as evidence that no one should ever lose hope.

spring rolls, pizzas and curries

Tonight, after she gets home - after a smiling kiss hoisted up to the corner of his mouth, tippy toes and tight hugs to the kids - after a warm shower and a change of clothes, they'll order in.

It's the end of summer, that year. Leaves wilting in the trees; the wireless runs repetitive adverts for Hallowe'en decorations and this morning, when he headed into work, Harry noticed an irreversible sort of chill in the air; when Ginny comes down later, her hair wet over her shoulders, she'll be wearing a jumper. Lily and Al will soon hound her with questions, about the World Cup and about Namibia or about something else, and James will hurry into the kitchen too, just as she will pour herself a large glass of wine. He will be loud and lanky and almost-teenage. 'Where's food?' he'll ask, then.

And: 'Well, hello, Ronald,' she will laugh. Say.

Chinese, Indian or Italian - the kids will have their pick. It's a long-standing tradition in the Potter household since the dreadful winter of '09, when James had the flu and Lily was sniffling and Harry spent five days battling family germs on his own until Ginny came back from a work trip to save them all. He tiredly sunk into the couch next to her and: 'You should have stayed there,' he observed. Sighed like a headache. 'You're gonna catch it too.'

She shrugged. Smiled. Laid her head on his shoulder. He didn't have the heart to push her away. 'Let's order in, yeah?'

Harry will phone in. Everybody's favourites memorised like the faded lines at the back of his hand. There will be noise - James arguing with Al over the TV remote, Lily talking to herself, playing with her animal figurines and toy soldiers. She's built a whole ranch with Playmobils in her bedroom: fake horses and fake cowboys and fake fences - her magic makes it all move of its own accord - it's a bit of a nightmare.

The kind of nightmare Harry doesn't mind having.

They'll eat pizza on the couch or nems from clear plastic boxes scattered across the kitchen table, and the kids will fill Ginny in on everything she missed. Lily won't stop chatting and 'Mum' this and 'Mum' that, and James will say: 'Oh, will you shut up for once?' One of them - or both of them - will automatically throw back: 'James, don't talk to your sister like that.'

There will be second servings, thirds. Harry will smile and laugh, and feel like a weight lifted off his chest the moment she opened the front door just as easily as he will later clear the plates, with a simple wave of his wand. Ginny will go up to unpack, and he'll try to convince the kids to go to bed - with moderate success. James will try to convince him he needs a new broom, with no chance of success. Al will wandlessly tie his brother's shoelaces together before quietly retreating to his bedroom, a loud tumble ensuing with his victim falling flat on his face at the top of the staircase. He will deny having done any magic the next morning.

'Prove it,' he'll say.

Harry will want to smile (like a headache, too).

And, you know, he wonders - sure - but he's not jealous. Being jealous of his own kids would be fucking weird and, anyway, he's over it, now. He's even stopped being bitter. Ginny hasn't stopped being angry but there's something almost comforting about it, about her anger and her capacity for unrelenting outrage when they sent Petunia a card last Christmas and she wrote back: Please, take me off your mailing list.

'Cunt,' she said.

He winced or cringed, he's not sure. 'Yup.'

He's not jealous - not bitter - but he does wonder. He wonders and thinks of James. So, so tiny, in Ginny's belly. The first time he felt a kick against the tips of his fingers and held his breath - like, forever. And Ginny, who asked why he couldn't sleep, that night, watched him puff cigarette smoke out the window. 'I'm nervous,' he said.

'I'm the one giving birth,' she laughed.

'What kind of father do you think I'll be?'

He thinks of James and he thinks of Tom, sometimes. His palm against the skin of her stomach was sweaty - like warm, summer nights.

And, he looks at the kids and he wonders. What it would have been like. Growing up like that.

With them, you know?

He thinks of James again. Of James and of Albus and of Lily. He wonders if they know. That he's happy. That they're happy. That he's not jealous or bitter or angry. And, that love tastes like food. Like strawberries on Ginny's lips, and spring rolls, and pizzas and curries.

#hinny #hinny fic

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teruel-a-witch · 1 year

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thinking about how danny spent very little time with steve before he (correctly) deduced that he suffered a lot of parental neglect ('you weren't hugged as a child, were you?'). of course, steve's knee-jerk response is to deny that because people who had an abnormal childhood don't realise it wasn't the norm because it's the only life they knew, only when they tell a 'funny' story that is met with a horrified look of someone who grew up in a well-adjusted family that they are confronted with the uncomfortable truth: that the perfect 'childhood' they lost after the trauma wasn't so perfect after all.

the fact that steve was only angry because of abandonment and not the cold bootcamp way he was raised shows he didn't know any better. even when he had a mother she wasn't the kissing-a-skinned-knee-better kind. it would still take years of therapy and gentle coaxing from danny for him to unpack all of that.

i can imagine many a time steve probably shared what he thought was an amusing 'anecdote' from his childhood only for danny to go all compassionate 'aw, babe' on him.

'what's the story behind this scar?'

'oh, it's kind of a funny one, i was playing outside by myself and heard pathetic whining nearby. turned out a stray dog fell into a construction pit. poor gal couldn't get out on her own so i climbed down to get her out, except my hand landed on a piece of rebar and... well. it was a kind of deep cut, but clean, i couldn't stitch it up by myself yet because i was seven so i put some antiseptic on it and waited for my mom to come home from work. it hurt a lot but i didn't cry because my mom always said 'big boys don't cry'. when she saw what happened she yelled at me and since it wasn't infected she said there's no need to go to the doctor, sure it would scar without stitching but the scar would remind me to be less clumsy and not to jump into pits willy-nilly. anyway, isn't it funny how clumsy i was when i was 7. why are you looking at me like that?'

it's honestly a wonder steve ended up with such a soft and big heart despite everything, because neglect could have made him cold, selfish, hard, insensitive to the feelings of others because no one cared about his.

instead, steve loves 'fixing broken toys' (literally and figuratively, ex. him gently gluing back the small cat figurine that danny broke) this 'child forgot lessons of love untaught' is surprisingly good at comforting people and being gentle.

there's a reason his big soft heart is what danny loves most about him. because he understands, given his background, how easily steve could have been different, could have perpetuated the cycle instead of breaking it.

truly, he has so much love to give. because no one wanted it from him, he never had anyone to give it to.

he was taught to shove all those soft feelings deep because they are only an obstacle in being a perfect soldier.

and then there's danny who says 'i'll take it, give it all to me, i want it, it doesn't make you weak, it makes you strong, that's why I love you, babe', and steve can finally pour all that love he's had pent up into someone, show his gooey centre without fear of being stabbed into it.

it is any wonder he decides he is gonna love danny till his dying day. tragically, since no one's taught him what love looks like he never realises danny loves him in return.

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