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soapskneebrace · 5 months

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muses - part one - next

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Rating: Mature (mostly Soap being Soap) Warnings: please see this post for notes about this reader character Also on Ao3.

An artist meets her muse, and a solider meets his.

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit.

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm.

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it.

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face.

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it.

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.”

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however, has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately.

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too. And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold.

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

Author's Note: THE PROMISED FIC. I really hope y'all enjoy this one, I've been teasing it since March and I have so many plans. This fic has a special place in my heart because it's drawing heavily from my college days--my bachelor's degree is in fine arts, and I have a lot of fond memories of many hours in the studio both as a student and as a model.

I expect this series will also have a looser timeline than my Neighbors series, so I'm open to suggestion in terms of scene ideas! I already have plenty, but if I know my mutuals, y'all might have some good ones as well. No promises I'll write them, but you never know.

Thanks everyone for your patience, and I hope you'll look forward to where this fic goes!!

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themotherofblood · 10 months

Note

Hello!

I saw that you asked about request for Tywin. I wanted to ask something brief about modern!Tywin with his young girlfriend. Anything you can think of with that scenario would be fine.

Thanks for reading me!❤️

you’ve been so engaged with the whole mafia Tywin thing, fyi I love you for this ask because that’s what inspired it bubs. I feel like this is a quaint set up chapter for this series :)

synopsis: a drunk encounter between Tywin and his golden darling.

warnings: shoe riding, AGE GAP, mentions of bullets. alcohol consumption.

word count - 2k+

masterlist | series masterlist | Lion’s Grasp AU

There was an odd sense of contentment, you were too comfortable with the life you had right now, devoid of having to ask too many questions— mostly for your own good. You had found a jewel of a man, and yes the gold digger comments never sit right with you but a man so fine, devoted was far good of a catch to let go. You wouldn’t think twice but close your eyes and jump down the cliff that was your relationship, there was no lie in the subtle fear that lingered in your heart around him. A striking silver fox and total charmer, it took learning to even breathe freely around him.

Here you are now, in your own little apartment. Dabbing your fingers on your lips to soften the red lipstick, with the exam season finally over, you could let your hair down and drink till you become very aware of the organs within you and the booze— well, your perfect man happened to own some of the most notorious clubs around Lanniston, more like his son Tyrion but all the same. You looked up at the mirror, feeling great about how two hours of work made you look.

You hesitantly looked at your phone, cheekily smiling at yourself as you unlocked it and snapped a picture of yourself and sent it to Tywin, you could almost predict the message you’d receive back.

“Do not drink too much darling.”

You gnawed at your thumb, shaking your head before shooting him a quick text agreeing with him. A bald-faced lie and he knew so, his men were already on the lookout for you and your girlfriends at Satin House.

The music, as usual, blared so loud you were sure your heart was thudding the same beat, it felt liberating to not spend another night in dirty pyjamas and crying about your coursework. The henchmen Tywin had put up diligently did their jobs as not a single man dared to go beyond the stern glares these bulked men shot their way. You were sure Tyrion was here somewhere, the air was far too sultry for his involvement to be missing.

You left early, however, knowing your heeled feet nor Tywin would appreciate it but mostly because you missed him terribly. Practically barring him from witnessing the mess you were in the past month. You huffed out into the cold air of the night, the skies were clear and downtown Lannisport was still alive. Meren already stood at the ready by the town car, you rolled your eyes at him. He always had this pinched look to him, very mean.

“To home, miss?” He asked as you shuffled into the back of the car. You merely hummed in reply.

He was quick to the driver’s end, ready to head towards your apartment but you stopped him.

“Where is Mr Lannister?” You asked, eyes closed as you huffed deep breaths to shake away the loopy daze in your head.

“At work, miss.”

“Take me there then, take me to him.”

Meren hesitated for a moment, his orders were otherwise but how could he deny his boss’s girl. So he nodded, and you rested your head on the window. Drawing little pictures from the fog that followed with your mouth breathing. That lulled you to sleep somehow from the twenty-minute drive that was to Loren Tower, you were roused by Meren as you blinked away the small nap.

In front of you was the eighty-two-floor skyscraper, the first time you visited your jaw nearly hit the ground. The building was nearly empty for the night other than security and other essential staff who were only here at two in the morning because their boss was a cruel, cruel man. You fixed your hair in the reflection of the elevator mirror, hoping Tywin agrees with this little surprise drunk visit.

When the elevator dinged open to his floor, his burnt-out but pristinely dressed assistant was the first face you saw, she looked like she was nearly checked out.

“Miss—“ she raised the telephone but you pressed your finger to your lips, forcing her to keep your little secret as you walked towards his office. Your heels clicked against the annoyingly polished and glossed marble floors.

Without knocking you pushed in, leaning against the mahogany door frame, admiring the view you had craved for weeks. His white button rolled up his taut forearms, fingers toying with the idle coffee cup. Brows pulled to a harsh gaze, as usual, he didn’t even look up.

“Reached home, has she?”

His crisp voice nearly made your already wobbly legs even more unstable. You smirked at him, he looked almost cute— so focused. You pulled in your lips before speaking up.

“You should really get yourself a third assistant, poor Cassandra looks dead.”

Tywin’s eyes shot up, immediately locking onto yours before burning into every inch of your body, from your toes to your head— torturously slow as he leaned back onto his chair.

“I could— you know, fill that position if it’s open.” you hiccuped, pushing yourself away from the door frame. A dopey smile on your lips softens Tywin’s resolution.

“How many have you indulged in, love?”

You place your point exactly on the tip of your nose to prove your point, you weren’t aware of your organs just yet. You half wanted to crawl on top of his table and then onto his lap but you chose the more appropriate route and walked around the desk and then plopped onto his lap.

“What’s the point of all this, if you still work till two?” You kiss his cheek, nuzzling into the stubble he had grown.

“It’s tax season.”

“Tax season.” you scoff making him look up at you questioningly “Just because I don’t ask questions doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Like your hench-“

He cuts you off before you could finish, pressing his lips to yours and pulling your thighs around his so you straddle his lap. The taste of sour cherry vodka is very apparent on your lips.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to darling.” he lectures, leaning lower to kiss your neck.

“On— on a more serious note, I could use a big girl job.” you smile at him, fixing the already untouched collar of his shirt. Truly, the corporate market was the Dothraki Sea without any administrative experience.

He raises his brow. “Well, are you after Cassandra’s job?”

“No, no — but what rich businessman doesn’t have a dozen assistants.” You shrugged, “And I think I have just the right qualifications.”

“Oh, do you now?”

You eagerly nod, preparing yourself to list a vocal resume. “I make great coffee, a barista duh? I can type quickly, I’m friendly and I can be very pretty and— and” you stick out your pointer and curl it around his collar to pull yourself closer to his ear.

“I can service you in many other ways, Mr Lannister.” You whisper in his ear before settling back on your calves.

His gaze hardens once more as he pulls his lips to a tight line. “Alright,” he rubs up your back “you have had one too many.”

This time like an indignant child pouting you pick his pointer finger and place it on the tip of your nose to once again prove you were indeed not wasted and within your right mind. You wanted the job, and you were just a little horny.

The green of his eyes traced over yours for a moment, before a scoff tumbled from his chest. “You want a job?”

You nodded your head once more.

“Earn it then.”

He helped you off of him, letting you settle onto your knees, the rug providing ample protection to your poor knees, you tilted your head confused as he lifted your chin with his pointer.

“Take your panties off for me.”

Your breath hitched as excited electrocution began hurtling towards your mound. Your dry spell was to be lifted, another reward for acing your exams. Your eyes were fixated on Tywin as you shuffled your fingers under your green dress and pulled off your black thong, he held your shoulders to stop you from stumbling forwards as you pulled the flimsy fabric back your legs.

His other hand extended out for you to hand him your panties which he promptly shoved in his pocket.

“Let’s see if you are as qualified as you say you are, little miss.”

You could stay here all day, oddly warm, comfortable. Minus the heels constricting your feet. It felt nice, it felt good thought it should be humiliating.

You sat on calves, with Jimmy Choo’s on your feet and a diamond pendant necklace around your neck. Head rested against Tywin’s thigh as he sat ever so commandingly in his armchair, his pretty whore knelt between his feet with an aching between your legs. You bite your inner cheek to not moan.

“Please sir,” you whimpered, feeling another wave hurtling towards you as you rocked your hips against the fine black leather of Tywin’s dress shoes, the texture torturously stimulating your throbbing bud. You gnawed at his knee to stop the surge and then you whimpered once more.

Your bottom lip wobbled, sniffling as you blinked away your tears. You sat straight with your back straight. You should have chosen the belt lashes instead, this was cruel—so fucking cruel. Here he sat, reading his revenue reports. You, about to be his pretty assistant (only by name) writhing at his feet, eyes glossed and lips bitten, full of colour.

