#//Even if this reply is relatively tame

[unboundtravels]

Perhaps it is luck that brings the scream toward her, or maybe not. The Doctor turns towards the scream, seeing the perimeter officers keep a woman restrained. The Doctor knows that she's seen all she needs to see at the crime scene, so she launches towards the woman in a quick stride. Quickly, she moves to wrap one arm over the shoulder and rest another on the opposite, walking her away from the crime scene gently as she shushes the young girl in a soothing voice. It's almost hypnotic. "There, there, my dear..." She walks her down, away, but remains within sight of the officers to make the young woman feel more comfortable.

"Now you listen here, child—" The Doctor begins, lowering her head a bit to be eye level with the young girl, "What's inside that shop is rather a gruesome sight, and there's nothing in there you'd gain other than a rather unpleasant memory, and I'd be more than cruel to let such a young girl like you inflict such damage upon herself." She says it as if she's going to remain firm. There will be no entering that crime scene. She does move past it, though, as she knows the girl will have questions: but frankly, there are more important concerns, and The Doctor needs to look at the bigger picture... so she rips the bandaid off.

"I won't keep the truth from you either, though." The Doctor continues, "Everyone inside that shop is dead. No survivors, I'm afraid." She does speak firmly, though, in this next statement. "But you listen to me, young lady." Her finger softly presses against the woman's chest. In this split moment, The Doctor has a lot of thoughts and emotions pass over her mind all at one moment. At this point in her life, she's undergone many hardships, said many goodbyes, and has undergone intense change because of it. So these words she speaks next are not malicious attempts at manipulation as they had been before, but an intense and strong promise that The Doctor delivers with genuine, "I will find whoever is responsible for this madness." She whispers this next part with a chilling determination, "And I am going to put a stop to it. You can believe me." 

"But..."

Critically is she thinking now, constructing plans into her mind and trying to understand everything she's just taken in all at one time, "I need your help in order to do so." The Doctor begins, speaking gently now in order to create a tone that communicates a desire for cooperation. "It's clear based on my findings that there must be some genetic link involved in these gruesome deaths. Something about this is personal." The Doctor presses her knuckle gently against her lips and raises her eyebrows, "Yes, yes... There's too much doubt in order for it to be just a coincidence... hm? And I think you know that, don't you, dear child? Hm?" The Doctor rests only a hand on the woman's shoulder and now is projecting a stance of cooperation, but now asserting authority, and dominance. She's implying that she's no one ordinary, that she knows things. Things that can help Lydie. 

"If the owner of this shop is indeed your cousin, that makes you a target." The Doctor lays it all out for her, knowing that she's got a long night ahead of her, and if she's going to get a leg up on this killer, she's going to need to turn one tiny lead into a forty-foot rope. "If you assist me, my dear... I promise that I will keep you safe. Only, however, if you are honest with me." The Doctor speaks again, exhaling and finally resting her hands on her coat lapels and standing tall before Lydie, offering so much to a girl she barely knows.

"If you know anything about what might've happened here... you must tell me, child." The Doctor raises an eyebrow, nodding assertively. "I'm perhaps the only one on this entire planet who might be able to do anything about it... and you must trust me on that..." She inhales, "I'm The Doctor, after all... and what do Doctors do, hm?"

HIS MORNINGS , INFINITE. Countless sunrises and endless dawns. Ever did he claim that horizon his own, that whatever kingdom lies just beyond it belonged to him. As it had, so very many centuries ago. But now, newer kingdoms have come to rise in place of his own, and with it, new threats. People who would think of ending his own reign of terror, and this time, perhaps, accomplish it. Keeping that beast of war at bay , again & again. As many times as it would take. But , he is not paranoid. He cannot allow himself to be. That sort of worry has always been a waste of his time.

He'd felt empty when the new Queen ascended the throne , in an earlier time. Such was the Monarchy. A succession aided by birthright , supposed regulations by iron-wrought tradition. Traditions he had seen founded himself. Centuries ago, the man kept to his drink as Elizabeth arose. Fine wines spiked with blood, the news making him smile as be imbibed, albeit cruelly. Another ticking of the clock. The fireplace with its crackling embers, and a servant girl bestowing him with the latest. His plot of land , stolen in plunder by his own hand centuries prior , had the very same deed written in the name of his supposed-ancestors . An ancestral house off of the British coast to which he lay claim to. One of many , of countless , in Europe . Decorated in the relics from the Dark Ages , and some , even older . A rather grand house , lavish & obscure . Here , then , he is known as Alexandre Sauvage in his dealings with the court . Historian , court physician , occultist , hunter . His brides , mysterious vanishing . The servants , their fingertips encrusted with stained , reddened blood as they scrubbed vigorously . Mostly out of fear , some out of duty . Of his appetites , of course , no one questioned . Alexandre , after all , wasn't opposed to lifting one of the halberds off the plaque and run it through someone's chest when suddenly spurned .

HOW MANY YEARS AGO WAS THAT TIME , NOW ? THREE-HUNDRED & THIRTY YEARS . victoria now assumes her role , england belonging to her . the autumn of terror , as it were , the newspapers were calling it . vicious crimes were happening in the east end , a place called Whitechapel . one of the many pits of london's filth , where the destitute cautiously laid their weary heads , their futures uncertain . stomachs & purses , empty . the streets labyrinthine , claustrophobic . children wandering to & fro , in hopes of stealing from a rundown pub for a bite to eat . beating each other for scraps of garbage . and a few women , they say , had a gruesome meeting with a man by the name of jack . torn to pieces . horrific , merciless . but , ever was there misery to be met in the east end , in those days . misery , deeper than the north sea .

he still drinks those same fine wines . and he still spikes it with someone's blood . the warm tinge of iron never leaves his ancient tongue . it is something he relishes deeply in , the devouring of one's own life to imbue his own . their flesh , their blood , their bones , their marrow . his favored delicacy , after all of this time . centuries had gone by , and the house is still in his family name . properly guarded , and rarely left unattended for far too long . a hoard of treasures always needed to be watched , after all . hardly the kingdom of the past , but a plot was a plot ------ and wealth was wealth . another countless , faceless daughter loathes him . another wife wails over the monster who had courted her . fists coiled weak against what war had wrought . aching . the wife is aching , just like how he yearns for her . the sharpened teeth in that abyss of a mouth , twinging .

"how could you be so cruel ?" the woman asks him , unknowingly . a wild , maddened gleam in her eye , roselike lips parting to speak . to say some other than a gnashing scream . something monstrous of her own design as he'd held in her in his great arms . wishing that they'd never met .

the worries of another forgettable wife hardly surfaces in vandal's mind . she had served her only purpose to him , and he had no qualms of what had to be done . perhaps , she would die in the same agony . that is the sort of death vandal savage wants for anyone who crosses him , anyhow . that he would savor every drop of pain twisted out from them . crave the cadence of their screams in his ear . sweet as music .

for should she deem him cruel now , whatever would she think of then ? let alone , tomorrow ?

it hadn't mattered where they were , nor who they really were . all that mattered to him was they were still his . long ago , back from when gloriana herself was reigning , and he was alexandre sauvage . still using the name on occasion , of course , having grown attached to it . still carrying around a set of doctor's tools . some things hardly changed , and there was rarely anyone else around to question it , save for anything that could be written off as hearsay . a rumor .

he doesn't spare the mother .

"No , no , my dear ," Vandal nearly hums to himself . a joyous , deepened sound . The scalpel cuts deep , severing her veins , carving deep through soft flesh . his muscles tensing a moment , if only to turn the blade deeper , snapping a bone beneath his weight . there wasn't a contest to be had . the violence , overwhelming , beast-like . absolutely , wholeheartedly savage . "I doubt that I'm paranoid . I had always likened that type of madness with weakness , as you might've guessed . For what -- " a splash of blood coats the man's scarred face , brutally crimson . " -- Would a man such as myself ever be worried for ? "

and for when is a Savage's work ever finished ? when the blood pools beneath his polished boots , or even higher ? or when the world will know its true king once more ? Vandal doesn't wish to know . the knife screams alive in his hand . wanting . killing .

and next , the younger ones . still of his blood . its primal murmurings coursing through their veins , as if they'd ever know how far back they'd truly reached . "Your legacy shall be my own . Through your ancestor , you shall live on . In ways you've never expected , perhaps. Your minds, too young to comprehend. And your lives, cut short. Sleep , young pups , in knowing that you die for glory." SNAP , SNAP , SNAP . a crushing of such a fragile windpipe , and again , works the knife . horrid in his hands . a man so dreadfully calm in this moment of brutality , ritualistic in his reverence . vandal savage has always killed . it is his name , his very nature .