Tywin rather enjoyed this, having you moved to a babbling, tearful mess before he buried his cock in the warm, wet snug for your pussy. He would make you earn the treat, he would have wanted nothing more but to keep you within his eyesight all day, safe and untouched. Your college had already taken such a toll on you he even went through with the private jet arrangements and hotel room to offer you a luxurious escape. His housekeeper, as you sat wiggling by his feet, was packing your luggage.

“You’ve got to keep quiet, little girl, that was the deal.” His deeper voice crumbles, moving his hand away from the folders to gently pet your hair.

You looked at him, lips pouted and trembling and nodded your head. Your eyes give him the sweetest most apologetic look, before sinking further into your knees and closing your eyes to avert this feeling of perpetual embarrassment and agony.

Tywin set down his reports, finally having read through at least a dozen papers before focusing his attention on you. Her pet through your hair, lifting your chin to wipe at your tear-soaked cheeks.

“Messy little slut.” He tuts, “So desperate to be around me, aren’t you?”

You nod, sniffling away the more frustrated tears threatening to fall.

“You’ve earned it.” he pets your cheek once more before the magical words fell from his lips. “Come sweetheart.”

You nearly sob out in relief as you drop your head against his knee and pick up the pace of grinding against his shoe. Your shoulders shudder just as hard as your legs, your orgasm decimating your resolve. Crying out and heaving as you recover, the muffled sounds of Tywin’s voice coaxing you through it.

He pulled you back to his lap after, rubbing your back as he put away his work for the night, making a call to have the car prepared.

“I think I feel my organs now.” You groan against his shoulder, Tywin chuckles, shaking his head, wrapping his blazer around your shoulders before bundling you up.

He walks out of his office, effortlessly carrying your smaller frame along, he turns to Cassandra’s desk, noting that she indeed looked exhausted.

“Take your vacation days girl.” He orders as he walks to the elevator.

“Night Cassandra,” you shoot her a wink over your shoulder.

You almost doze away on his shoulder as you ride down to the parking, merely a few twitches at your fingertips.

“Are we going to yours?” you murmur, looking up at him through half-closed eyes. He nods, placing you inside the town car before sternly turning to Meren.

“The next time you choose to disobey my orders, a bullet will lodge itself within a place you may never find.”

Taglist in the comments

Ahhh, I’m so sorry how long this took to write. Minus the unnecessary things that have gone on for the past few days. My mojo really left me for a week or two but I’m here now, trying to get back into it.

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated.

Also my requests for one shots, this series and Bloody Baby are open, also stop by to my asks any time. I love ranting about my fics hehe.

#tywinlannisterxyou #tywin lannister x you #tywin lannister x oc #tywin lannister #tywin lannister x reader smut #tywin imagine #tywin lannister smut #tywin x reader #tywin lannister x reader #mafia tywin #mafia!tywin Lannister #lion’s grasp series #ruie writes #game of thrones au #game of thrones fanfiction #tywin:got #house lannister

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indigoflorals · 1 year

Note

rafe being a tease and needy reader riding rafe for first time!

formalities (18+)

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Sum: Rafe teases you all night at a work event and you jump him as soon as you get back to his truck

Warnings: Unprotected sex, riding, teasing in public, public fingering, semi public sex, crying during sex, cummins inside

♥̩̥̩

A hand slid up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your dress and resting at the front of your clothed pussy. To any onlookers, this display would be grossly obvious, but fortunately for you, Rafe had the courtesy of only touching you under the table.

“So tell me again how you two met?”

Your eyes snapped back to your boss, drawing your attention away from the hand that was now tracing circles against your clit.

“Oh,” You smiled, clenching your thighs nervously, “Friend of a friend.”

Your boss hummed, taking a spoonful of the dessert in front of him. You were very grateful that it was dessert and that the meal was over. Grateful that Rafe had saved the bulk of the teasing for the end of the night.

A finger broached the edge of your panties, pulling them aside to prod at the sensitive skin underneath them. You gasped at the feeling, and your boss turning to you, raising and eyebrow.

“This cake!” You practically yelled, taking another large bite to cover up your moans, “So good!”

He smiled awkwardly, and you exhaled heavily. Rafe trailed a finger up and over your clit before pushing down hard on the sensitive bud. You bit your lip, clenching your thighs on his hand.

“I’m so happy to hear,” Rafe smirked, turning to your boss as he slipped one finger inside of you, “That my darling fiancé is such a fantastic asset to your company.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Your boss spoke, still clearly unaware of what was happening underneath the table. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Hear that, love?” Rafe leaned in close to your ear, speeding up the circles on your clit as he sunk another finger inside of you. “You’re invaluable.”

You attempted to covered a high pitched moan with a cough, but it slipped out still. Your boss looked to you concerned, and so did Rafe.

“Are you feeling sick, baby?” He cooed, fucking you faster on his fingers, knowing your orgasm was approaching. “Too much food?”

“It was a lot!” Your boss laughed, “Maybe get her home, Rafe.”

“Maybe I should?” Rafe asked you, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, “Get you home and take care of you.”

At his words, your pussy clenched around his fingers. You gripped his forearm, sinking your nails into the skin. Biting back a moan, your face turned pink.

“She looks like she’s going to vomit. Get her home so she can get into work tomorrow!” Your boss laughed, reaching out to shake Rafe’s hand.

“Will do, sir,” He smiled innocently, shaking your bosses hand before slipping his fingers out of you and standing up.

Before you could even get all the way to the parking garage, Rafe’s hands were on your body. You attempted to shoo him away in fear someone would see, but to no avail.

“Rafe,” you moaned, “Wait until we get to the truck.”

He huffed, wiping his hair off of his forehead. “You’re slow.”

“Hey-“

He scooped you up bridal style and carried you quickly the rest of the way to the truck, tossing you into the back seat before climbing in on top of you.

“Wait,” You put a hand on his chest as he began undressing, “I wanna ride you.”

Rafe paused, leaning back to sit. “But we’ve never…”

“I know,” You started taking down the straps of your dress to expose your breasts, “But I want to.”

You knelt to straddle him, breasts coming to be level with his face. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking the bud before switching to do the same to the other. A hand came to slap your ass, gripping and fisting at the fat there.

“Baby you have no idea what you do to me,” He moaned, hiking your dress up to expose your panties, “So gorgeous for me.”

You watched as he reached down to pull his cock free from his pants, and it slapped back against his stomach. He pulled your panties to the side, and you could feel the warmth of his tip against your folds.

“Fuck,” You moaned, leaning back to give him a better view of your tits, “Needed you so bad all night.”

“Baby,” He bucked just hips slightly up into you, rubbing the tip against your clit, “I was ready to walk out and fuck you in the bathroom.”

Rafe’s thumb came to put pressure against your clit as you sunk down onto him. You moaned in unison at the feeling of him inside of you. You loved being in control of his pleasure and yours finally after a night of him teasing you.

With your knees, you bounced up and down on his shaft, stopping when you reached the tip. This drove him crazy.

“Holy fuck,” He groaned, throwing his head back, “Look at you, love.”

You were lost in a world of pleasure, sinking down to grind against him. You felt your orgasm coming on as you continued to grind against him and his thumb circled your clit.

“More,” You choked out, “Need more, Rafe.”

Your eyes met his, dark with lust and a hunger for you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to fuck you on his cock.

“More?” He teased, “You need more, baby? Need to cum?”

“Yes please,” You begged, nails sinking into his bicep, “Need to cum, Rafe. Need to cum for you so bad.”

“Then do it,” He moaned, hips stuttering as he was holding off his own orgasm for yours, “Cum for me baby.”

Your muscles tensed and then relaxed, and your pussy began to clench uncontrollably. You felt yourself gush on top of him, and you cried out in pleasure as you felt him fuck into you mercilessly to reach his own orgasm.

“Fuck, oh,” He whined, dick squelching as he fucked your cum back into you, “Gonna cum in you baby. Fill up your pretty pussy.”

“Please,” You sobbed, tears on your face, “Please do.”

Warmth flooded your pussy, and Rafe buried his face into your tits as he came, whimpering quietly. “Oh, baby. Holy fuck. Oh my god.”

You felt the cum drop out of you and onto him, and giggled quietly.

“Hey,” He huffed, “These are new pants.”

“That’s what you get for teasing me all night.”

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thephooka · 9 days

Text

youtube

Happy Webcomic Day! My webcomic White Noise is a labor of love--according to Procreate, this page took me 15.5 hours to complete.* Here's a look into that process!

Some other notes:

The thumbnails are done on graph paper and I script while I do them--there is no separate written script for White Noise. I usually spent a couple hours on weekends as needed thumbnailing, sometimes at a coffee shop or at home listening to records.

I then set up the file in Photoshop, so I can lay in the text and use the template I have with bleeds already set up. The text is rasterized and I shuttle the file over to my iPad via Airdrop.

The bulk of the actual work is done in Procreate, which records timelapses that I sometimes share to my Patreon. I usually spend a couple hours most nights after my day job or on the bus commuting doing this.

Once everything art-wise is done, I shuttle the file back over to my desktop to re-set in the text, add a stroke around the speech bubbles (Procreate doesn't have that took fsr) and do the resizing/exporting for web.

On Sunday mornings I get up, queue the page and write the page descriptions. I don't spend any time on the page descriptions outside of that.

Also, this process goes for the whole first arc of White Noise. I'm done with that arc (which means you can binge the whole thing I'm js!!) and am experimenting with some different methods these days, but my workflow is still generally the same.

*Some more talk about the labor (and burnout) involved below the cut:

This particular page (and most of the pages I did in 2023) took a lot longer than normal because I was heading into a burnout period that I'm still lowkey in/recovering from. It's obvious to me now in retrospect watching the timelapse here and seeing how much noodling I'm doing and how much I'm struggling with the process, but at the time I was just very frustrated generally. When I'm not burned tf out pages take maybe 10 hours max.

2023 was a pretty stressful year--lots of big life changes, uncertainty, pet death, health issues--so it's no wonder it propelled me into burnout, but it just goes to show that even the slowest and steadiest pace is not sustainable forever. I've been doing one page a week following this general process for over a decade! And I stuck to that pace because I knew it was one I could maintain. But even so, by the end of this arc I found myself working more and more slowly, not really looking forward to the work, feeling anxious about being behind, unhappy with the finished work, and extremely annoyed with myself for not being able to give it my all right there at the finish line.

I did stop for a while after the epilogue and took a more or less complete break from drawing for about a month--the longest I have EVER gone without drawing, much less working on White Noise--which did help, but these days my ability to work is...inconsistent. I should probably take another total break, but I'm reluctant. What if my passion never comes back? What if people forget about WN? It's already pretty obscure, and with the general social media collapse, it's harder than ever to get people to read my work. Now that I've left Hiveworks, WN doesn't even get the benefit of being linked to other comics (although objectively very, very few readers actually got referred to my comic that way.) And frankly, I'm also just too proud to go too long without comic updates. I've always told myself, I might not be the best artist or the fastest worker or make a popular comic, but I'm consistent. Difficult to let that go.

This is all to say that webcomics are hard. We do them because we love them, we have stories to tell, we are seized with the human compulsion to create. We spend hours of our time, almost always on top of the paying work that allows us to eat, to make something that we then give away for free. It has consequences on us that the reader doesn't often see, no matter how careful we are about it. If you ask me, webcomics deserve to be valued more.

Happy Webcomic Day! Read webcomics!

#webcomics #comics #webcomicday #webcomic day #web comix #indie comics #wn comic #white noise #behind the scenes #art process #comic making #sorry about the vertical video Tumblr would not just let me upload the video file into the post #Youtube

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raayllum · 9 months

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Do you have any headcanons of callum being protective/considerate/thoughtful with rayla? I'm so in love with how gentle he was with her this season.

Callum planting flowers from the Silvergrove in the castle gardens as a surprise and then convincing her to take a 'moonlit' stroll with him one night once they're ready so he can show them off

It's non traditional but he knows the main reason she hates the water is because she always feels unsteady on her feet so he gets her a grip mat for the tub so she can feel more centered

Redoing her braid for her whenever it comes undone and stitching up little tears and frayed edges in her clothing/cloaks because he knows how to sew

On that note: getting her a new cloak because her old one is tattered and doing up the clasp for her / tugging her in close by the hood for nose and mouth kisses if he's not smiling too much

Him and Ezran collecting a whole bunch of things during the timeskip to save up to give to her so that the castle can feel like home

So many forehead kisses and just gentle hand squeezes. Three squeezes means "I love you" and he'll trace the words onto her back or side sometimes when they're just laying together

He definitely talked privately to Opeli (and probably the guards) after the 5x01 throne room debacle and gave them a piece of his mind / new protocol to follow when it comes to them being concerned about Rayla's actions (ficlet here)

For that matter: absolute death glares to anyone who gives her a hard time at the castle / any diplomatic function (and probably almost causes a political incident or two over it)

Him murmuring the sappy love poetry he's read in her ear even when she rolls he eyes and can't quite hide her smile, working up his nerve to write personal poems of his own for her

Little things he did this season like being the one to handle the reigns of their mount the bulk of the time as soon as they started sharing because he knows she's not a morning person and is a light sleeper, so she holds onto his middle and he lets her doze for most of the day whenever he can

Requesting mints at inns they stay in that don't have any already / using magic to carve the soap into little shapes if they aren't that way to begin with and leaving them, once again, as little surprises for her to discover

If/when Rayla wants or needs time away from Stella (sparring perhaps) the cuddlemonkey is almost always with Callum and he makes sure she's cared for too. She's fussy about getting brushed and hard to pin down thanks to the six hands, so he'll usually help get her sitting still while Rayla does the actual grooming

Him using cooling spells for her when it's hot on summer nights (like in 4x07) and heating his hands to lay on her tummy when she gets period cramps

Normally he'd never throw his weight around as a prince, but he absolutely will on her behalf, whether it's getting something she wants from a servant tea/food wise or making sure they are treated well / have a nice place to stay while travelling

"It's none of your concern--" "It very much is her concern, and watch your tone."

Giving her his scarf whenever it's cold, of course

Making sure she's not overworking her bad wrist and giving little massages to that and her ankles when she's been doing a lot of jumps/movements that day, especially as they get older

His sketchbook is equally hers (even if she uses it far less often of course) and there's a few pages near the back designated for her to leave notes or doodles or whatever she wants when she's bored and/or he's not using it (he's very proud of how her drawing has improved)

Getting heavy duty enchanted blinds from Lux Aurea for her room so it can keep the sun out so she can sleep in / can give her room more of a twilight light quality so it can remind her of the Silvergrove (if she wants)

There are some meetings he can't get out of as crown prince but they're long and boring so he does his best to convince Rayla to go and spend her afternoon doing something she wants. (She usually stays for at least the first half anyway to support him and Ez)

Drawing memories and stories she tells him about her family and then giving her the pages so she can hold onto / remember them

Rayla still having a hard time articulating how she's feeling sometimes and getting upset/angry/embarrassed when it comes out wrong, so he takes her hand and gets her to take a steadying breath and start over with a gentle "Try again. What are you meaning to say?" if she says something obtuse/that comes out wrong

Ofc taking care of her when she's sick no matter how disgruntled or snotty she gets and reading to her quietly/stroking her hair until she falls asleep

Taking her to his favourite places in the castle/kingdom/Pentarchy for dates and private times to hang out alone, insisting on carrying their picnic basket because he's a Prince, Rayla, and chivalry isn't dead

Callum working very hard to learn traditional Moonshadow elf (no matter how much she teases him for his pronunciation) so he can use it to propose to her

#rayllum #headcanons #leftboob #requests #mine #thanks for asking #pining!callum #tdp #the dragon prince #supportive callum

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spockandawe · 10 months

Text

Now. Here's the big project! I made a test notebook for once in my life, but I've never enjoyed making notebooks and I'm always chasing that sweet, sweet dopamine. So the test notebook was like... 90% in parallel with the actual book, just rehearsing each step real quick before I did it on the real thing. And what I did was a fresh binding of 'it's about the bones 👌' by @sunderedstar. I had a typeset file ready to go, I'm in the middle of relistening to the audiobooks, it was perfect! And then I zoned out and accidentally cut a whole cover's worth of leather and not just a spine and the whole project ESCALATED 🤣

First, the k118 binding went beautifully. I really do recommend it. It can be done with an oxford hollow to give you a breakaway spine, but I... didn't do that! I stuck to the old timey examples I've seen where it's a tightbacked style and, yeah, it still opens SO far, it's an absolute doll. The style is characterized by vellum strips on the spine used to attached the cover boards and give them the security and flexibility without added bulk. I got impatient trying to differentiate between PAPER vellum and ANIMAL vellum in search engines and just said screw it and went in with the paper vellum. I still have actual vellum getting shipped to me, but truly, the paper stuff worked amazingly. I'm not sure how durable it is, in terms of years of life, but if feels REAL good now. Also. Finally had a thematic excuse to use this beautiful lacquered paper.

I also remain very proud of my typesetting for this book. Warning that you can glean HtN and NtN spoilers if you read the text closely! But scope out that hand I subbed in for the emoji in the title, that's important.

Because now that I was committed to all this leather. Something I've been procrastinating on for MONTHS is learning how to properly tool leather. I have a set of brass stylus tools that ought to be up my alley! Freehand drawing was my first creative hobby of note! This interest dates back to like, fifth grade, and it was time to GO for it. So. I modified the ninth house skull to have some sick shades, made the IX on the forehead more scrawled and scratchy, and drew a skeleton hand over the art I used for the title page. I printed my lines and traced them through printer paper with unheated tools. This was extremely rad, but I couldn't stop there. The next day, I went back over my lines with heated tools, and the level of crisp was SO delightful. I'm still very new to this, still learning how these tools and the material even handle, but oh man. I am actively antsy to find the next project to do this for, this was SO much fun, I enjoyed it so much, and I love this book to pieces!

#crafts #bookbinding #k118

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nashiriel · 5 months

Note

Just reading the Black and Greens’ reactions to baby Luke claiming the Cannibal…I honestly could read 100 chapters, because can you imagine how the Greens would panic when Rhaenyra turns up in King’s Landing like “please meet my most loyal supporter and his dragon?” It would be truly heartwarming stuff.