IN DROWNED VELVET COMES THE DAWN , mixed between painterly skies and gloaming storm . a horse's hooves click quickly atop the cobblestones , slick with a chilled , autumnal rain . heavy fog floats viciously in the morn , the scene made all the more eerie . blinding those morbidly eager to see more , and hiding those who wish to remain unseen . urchins , beggars , pickpockets , and even far , more unsavory folk . lurkers , undesirables , the wretched . and the man known as alexandre sauvage , known to others as vandal savage ( killer , conqueror , emperor ) had yet to be found since . not that anyone had truly known he'd committed such a crime in the middle of the evening , of course . having long fled the scene of the crime , the response was second-nature to him . and the first was the kill . a cruelty he'd indulged in so frequently , the swiftness of his methods was unmatched . inhuman . emptied .

amidst the commotion , she walks alone . the entire road , crowded by police & carriages , curious onlookers . her umbrella opened wide , keeping her shiny , blackened hair from the pelleting , early rain . it had been hours since the attack , a policeman told her before she was asked away , but they still hadn't found the suspect . warned away , the woman , in her early 20s , nodded in understanding , though her own curiosity pierced through her . it always had , as her own father had held many secrets , she believed . a father whom she loathed . her name was Lydie Sauvage , dark of eye & red of mouth . oddly beautiful , but deeply pained . her thin smile , often insincere & withheld . even as she dresses like a baroness , all in jewel tones & corsets , high heels & fur coats . she , in her father's cruelty , had worried that she'd grown to care for so little . had not wished to become any more like him , and had felt nothing but disgust . hatred . creeping , worrying her . whatever wrath that followed with him , she & her mother frightfully endured . and was that any good ? did it make them any stronger for it ?

after the police shooed her off , Lydie knew it was for the best . all it was , was some darkened fascination she'd always catered to . her father's curio cabinets , his dastardly weapons hanging on the wall . and the stories of the men he'd "accidentally" killed in a duel . Lydie swallowed the pungent smell of rot in distaste , heels clicking backwards along the tops of the cobblestones . she knew that downtown was no place for a woman of her stature , but , she'd had an agreement with one of the nearby stores . a recent commission , helmed by her tailor cousin , needed proper measurements & personal style requests in order to be made . normally , either of her parents would handle such affairs , but , Lydie was grown now . her newest dress , she'd argued , was to be her own . her vision .

her skirts swishing just above the fog , Lydie didn't notice . Her mind was still swirling , wondering . Moving too quickly . her appointment … where was it again ? all of those years in her father's carriages , and the streets were just as maze-like as ever . the wicked aura looming nearby ------ the stench of death , buzzing flies , and hurried voices . children crying . the fine hairs on the back of her neck raising against her skin . her umbrella gripped against the leather-clad gloves she wore . the brutal voice of her father . the agonized screams of her mother .

but , someone else was speaking . another woman . a possible witness ? the woman near her was … one she hadn't seen before . Not here . Not dressed in anything that was truly familiar to her , and Lydie couldn't help but stare a moment longer . Stopping , her heels clicking to a halt . "wait , I --- " she pauses . What a strange , few mornings it's been , indeed . Until it finally comes to her , brief and unrelenting . Any of her hopes , gone . A response based solely on emotion . And just whatever could've been the chances ? "that is my cousin's store ! " she called , snapping suddenly , aloud . " someone , please ! let me through !"

[edenspoem]

stuff you up ౨ৎ

aestras thanksgiving smut special

' so who's getting stuffed, you or the turkey? '

HELP PALESTINE . DO NOT BUY TLOU2

♡. summary; fuck the festivities, who actually cares about all that sappy shit. instead, embark a newly founded festivity– fucking your girlfriend up in the dusty memory of your old bedroom~ ♡. a\n; late af as fuck but just a fun little smut, nothing too serious, a bit rushed but here y'all go ♡. CW; groping under the table, fingering (r), clit stim (r), strapping (r), horndog!ellie, dom!ellie, tipsy!ellie, risky sex (joel almost catches u), cock referred as 'her' + referred as ellies, cocktip teasing, ass grabbing, some ass smacking, some plot, jokey bickering, readers a bit bratty, a slight brat-taming moment if you squint, mouth muffling, squirting, petnames; babe, baby, babygirl, princess, good girl, (lmk if i missed anything)

♡ WC; 5.5k ♡ masterlist ♡ thanks 2 @fleshunger 4 proofreading the intro ♡

Paired minds savor the embellishing glow of lit stick candles settled before them in a ritzy manner– shedding light over plates of arraying colors. Marination that glistens, crispness that scrapes, and mushy mesas' of garlic herb potatoes that delicately slump in the cradle of a spoon. Consume with your eyes first, then your cameras– and conclusively, your rumbling tummy. 