And I would love to see the Rhaenys/Luke bonding. I wonder if her visibly getting on with Luke more would help head off Vaemond’s challenge (though he’d have to be pretty bold to be challenge Luke’s claim in the hall, knowing the Cannibal is waiting outside).

I am once again asking you to please, please forgive me for taking so long to get back to you. I am trying to work my way through my inbox, I swear!

But in the festive spirit…it’s not 100 chapters, but I hope you enjoy the below snippet from that AU! A very merry Christmas to you (if you celebrate!)

It is Prince Daemon who greets them as they dismount, teeth flashing in the curve of that cocksure grin that Rhaenys remembers of old. There is still much of that boy left to him, she sees. No grey dulls the silver of his hair, and the lines on his face are softened now, smoothed by contentment as he stands amongst the smoke and skies of his new consort’s domain.

Marriage to the Princess of Dragonstone suits him well, it seems. Fury burns Rhaenys’ throat, mingled as it is still with bitter grief.

Three moons. Her children, her grandson, have been dead for three moons.

“My brave girl,” Daemon beams as soon as Baela’s feet have touched the ground, sweeping her into his arms with an exuberance that sends her laughter pealing through the air. “Your sister has missed you.”

“How is she?” Baela demands excitedly, wriggling like a pup in his embrace. “How are her burns? Has she flown-”

“She is resting,” her father laughs, pride clear on his face. Laena’s letters had not spoken of such when she wrote of he and Rhaena in that last, lingering year.

“The maesters say the burn is healing well, sweetling, and she asks me every day when the dragonkeepers will let her back down to the beach. She says that she can still thread her needle, and that a set of reins are nothing compared to that.”

His eyes find Rhaenys’ then, amused. “You would be proud of how brave she has been, cousin.”

“I have always been proud of Rhaena,” Rhaenys says curtly. She has not come here to bandy pleasantries, not when Rhaenyra’s letters had made clear through their increasing urgent pleas that there was a matter that duty could not let her ignore. “As proud as I was of her mother. The day is short, Daemon. Where is the boy?”

The mirth falls away from Daemon’s face.

The valley that Caraxes and Meleys alight upon is not quite at the foot at the Dragonmont, but it is close enough that the restless murmurs of the volcano as it turns in its sleep rumble through the air. In comparison, the dragon whose coiled bulk blots out the sky and rocks from her sight is unsettlingly quiet, its scales a motionless dark sheen over the ground like oil laid over placid water.

Rhaenys’ steps do not falter, even as Caraxes’ whistle shrieks in the air above her. Meleys had loomed larger in her girlhood’s eyes as she sang to her in the dark of the Dragonpit. She had seen Balerion’s wings blacken the sky, a majesty that even age could not rob from the greatest glory their blood had ever known. What is this shadow that she should fear it, no matter large it hulks with its butcher’s reek?

Rhaenys might think it asleep were it not for the gleaming eye that watches her approach, gaze green and hungry as wildfire. With a sharp intake of breath, she sees the small form nestled against its black talons, not even half the size of those knife-like curves. As Rhaenys draws closer, he lifts his head from where it was bent over the long object clutched in his fist, dark eyes wide with astonishment.

“Grandmother?”

“Lucerys,” Rhaenys says evenly, refusing to allow herself a flinch as a growl splits the air, loud enough to shake the stones from Dragonstone’s parapets. A black tail lashes the air in a brutal snap, heavy enough to cleave a castle wall in two, as the dragon coils itself closer still around Luke, teeth glittering in evident warning. It could crush him as easily as Rhaenys could an ant beneath her heel; Meleys bellows behind her as the whip uncoils in Rhaenys’ hand.

“Cannibal!” a voice pipes up behind the ripple of the dragon’s wing, high-pitched and aggrieved rather than terror-stricken. “No! I said no!”

Ash lies thick as snow on the ground. Feet away, a cracked thigh bone protrudes from it, flesh brittled black and crumbling where it still clings. There had been guards watching over their play when the Cannibal’s shadow suddenly descended upon the sands, Rhaena had written in a wobbling sprawl so unlike her normal perfect lettering. With spears and trident, they had tried to draw him off. The precious seconds before they were charred to sprawls of greased meat might have meant the difference between life and death to her grandchildren, at least.

“Easy,” Daemon calls down, his voice strong and stern as winter even as Caraxes’ wings beat the air. “It is your worry feeding his, Lucerys. Calm yourself.”

“I am calm!” comes the indignant squeal, shrill with a fury that Daemon’s words alone cannot have provoked. The Cannibal’s muscles go taut as a bowstring, the dark curve of his jaw shifting as a noise like a mountain cracking apart rumbles between his teeth.

This one will not be brought to bay by a whip, nor soothed with the lullabies of Old Valyria. Rhaenys sees that clearly in this moment, that and the reason why Daemon has proved insufficient to manage this.

In all the history of Dragonstone, there is only one thing that has held any sway over the Cannibal, and - still to Rhaenys’ utter disbelief - it is the voice of the child who sits tear-stained and trembling in sullen rancour as the Cannibal looms above him, stretching up and up into the darkened sky.

“The Conqueror himself never hatched a dragon,” she had overheard Laenor soothe Lucerys once in a shadowed corner of High Tide, cradling him close as they watched Vermax playfully char the meat Jace was throwing in the air.

“You’ll claim a mount one day. Like your aunt, like your grandmother. And I promise, it will be a dragon worthy of you.”

The Cannibal. How by all the seven hells had the boy ever managed to even attract his attention, never mind claim him?

“Lucerys,” she says again, sharp and swift as her whip.

He flinches at her tone, but Rhaenys does not care; the time for coddling him was before the gods in their folly put the Cannibal in the hands of a child.

“None are here to harm you or him, child, and you must make him know that. Remember all that the dragonkeepers have taught you. Breathe deep, and speak loud and clear. Lykiri-”

“I’m trying,” Lucerys says plaintively, one hand scrubbing at his dirtied face. She wonders how long he has been here, how often the Cannibal is pleased to let the human he has bonded with leave his sight. “He doesn’t know what they mean, he won’t listen-”

“Do you think any dragon is born knowing them? The words alone do not have meaning; they are there to clarify your intent, so that he does not blindly follow what you feel instead. You have claimed him, Lucerys. He will listen, but only if you are strong enough to ensure that he understands.”

There comes a choked sob, almost lost in the sulphurous blast of hot breath rolling across Rhaenys’ skin as the Cannibal turns its great head towards her. She does not break its gaze as she coaxes Lucerys to breathe deep, to gather himself together (a memory comes unbidden, of the song she sang to Laenor as a child to soothe his night terrors, and she bites down against another unexpected welt of grief).

Eventually, mercifully, the dragon settles, though covetousness still burns in those eyes like the distant stars as he watches Lucerys leave his shadow to come forth to her.

“Prince Daemon is right,” she says after the Rogue Prince has taken his leave at her sharp gesture.

“That dragon is a part of you now, child, and his rage is strong enough without you feeding it. If you cannot control yourself, what chance do you think you’ll have commanding him? If he tells you to calm yourself, listen.”

“Why? He’s not my father,” comes a furious sniffle, those dark eyes blinking ferociously in a bid to hold back tears. For the first time, she sees what it is he is holding so tightly; a broken spear, the snapped shaft still bearing the remnants of the crest of Dragonstone’s royal guards.

“He is not,” Rhaenys says tightly; that much, at least, they can agree on. “but when it comes to dragons, you’d be a fool not to heed him, boy. And if you’re a fool with this beast, you won’t live long enough to know it. He is dangerous, Lucerys. You should never have gone to him.”

”But I didn’t,” the child says, lip quivering. “It was the Grey Ghost we went to the beach for, me and Rhaena. We brought fish-”

“Fish,” Rhaenys repeats coldly.

“From the kitchens, lots of them. Cook gave some to us every day; he’d thought we’d found some kittens. We had to hide behind the rocks the first few times; he only came out when he thought no one was there. We had to get him used to Rhaena’s smell. Aemond thought it’d work-”

He stops, small face suddenly stricken.

Well. Rhaenys had never imagined that the queen’s and Rhaenyra’s dragonless children might once have felt close enough to venture ideas of luring a mount between them. It matters not now, she supposes. If ever there was ever friendship between the two, it died that night on Driftmark. Rhaenys had not needed to see the poisonous glare levelled at Luke from Prince Aemond’s remaining eye as she thrust him safely beyond Queen Alicent’s reach behind her to know that.

“I didn’t mean for the Cannibal to come,” Luke insists, and an odd look comes across his face, almost hopeful as he looks back over his shoulder to where the dragon watches him with that unblinking, terrible gaze.

“But he must’ve been meant to find us. He’d never come to that beach before, the dragonkeepers said. It was Father, it must’ve been. He heard my prayers and sent him to me.”

No, Rhaenys thinks, and does not know if it is cruelty or kindness that keeps the words from her tongue. If my son could have sent you a dragon, he would have brought you his own Seasmoke.

“So he fell upon the Grey Ghost,” she says instead. “How did that lead you to claiming him? You could have been killed. Rhaena could have been killed. What were you thinking, boy, to get so close?”

“Meraxes,” Luke mumbles, so low Rhaenys thinks she misheard him. She bends closer, acutely aware of the shadow rumbling in warning before her.

”What did you say?”

“Jace told me,” Luke says, fidgeting; behind him, the Cannibal’s tail ripples black, spikes flexing with the motion.

“The only way a man can stop a dragon. Grey Ghost was trying to crawl away, but he couldn’t…he couldn’t move, and Rhaena was screaming, and…the Cannibal had to drag him back with his teeth with his head bent down like that, and I thought if I threw it-”

The spearhead gleams sharp as dragon teeth. Luke looks up at her, pleading, his confession coming in a quavering whisper.

“I tried to get his eye.”

#house of the dragon #lucerys velaryon #cannibal the dragon #carrion #lucemond #asks #I really need to come up with a name for this AU #rhaenys targaryen #The Cannibal and Grey Ghost have been shoved into a ‘This is Our Get Along Shirt’ for the holidays #Luckily once they arrive at King’s Landing they discover the true meaning of Christmas is teaming up together to bully Sunfyre

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rogersideup · 1 year

Note

Here's my nice to be kneaded headcanon: Reader always brings him treats so Steve feels bad he's not returning something. Since he's now helping out some days a week, he starts doodling little things on post it notes and leaves it in the bakery for her to find. The first few times it's employees that find them and everyone's confused who it's from, till reader puts them all together and it's the spots she took Steve when she showed him the town. She saves them all and it looking forward to what's next on Steve's list to draw.

Nice to be Kneaded:

More fun stuff!

*Had to change up the request a bit as to not interfere with a future plotline that’s already been written.

Hidden Treasure

Can be read as a one shot, or in conjunction with Nice to be Kneaded.

Series masterlist More Fun Stuff masterlist

Nomad Steve x Baker Reader

word count: 1,664

"Hey, look at this really cool thing we found!" One of your employees, Sabrina, told you enthusiastically while quickly approaching you at your spot on the desk.

You ripped your eyes away from the product order invoice on the desktop screen to take interest in her excitement.

"What is it?" You asked, as she handed it to you.

In your hand, she placed a yellow sticky note that was drawn on with a ball point pen. An immediate smile tugged at your lips when you recognized it. It was one of the espresso machines in the lobby.

On the sticky note was a drawing of the machine itself, sitting on the counter accompanying a fresh latte. The detail was sickeningly impressive considering it was on a 3 x 3 yellow square, and drawn on with a 75¢ ball point pen.

"I was doing a quick run to wipe down all the tables after morning rush and found that stuck to the small table by the espresso bar!" Sabrina enthused. "Isn't it incredible?!"

"It's amazing" You agreed with a smile.

"I wonder who did it." She pondered as you handed it back to her.

"Maybe a customer during morning rush" You shrugged, smile still invasive. "Have you guys found any more of them or was it just this one?"

"Nope, this is the first and only one." Sabrina noted. "Maybe they'll come back and leave more."

"Well whoever it is deserves a coffee and a cookie if we catch them." You noted.

"This work of art must be cherished forever" She noted, grabbing the roll of tape and tearing off a piece. She taped the sticky note masterpiece to the wall right next to the computer. "This is the new, official, Nice to be Kneaded art museum."

That post-it stayed on the wall for two days before Steve came back into the bakery to help out with the bulk supply delivery. That's when he caught a glimpse of his drawing taped to the wall, and knew he needed to leave more for you and your employees to find around the bakery.

Day by day, week by week, the scrap paper and pen art museum on the back office wall became quite an impressive display. So much so that you eventually became ignorant to the new additions on the daily because they started to blend in with the rest. But every once in a while, you'd catch your team talking about the most recent little pieces of art so you'd go to inspect the entirety of the collection.

One particularly quiet night in the bakery, you had texted Steven to see if he wanted to hang out with you. It wasn't usually a night he'd come by, but you missed his little antics and his stupidly handsome face.

Without question, he was walking through the door of the bakery 20 minutes later. His golden hair was still slightly soggy from the shower he was taking when you grabbed his attention, and he was dressed casually and comfortably as he always was.

"Hey there, honey!" You smiled big, happy to see your best friend.

"Hello, hello!" He greeted you with a smile just as big as yours, and gave you a big hug.

One thing about Steven was that he was of the same mentality of a Great Dane, he was a lot bigger and stronger than he was aware of, yet he thought he was a lap dog. Even his gentlest of hugs engulfed your entire body, and squeezed you comfortably tight.

"Thanks for coming! It was getting real quiet and lonely in here without you."

"You know I'd never miss a chance to spend time with you." He playfully exclaimed. “Need help with anything?”

“Nothing other than curing my boredom” You shrugged.

His eyes looked over to the wall of sticky notes he had drawn on, completely unbeknownst to you and your entire staff. “What’s all of this?” He questioned, interested to hear your take on the drawings.

“Oh, that’s our art museum” You smiled. “Some unknown person has been leaving these drawings around the store for us to find.”

“Oh really?” Steve cocked his head to the side, fighting a smile.

“Yeah, it’s really fun. We all love it so much” You smiled. “It’s like finding hidden treasure, then when we find them we add them to the wall.”

“Do you have a favorite one?” He asked.

He watched your eyes scan them all over, before your pointed to one of the post-it’s. “That one, but they’re all amazing. I’m going to save them forever.”

His eyes followed your finger to the drawing he did last week of the outside of the bakery, and he could agree that it was one of his favorites too.

You could see the inside of the bakery through the windows on the front, and shining through the reflective glass was the big neon sign that read ‘Nice to be Kneaded’. There were many days where pulling into the parking lot of your cozy bakery filled him with immense comfort, and that drawing made him feel just the same way.

“I like this one” Steve pointed to the drawing he did two days ago of the back of a kid up on his tippy toes, peaking into the case full to the brim with treats.

“Awwwww that one is so cute!” You cooed.

Conversation strayed but Steve’s mind stayed fixed on the little drawings. Much like every other aspect of his life, he didn’t want to lie or keep secrets from you, but he did want to make it fun.

So, he started making it increasingly more obvious that it was him every day he spent in the bakery just to clue you in.

If you were baking cookies, he would draw the cookies.

You cleaned the glass of the bake case? Surprise. The next drawing would be of the case full of pastry with little sparkling shimmers on the glass to show it was completely finger print free.

Oh and that cake you were decorating right in front of his face? Yeah. That was tonight’s drawing.

He got every last detail, down to the different piping tips you used for the princess style, the tiny pearled beads you carefully placed at every joint and peak, and the writing on top in your beautiful handwriting that he honestly struggled to recreate.

Steve really thought this would be the one that pushed it over the edge and helped you put the pieces together, but when he walked in the next day, you said nothing about it.

Even when you looked at it and taped it up in its respective spot, you still didn’t solve the little riddles he was leaving you.

Well, that was true until about an hour later when you walked over to the computer to confirm order details on the cake you were about to start. Making sure you got all the flavors, colors, and theming right was very important to you.

He watched your eyes go from the computer screen, to the drawing you just attached to the wall, back to the computer, back to the drawing.

“Oh my gosh…” You caught his attention. “I just realized this is the cake I made yesterday!” You said happily.

“Wait… don’t you think that’s a little odd?” Steve asked, trying to push you along further into the clue.

“Why would it be?” You questioned.

“Well, if you decorated that cake last night when only you were here, then put it in the fridge for pick up early in the morning, how would the artist have even seen the cake?” Steve continued.

“Wait, you’re so right. That customer picked up at opening.” You agreed. “Oh gosh, and the day before that was a picture of the bake case, I just cleaned it the night before…”

“See, now that’s really odd.” He egged you on.

“Who the hell could this be?” You thought out loud. “Do I have a stalker.”

“Well let’s think rationally about this mystery guy. Can you think of anyone who would’ve seen you clean the bake case and decorate that cake?” Steve asked.

He watched you think for a second. “Other than us two I have no idea… You were here too. Did you see anything weird?”

“Not at all.” Steve couldn’t even hold in the laugh he was desperately trying to conceal. “So if it was just you and I…”

Before he could even finish his sentence, you remembered one very important detail about Steven.

He was an artist.

Steve could literally see the moment it clicked in your head, your face snapped into something between joy and annoyance. But you were smiling with big pink cheeks, so he really didn’t care.

“Steven!” You laughed joyfully, voice raising a few notches.

“What?!” He questioned gigging with you.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you!” You screeched, reaching forward and very gently play hitting his arm.

“I was seeing how long it would take you to figure it out!”

“Meanie!”

“…and you said it was making you and all your employees happy!” Steve continued explaining. “Leaving drawings around the store to make you guys happy is the least I could do in exchange for how happy you and the bakery make me.”