Rather to consume what's meant to be, than to gorb the scruffy haired girl next to you– at least for now, yes? 

It's your first Thanksgiving with Ellie, being that you two only linked heartstrings this year.

You, the possibly innocent angel that you are– right now, serve clement smiles to whomever talks to you, be it Joel or some random relative who’s name only just surfed your ears this night, it doesn't matter. De rigueur, wear it well.

A baser mind– I mimic regret while telling you this– tumbles far from the garden of Eden and slips away into a daunting realm, the underworld. By under, I mean downstairs, below the button, the internals. Ellie straight up, served hot, was just bursting with hormones. The tender meat oozing with buttery slick melt fell short in maintaining the contact of those chartreuse eyes, instead, suffering the envy of them rooted to your thighs beneath the oak. 

Noses immerse themselves in salty goodness, eyes feast before gobs could, rolling molars gnaw turkey off the tines of forks, but her, her cunts' the only organ thinking right now.

Especially while seated adjacent to you, her clit was throbbing past the hard material of her jeans.

"You both settlin' in your new apartment?" Joel's bellowed drawl carries over the other muted chatter, low in the background.

"Mhm," your hum slopes and rises behind lips sealed to a glass rim, then part with a smack, "Ellie’s definitely settled more than me." ending with a giggle.

Her ear pivots from you, dirt–dappled nose at the fore, "Oh? What's that 'spose to mean babe?"

"Can't keep your hands off that shiny new Playstation, hmm?" 

"Tchh– you bought it for me." replied her with a skosh of sass.

"That I did."

"Uh–" Joel bumbles.

Els drones out, "Andd all my video games–"

"Where's my thank you?" you pout in frolick, forwarding your face for her view.

Hmph.

Her miffy eyes bounce around her skull hence to piloting back on yours, her own pout puffing, "Okayy, here," she sighs lowly, nosing her lips down to pucker a peck– smacking together.

A shared hum in approval vibrates between the bond of skin, half–approval, a kiss was meager in your book of play, and you felt particularly playful this eve.

With a finished kiss, leaves your mouth to mouth a sneaky little quip, fruitful in a whisper, "Didn't hear a thank you~"

"Hmm?"

"Els.." 

Faces still bathing in transferring warmth, her breath hitches on your mid–face, a sigh to end all worries, "You'll see, just wait." Her voice cracks a bit, silken on your ears.

Waiting wasn't even on the table. 

Not when a brawny hand suddenly gropes your inner–thigh, squeezing the fat in little wags.

Give thanks to whomever, thank fuck for being at the tables edge, where nobody else could witness this.

"Anywho–" Ellie grogs her throat clear of those debaucheries, returning to her normal seated poise, "yeah, like, we're settled– thanks for helpin' us find that place." her pitch heightens, flowing into a nosy chuckle.

"Course, kiddo." softly spoken off Joel’s sentiments, but minding less attention and returning his mouth to something more, toothsome. Foodsome.

Goddess, her grip is mighty.

Devious fingers– they found their way, quick. Fingers such as hers, waxy and pale, rigid and calloused, stamping up your hip and giving firm pressure to the bone. Knuckles flushed of pigment, they dig around the crest wanton, nudging you slightly.

"Seriously?" you spit through grit teeth, wiggling your hips in reaction.

Ellie harks your mutter, tugging those smug corners into a cocky smile as her nervy nature would plant her in, naughty–toothed smile, "Huuh?" that bastard coos, "what's wrong babe?"

"You dickhead." 

"Me, dickhead?"

"Yes, you, dickhead."

"That's a lot of dicks n' heads, what is it with you and dicks n' heads?" she creeps her face closer, squinting dumbly– which only made her onslaught of 'heads and dicks' more peeving now that you really loured at her.

Grimacing at her dense brows queller than a storm, blushy nostrils taunting in a wiggle, it subtly made sense– impish coquetry. The kind of shit you toss like a game of ball, prior to the main event. An event, to be seen.

"Why you givin' me that look, huh?" she squints lower in return, flaring her nose, "Do I have a dick for a head?" 