You cheeks only deepened their blush as his explanation sunk into your mind and heart. “Honey, you already do so much for us and they don’t even know you’re here helping out. You’re appreciated by everyone regardless, and what you do here goes a long way.”

“Yeah, but, I really like making the drawings” he admitted shyly.

“We all love them too. Thanks for all you do for me, Steven.” You said sincerely.

“No, thank you.” He said humbly, his cheeks were blushed pink just like yours.

“Okay, now I just have to get these all in a picture frame…” Thought.

He laughed. “Stop it! They’re literally just post it notes!”

“One man’s post-it is another man’s masterpiece!”

#nice to be kneaded #more fun stuff #steve rogers #steve rogers fluff #captain america #captain america fluff #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #chris evans #steve rogers fanfiction #mcu x reader #chris evans fluff #Steve Rogers series #Rogersideup #ask isla

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spillways-mp3 · 1 year

Text

Gifts | Captain John Price x Reader

I wrote this based on an ask I sent @yeyinde and this dedicated to her 💖 If you haven't go read her fics!!

Warnings: smut, bad smut - its the first time in 5 years I've written smut so if its a little funky thats why!, Incorrect use of a cigar, mouth used as an ashtray, theres a use of one good girl, but I've tried my best to keep everything else gender neutral.

Word Count: 686

Other works? First Kiss (John Price), Panic Attack (Johnny MacTavish)

You press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, his hand stroking the crown of your head. You watch as the cigar burns as he takes another draw, his blue eyes slipping shut as he savours the flavour and releases it, a comforting smell of cedar, spice, and tannin washes over you.

Price ignores you as he pours himself a glass of scotch. He studies the bottle, pretending to read the label as you try not to whine between his legs. He leans back into the cheap office chair that groans with his bulk and places the bottle back into its box. He traces the dove silhouette you had engraved when you brought the alcohol. Grabbing a cigar, he watches you closely as he toasts the end up. You shift on your knees under the heavy weight of his gaze, fingertips dancing across Price’s thighs before retracting your hands back into your lap.

“You spoil me, love,” his voice is rough but tone gentle, “gifts -“ you want to interject, to kiss his away refusals of the presents that you brought him but you force yourself to wait, fingernails biting into your palms in an effort to stay still. “- the scotch and cigars? What did the hell did I do to deserve you, dove?”

“I won’t even ask how you afford them.” His stern eyes pin you down, and you quickly press kisses to his thigh to lighten the darkening blue. His throat bobs as he glances at the gathering ash “Are you sure you want me to do this dove? You don’t have to.”

Your throat is thick with anticipation and it’s a challenge to speak. “Yes,” you look up at him through your lashes - just the way he likes - and smile innocently, “I’m sure.”

His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, “Be a good girl then, and open for me.”

“Yes sir”

There’s no hesitation when you open your mouth, tongue already slick with saliva in preparation. He holds your jaw steady, always so careful to never hurt you (at least when you haven’t asked him to), and brings the cigar to your mouth. You can feel the heat but you are not worried about being burned, not when John is in control. He taps the cigar with precision, your eyes never leaving his, and the ash falls heavy on your tongue.

It quickly grows thick with the spit but you swallow it, John’s breathing hitches and the way his trousers tighten tells you he enjoyed it more than he thought he would. Pupils blow wide until calm waters turn to stormy seas, he strokes your jaw with startling tenderness, your eyes slip shut and you press your face into his rough palm.

It makes your head spin with how fast he pulls you into his lap, his lips searing kisses into the column of your throat. His hips jerk upwards and you can’t help but moan. The heat of his body is much like the heat of the cigar, it threatens to overwhelm you. His fingers bruise the fat of your hips as he grinds you down on him.

“Do you know what you do to me? You make me lose control of myself, dove.”

You struggle to undo his belt and zipper, your hands unsteady with need. His own fingers make quick work of your own trousers and help you with his own. Not wanting to leave his lap, you awkwardly shimmy the offending trousers and underwear off, and grind into John’s thigh.

He works his thick cock out, head red with want and precum beading. He tugs you close and lets you line yourself up, he watches your face as you sink down. Groaning, he lets his head drop back and laughs lightly when you scrap your teeth against his exposed neck.

He seems content to let you choose the pace, his hands steady on your hips. He watches in adoration as you grind down on him. He stops you and rests his forehead against your own, breathing mingling.

“I’m yours, always. I’ll always be yours, dove”

#my writing #captain john price x reader #captain john price #john price x reader #cod x reader #im very nervous about this one lmao

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year

Note

I’d love a glimpse into Jason telling Bruce and the family he’s “hanging up the mask” in the teddy verse. I truly believe Bruce would be ecstatic.

"Jason" Bruce scolded, "What did you do to that child and why is she making that noise?"

"Teething," Jason explained, shifting Tilde over and rocking her gently.

"Poor thing," he tutted, holding his arms out to take her and give Jason a break from being slobbered on. "My poor sweetheart. Dad's doing his best." He rested his cheek on her head and watched Jason rifle through her baby bag for a minute, handing her a teether to gnaw on for a while, the tension in his shoulders relaxing visibly when she went from wailing to whimpering. "That's a little better," he hummed, sinking into his desk chair.

"Much," Jason said nodding, glancing down at his phone, and frowning.

"Is Y/N still working?" he asked, glancing at the clock.

"Yeah. I dropped Teddy off to have dinner with her. Give her a break from trying to negotiate getting the other three to buy her out of the company."

"Wha-" Bruce broke off frowning and rubbed Tilde's back when she fussed. "Why?"

"Something's got to give. She can't do the bulk of the housework, the childcare, and run a company- even if we have people come in she'd still have to oversee all that- She's really good at organizing but, fuck."

"And you don't agree?" He asked, waiting. Not sure what to make of the knot in his stomach.

"No," he said, "I don't. She built that fucking company- it wouldn't EXIST like it does without her. She's the driving force behind all of it. All the stories. All the biggest deals-" He broke off and shook his head, "She built it from thin air and I can't-"

"And this doesn't have anything to do with her kidnapping?" Bruce asked, unconsciously cuddling his granddaughter a little closer.

"That's part of it," he said. "I can't protect her if she's on the other side of the country- not if I'm working a case or doing... other things."

Bruce watched him and nodded slowly, "So something has to give-"

"And I'm not going to let her give up everything she's built," Jason said. "So. I'm going to start scaling back on the things I'm doing as Redhood."

"Jason-"

"She's my children's mother," he said simply. "She rearranged her whole life to raise my son. She gave Teddy a way out- Do you know? He really loves being in a booth. He started writing stories to go with his drawing. And I just-"

Jason broke off and Bruce looked down at the baby, now asleep against his chest. "You want your son to study music and art instead of martial arts," he said understanding.

"Both my kids," he said. "And I want to be there to see them do it. I don't want her to be a single mom. I don't want her to have to do this by herself."

Bruce smiled down at his granddaughter, blinking back tears and cleared his throat. All he ever wanted was for his kids to be able to grow up and live their dreams. To have what he was afraid to have. And not for the first time, Bruce was thankful Teddy had such good taste in potential mothers.

#Jason Todd #Jason Todd x reader #teddy!verse #ask answered #minors dni

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bisexualbaker · 3 months

Text

Crochet Patterns for Palestine

Making a new post for this; I'll still accept donation receipts from all organizations linked on the previous version of this post, but my focus has shifted and/or concentrated somewhat.

[Alt]

This crochet pattern is for small cats, of a good size to make into keychains, magnets, or even hair clips! There are six PDF versions available:

- US stitch names in 12 point Atkinson Hyperlegible - US stitch names in 22 point Atkinson Hyperlegible - US stitch names in 22 point Comic Sans

- UK stitch names in 12 point Atkinson Hyperlegible - UK stitch names in 22 point Atkinson Hyperlegible - UK stitch names in 22 point Comic Sans

Between those six options, that should cover most pattern accessibility needs. If you need something else, though, let me know! I’m prepared to offer a .doc or similar file on an individual basis if you need a screenreader to access crochet patterns, and have a sheet I can use to translate things to German stitch terms (though more in-depth instructions would still be in English). The pattern is worked primarily in (US) single crochet/(UK) double crochet, with the ears in (US) double crochet/(UK) treble crochet popcorn stitches, and is bundled with similar file options of a popcorn stitch tutorial PDF (no stitch names used).

“Socchan,” you say, “These cats are super cute! And you said that this pattern is for charity? How does that work exactly?”

I’m glad you asked! Simply donate a minimum of $3 or close-enough local equivalent to a related charity, then take a screencap of your receipt/proof of donation. Block out any information that could doxx you; it’s nice if you trust me, but it’s not impossible that my email could get hacked, and I want you to be safe! Finally, email the altered screencap to socchan (at) protonmail (dot) com.

Once I get and check the screencap, I will email you back with a password-locked zipped folder of all six files, as well as the password. I will do my best to respond to all emails within two days of receiving them. Please be respectful of both my work and this donation incentive and don't upload the patterns elsewhere!

As a bonus, if you take your donation up to at least $5 (or close-enough local equivalent), I’ll throw in an additional link and password for a very cute little flower pattern!

[Alt]

“That sounds pretty easy,” you go on to say, “but where should I donate? There are so many options to choose from!”

No problem! Check out Operation Olive Branch: A spreadsheet collecting lots and lots of links to fundraisers in Palestine.

Too much information to sort through? Here are some good general options:

Palestine Children’s Relief Fund - Focuses on medical aid to children in Palestine Medical Aid for Palestine - “[H]elp MAP respond to the ongoing emergency in Gaza, as well as provide medical supplies, support healthcare services and deliver long term development to healthcare in the occupied Palestinian territory and Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon.” MAP reportedly has a team on the ground in Gaza, providing critical medical aid. Anera - Providing food, hygiene kits, and medical care in Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem. Palestine Red Crescent - More medical support in Palestine; the rest of the webpage is in Arabic, so be prepared if you want to click around at all. Basically the Palestinian Red Cross. Crips for eSims for Gaza - This organization is raising money to buy eSims in bulk, to help Palestinians in Gaza to communicate with the outside world. Help Gaza Children - Organized in part by Tumblrite @fairuzfan, Help Gaza Children provides food and toys to children in Gaza, feeding bodies and hearts.

"Socchan," you say, "I heard about this other person who is offering something else in exchange for proof of donation to Palestine-related charities. If I make a donation to get a drawing of a dragon, or some neat music, or a book of international vegan recipes, or something else I've found, is it okay if I also use that same donation or purchase to get a crochet pattern or two?"

Absolutely! What matters to me is that the people of Palestine get the aid they need. One of the reasons I made my minimum donation request so low is because I know that money is tight for a lot of people right now; even small donations are still very welcome to many of these organizations, and I understand if you need to make your money stretch as far as it can.

Thank you so much for reading this far! Please consider boosting this post, so it can reach more crocheters and crocheter-adjascent people.

#signal boost #free palestine #gaza #fundraiser #crochet #crochet pattern #id in alt text

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teabreakpancakes · 1 year

Note

I saw you baker s/o and I want to request That but instead with Naib, Kurt, Emma, And mike!!!!

As Sweet As Your Pastries Naib, Kurt, Emma and Mike with a Baker S/O

Genre: Fluff

𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐁 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐑

he vaguely remembers his mother baking a few times

it brings a smile to his face to see you being so passionate about something

one time, you noticed him staring, so you decided to invite him, admittedly, he enjoyed a lot more than he expected though he won't admit it unless you ask him directly

Naib's calloused hands handled the piping bag clumsily, smearing the icing messily. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he draws the whiskers on the cookie. Soft giggles erupt from the baker as they trace patterns and designs perfectly onto the two layer cake they're working on.

prefers eating over baking tho ^^;

he's gotten used to you bringing him treats before his matches though the others claimed it was "unfair" so he started eating them discreetly

your baking reminds him of home

he eats a LOT. even though he doesn't have an affinity for sweets due to the lack of such delicacies in his life before meeting you

Naib reached out for his second tray of cookies, still munching on the cupcake in his left hand. 'Where does all that food go?' the baker pondered, bewildered by the amount of food the merc ate, he never seemed to gain weight, in fact, he only seemed to bulk up even more. The baker poked his hard abdomen, blinking owlishly with an "Oh". Naib quirked an eyebrow, "Wha' ish i'?" he questioned with a mouthful of food. The baker shook their head with an amused smile, "It's nothing darling, do you like the cookies?" they redirected, brushing his hair away from his face.

𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊

he always reads a story to you over tea time

Today, Kurt was telling you all about a realm where fairies, golems and many other creatures resided. The calming ambience of the garden picnic made it a perfect time to relax. Kurt would stop ever so often to take a bite of one of the pastries he held in one of his hands.

sometimes, some of the crumbs land on his book but he doesn't care because the food came from you :D

he surprisingly has some knowledge about baking, he can bake decently by himself

The baker peered over the explorer's shoulder, eyes trained on the mixture Kurt was working on. "Wow.. you actually know how to bake—Oh! no offence of course, it's just that all the other survivors that attempted to created monstrosities that bordered the lines of being rubbish" they chuckled, rubbing their nape. The explorer smiled, shaking his head, "I learned a bit about the craft while growing up" he replied, a somber expression appearing on his face as he stared down in the bowl.

he enjoys designing the cake with mini sketches

some of your recipes were based on stories he'd tell you

you often make him his favorite snacks for when he's reading :D

he stares at you, wondering how the embodiment of his dreams fell right into his arms, especially when you look so at peace

he thinks your smile is as sweet as your pastries

𝐄𝐌𝐌𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒

she's always in awe of your abilities

she enjoys decorating she's a bit too much of a klutz for the other things, it never ends well

Emma sticks out her tongue slightly as she fills in the outline of a rose on the cookie. She grins proudly when she finishes the lovely looking rose, bestowing her creation before you on her outstretched hand. "Look darling! a rose for a lovely person like you!" she beamed. The baker giggled, their emotions showing through the rosy tint on their cheeks.

she hogs treats in matches she willingly takes hits just so she can taste them

after she messed up so many pastries, you stopped letting her bake

"Emma" the baker called out in a stern manner, the smile plastered on their face barely hiding the frustration and exasperation they were currently experiencing. "Would you mind explaining why my cookies and cupcakes are burnt?" they question, a threatening tone underlying their inquiry . The gardener backs away slightly, avoiding their piercing gaze. "U, Uhm, I may have baked them for a little too long—", "A little?" you interjected, your eyebrows twitching in irritation.

emma steals some of your treats for herself sometimes

emma has no favourites, she likes everything you make :D

you feed her some treats while she's tending to the garden

garden tea parties :D

𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍

mike admires your craft, you're so dedicated to it

he remembers pastries he'd occasionally taste but yours are definitely the best!

he asked if you could teach him how to help and ever since then, he's been helping: eating ehem, taste testing, mixing and getting the ingredients and tools and whatnot

he juggles the cookies before shooting them one by one into his mouth

The acrobat snags a few cookies in his hands, juggling them before you. "Hmm, what does this one taste like?~" he speaks with a lilt in his voice, almost teasing as he throws the cookie into his mouth. His eyes sparkle with delight, letting out a sound of recognition—"Dried blueberries! what a treat" he praises. The baker cups their mouth, unable to hold back the quiet giggles escaping their mouth. Mike always seemed to find a way to entertain you, one way or another.

he'll always mess around with you in the kitchen a little

flour fights!

A cheeky smile creeps up Mike's face as he gathers some of the flour on the table into his hand. "Dear, can you please hand me tha—eek! Mike!" the baker hollered as they were met with a fistful of flour. The white powder sinks into their locks and into their clothing. The baker's head is downcast as they scoop flour into their hands, "Two can play it that game!" they yell, throwing towards Mike.

he helps you bake so he can eat them right after

#lawless.writes #idv.writing #idv x reader #idv x gn reader #identity v x reader #idv naib x reader #naib subedar x reader #idv kurt x reader #idv explorer x reader #idv emma x reader #idv gardener x reader #idv emma woods x reader #idv mike x reader #idv mike morton x reader #idv acrobat x reader #idv scenarios

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sciderman · 8 months

Note

How did you find your art style??

oh, buddy – it's something that happens so, so accidentally... i don't really think about it, it just shifts and changes and i do what i think looks cool, and i focus my energy on the bits i enjoy the most or the bits that i want to get really good at - for me, i'm obsessed with facial expressions and getting good performances out of the characters i draw, so that's where i focus all my effort - i do a lot of people-watching - which helps with capturing personalities, but also really helps in loosening your lines because it's a time-sensitive practice - you have to get your lines down as quickly as possible before your subject runs away...

doing a LOT of quick drawings is the quickest way to get a nice loose line, and i kind of love my lines these days. my lines used to be so rough and messy - which had a lot to do with my equipment - i was working on a tiny, screenless graphics tab

nowadays all my illustrations are done on an iPad - and so i get much more control over my line (sexy) (very good)

the raddest cooliest thing about running this blog for nigh on a decade is that i've kind of got a record of how my art style evolved over the years!

i think one of the most fun things i've noticed is how much it changed over the hiatus - i think my art was very influenced by contemporary marvel comics before the hiatus, it was the bulk of what i read, so my art was so very cinematic.

during the hiatus i took a massive step away from marvel - i was still reading comics, but fell head over heels with the scrooge mcduck comics. i don't think there's any art in the world that's more sweet and appealing to me than those ducks - the simple, bouncy lines and easily readable expressions - it's oh. it's so nice.

i think it fed a lot into my art post-hiatus - that, and having worked in animation a LOT since then, my art's kind of got a more cartoony approach - with Character Consistency! (something that used to be my mortal enemy, pre-animation career.)

working in animation, you start considering things like character silhouettes and appeal, and ways to make characters distinct and their designs sort of be reflective of their personalities - all really fun things that i've been playing with.

i do want to foray back into more cinematic art again - maybe find a way to marry the two - but for now, i think the cartoony art really suits the more slice-of-life stories i'm telling with wade and peter at the moment. and i love their silly, silly faces.

#sci speaks

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jakelandryshorts · 2 years

Text

WereCoach

“Oh shit…” Mr. Pritchett muttered.

Jay looked up at his professor with a bit of confusion. Even if he was an adult, he’d never heard the mousey teacher say something with so much confidence. “What?” he quickly asked.

Mr. Pritchett’s eyes were glued to the soon to be night sky. He drew his attention away, just enough to grab his stuff. “I need to go. Sorry.”

“GO!?” Jay jumped out of his chair and ran to the door, blocking Mr. Pritchett’s exit. “What do you mean go? I have a test tomorrow. You said you’d help me tonight.”

“Sorry. Not tonight,” Mr. Pritchett said. He adjusted his glasses and tried to move Jay out of the way. It wasn’t going to happen as the football stud weighed a good 70 or 80 pounds more than the scrawny teacher. And most of that was firm muscle he’d been working on for years.

Jay pushed back. “No. Tonight. I’ve been spending all semester trying to pass. You can’t just ditch me the night before the fucking test.”

“Now boy—” the depth in Mr. Pritchett’s voice shook Jay for a second. He quickly cleared his throat and it returned to normal. “Jay, I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

“Wh-why?” Jay felt himself stammer. The feeling that his teacher’s voice gave him suddenly sent him for a loop. His whole body shook, but there was a different feeling that was accompanying it. His desire to study turned to curiosity with a sprinkle of something he didn’t quite understand. “Is it because you forgot deodorant? Cause I don’t give a fuck. I’m in the locker room all the time. This is nothing.”

“Boy…” Mr. Pritchett growled. The timbre of his voice returned. A striking and powerful sound that made the jock instantly stand up straight. He fought off the urge, to smile but one was still cracking through the side of his face. Mr. Pritchett could feel a bead of sweat drip down the side of his face. “Damn it boy…”

“Sir?” Jay squeaked out.

The crack of a smile turned into a full on one as Mr. Pritchett sat down on the table. He spread legs wide, with a foot resting on a chair. “Sir… I like that. Didn’t think a punk like you’d use it though. Heh,” he laughed. “Not that I’m complaining.” Mr. Pritchett’s soft facial features started to shift. Hair started to fill out around his face while his facial features started to widen.

He started to undo the buttons of his navy dress shirt and then took off his pants. “Holy shit…” Jay stared blankly. “When’d you get so buff!” A glare from Mr. Pritchett made him quickly add. “Sir.”

Mr. Pritchett snorted a laugh. “Always have been,” he answered flexing his arm. His bicep was rapidly growing. It had been almost none existent even minutes ago, but now it looked like it was about the size of a baseball. Every second even more and more muscle pumped into it. It was growing past the size of a soft ball and then some. Bulk started to appear on the lean mass only making it look larger.

Jay’s mouth continued to hang open as the rest Mr. Pritchett’s scrawny body was rapidly filling out. Muscle and size just kept packing onto his lean body. Two hefty pecs pushed out in front of him. He had a nice solid belly that strong men had. His legs bulked up significantly, making his khakis near impossible to wear. Thick meaty legs ran down to the floor.

Hair erupted from every part of his body. It ran up and down his large hefty frame covering near every inch of him. A thin layer of sweat coated the hair, making it cling more to his body but also drawing out a natural musky smell. He smiled as he ran his thick hand up his hairy belly and let out a big yawn.

“Damn…” Mr. Pritchett reached for the sky. “Always feels damn good.” Every part of his body began to stretch to new heights. As he stood back up, he was now looking down at Jay instead of up. “Eh?” he looked at Jay as though he’d seen him for the first time. A devious smile crossed his face.

“Mr-Mr. Pritchett?” the jock asked.

“Heh-heh,” the man laughed. “Coach Pritchett. When a werejock becomes a teacher, they become a werecoach. But you can call me sir.”

“Yes sir,” Jay quickly nodded.

“Good man,” Coach’s hand gripped Jay’s shoulder and gave it a light shake. “That damned teacher always locks me up. For some reason he’s all embarrassed of me and the only guy I ever get ta see are those scrawny nerdy ones. But damn… You’re a pretty good specimen. Drop and give me fifty.”

Jay felt a compulsion to drop to the floor and pump out the fifty pushups. “S-sir?”

“You heard me,” Coach growled. Instantly Jay fell to the floor and started pumping them out. “Count them out.” Jay did as he was told. Coach watched as the jock continued through the exercise without much difficulty at all. “You’re a good strong jock, aintcha?”

“Yes sir,” Jay chanted.

“Let me see.”

Jay stripped off his shirt and dropped his shorts around his ankles. Coach put a thumb to his beard, observing the other man. “Hmmm…” A sudden feeling of self-consciousness overtook Jay as Coach started to observe him. He’d been taking it a bit lighter in the gym lately because of all the studying. Would Coach be mad?

“You’ve been slacking…” Coach grumbled.

“I—”

“No excuses,” Coach instantly shut the jock up. His back straightened as he did so. “Heh-heh,” Coach chuckled. “You like doing what I tell you?”

“Sir?” Jay felt his head tilt a bit. Never in his life had any one considered him to be submissive. But no matter what the coach said, he felt like he should do it. Almost like his body was naturally reacting to the other man’s authority.

“C’mon boy. No need to lie,” one of Coach’s big hands reached down Jay’s shorts and gripped his hard cock. The light squeeze and stroke. His firm hand slid gently over Jay’s shaft, drawing a soft moan out of the jock. Jay’s body jerked slightly at the feeling. He couldn’t help it as pleasure shot through his body.

So much so that his mouth hung open. Coach took it as an invitation and locked their mouths together. Jay found the other man’s tongue in his mouth but relaxed. Feeling the bigger man’s hands drape over his back and slide down his muscles was overly relaxing and stimulating. Almost like a tickle that he didn’t want to end.

Jay didn’t even notice as his shirt was removed from his body or his shorts dropped to his ankles. But he did notice as Coach stopped the kiss. The soft prickles of Coach’s beard drew him back in but Coach was quick to stop him. “Sir?” he whined.

It only drew a cocky smirk out of the older man. “First things first. We have to talk about your training. I ain’t going to be treatin some slouch. You got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now we have to talk about you getting bigger. You really need to be pushing yourself in the gym. Making sure each workout really hones in on each group. So you can get bigger here,” his hands rested on the jocks shoulders, then slid down over his arms. “Here.” Those big hands grabbed Jay by the waist and landed firmly on his ass. “Here. And most importantly,” One of his fingers slid against Jay’s hole, “here.”

It pushed inside drawing out the most pathetic whimper out of the jock. Jay’s body instinctively leaned into Coach and his hands clasped at the bigger man’s body. His head nuzzled into Coach’s burly pecs. Jay gripped Coach’s sides squeezing as more of Coach’s finger pushed inside. He gasped at the feeling of his body being invaded. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. A sudden tickle worming around on his insides as he buried himself into the wall of a man in front of him.

Not to mention that rustic manly smell that was invading his nose. He’d known it all his life, yet from coach he couldn’t get enough of it. He took a deep breath whenever he got a chance, moving closer to Coach’s smelly pits. His tongue lolled out as he gave the sweaty pit a lick. All the while Jay’s cock throbbed with excitement.

There were too many pleasing senses bombarding him at once. He couldn’t focus on just one of them. The salty sweat. The strong man to hold onto. The feeling of his ass being opened up. His body jerked and he didn’t even realize that he’d finished. A sudden euphoria overtook Jay as fell limp in the other man’s arms.

“Sorry sir…” Jay apologized.

“No need to be sorry,” Coach smirked. “You’re just beginning your training. And we still have a long night ahead of us.” He sat back on the table and grabbed at his package. The stained tightie whities were true to their name as the bulge seemed to push the stretchy fabric pretty far. However, all Jay could think was how much he wanted to please his Coach.

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Mr. Pritchett woke up the next morning to find Jay in his arms. As soon as the grogginess of the night wore off, he was quick to realize what had happened. “Oh shit! Oh shit!” he repeated.

Jay slowly drifted out of his slumber to see the scrawny teacher grabbing his clothes and trying to put them back on. “What’s wrong sir?” Jay felt the word slip out. He didn’t like how it sounded. “What’s wrong sir?” he repeated. It was supposed to be ‘what the fuck?!’ but nothing else would come out. And his anger kept returning to the submissive version of him the night before.

Slowly, Mr. Pritchett turned back to the college student. “Sir? Since when do you call me sir?”

“Uhh…” Jay felt a bit embarrassed. Memories of last night were starting to come back to him. More embarrassing was the lack of pants and his dick growing hard again. Every time he looked at his teacher he had the urge to please him.

“You met Coach. Huh?” Mr. Pritchett asked. Jay gave a soft nod but couldn’t help but smile. “Well… Damn it.”

“No. Not damn it,” Jay quickly stood up. His dick pointed at his teacher. “Sorry…” he didn’t do anything to cover up though. “It was fun. And well… Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“Again?” Mr. Pritchett looked at the man and smiled. “We’ll you do need a lot of help studying. Why not?”

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