"I would not kiss you if that were the case," you claim advantage of her closeness and peck her goofish scowl, forcing a crescent to spry on that mouth, "Dork."

Hooks on your hip palpate harsher on the jut, her thumb swiping where the cushion and your butt cleft. Pressure given, when words pique her interest.

"Babe," Els murmured with fry in her chords, "d'ya want it?"

"It?" you gulp.

"Mhm.." thrummed she, eluding, "c'mon, you know.." said with that chilling husk, whew.

Okay, maybe it's clearer–than–a–midsummers–noon clear, that Ellie was a tad tipsy. Pink worm of hers just couldn't resist the samplage of some bourbon, sweet oakey notes that evoke memories of bourbon skies hence, quite the beautifying thought. Skies where you play a shrouded silhouette to her line of sight, tapping thumb to chin in ponder. Ponder, pondering.. for what were you pondering those sunsets?

Yet now you lacked a ponder on whatever the hell she was hinting to, only for it to ferment suddenly.

"Ellie, what are you on–"

"My fingers," a blurt wets her whistle, cocking her head dear to your poor ear, "do you want.. my fingers– in.." you feel her dual digits dive in the crevice of your thigh and groin, curling snugly.

"Ellie.." you hiss, pinching your brows in honest bewilderment.

Her pinkie roves over the bulge of your crotch and punctures the inseam right above your clit, stinging the little bud– which throbbed at her press.

"Do you?" her breath wanes, speech sedated with the aim of persuading you.

Contemplation was considered– maybe too carefully, maybe not. Problem one, legitimately most if not all of your family was within spitting distance of you, but on the other hand, the gutsy hand, weighed her offer slacker than a greedy businessman. In precis, her puppy eyes of coveted sanction, rears triumph. Dickhead.

A caught gulp squeezes down your gullet, puffing your chest out, "Mhm.." 

"Okay.. mhh–" she giggles with husk, creasing up as her lithe fingers trace and wrest your fly open, skulking her hand beneath the hood, "Just focus on dinner baby, I got this.." wisped soft, kindred to cashmere.

The unyielding stretch of your denim fastens around your hips in the act of her palm ramming inside, yanking you forward. Pursing your lips in elated exhales, you try, try to winch meat to mouth and void the tamping of your clit, try as you might– the pleasure is dire.

Ellie’s prints depress a lewd discovery, the stub of her smaller knuckle thickens itself in leaky panty, secreting from your eager hole. A discovery, worth a hushed gasp, "Ooh? Wet already babe? God damn.."

"Shut.. up.." choked you, only reaping a laugh from her.

"Fuck, I do all this?"

"Duh."

"Hehe– fuck that's hot.."

She withdraws her fingers half–way, to slither them under your panties. And without a foraged bit of foreplay, dilates your labia with her furled digits loading inside of you.

A squishy nub brushes your sweet spot.

Your pipes in turn swell with sharp intake, wall of your throat cooling instantly. Fuck, bona fide fuck. Enormously fucked when her pumps wreak gentle squelches from your dewy core.

"Jesus, mhphh.." a gruff of air susurrus from her, starkening her torso in an 'appeasingly normal' angle so she may, blend in, bemusing your mother with small–talk, "So, d'you always have a gathering this big on Thanksgiving?"

Out of all people, really, Els? 

She indulges with a smile, purely answering, "Oh yeah, every year– whole family, too many relative I suppose." fading erratically into a giggle.

"Heh– ‘least you got a big house, shitt– I mean," In spite of sounding casual, slips into a grit curse when your wet walls clench her in, "–dang, what I wouldn't give to live here, right babe?"

A mere butt of her elbow nearly dips you into the waters of appearing– deviant of natural, those slender digits, twisting a tender knot inside. She pumps at a canter, lesser than brisk, swifter than a slug. Beat, beat, beat to your g–spot, akin to the pitter, pitter, pat of your whizzing heart.

"Y–yeah, soo jealous, even though I did as a kid.." laughing it off awkwardly, a bask of 'Please let that be the only time I talk.' relief uplifts your sunk gut, momentarily.

"You still eating well livin' on your own?" your mother queries, tuning that time–old maternal charm.

"I mean, d–decent, enough–"

Ellie thrusts her fingers faster, fashioning a trickle of ooze to froth out onto your underwear. Pacified by the sensations, you clamp tighter, knocking a winded hitch to your staggering speech. Fucking inconvenient. Olives of her eyes binge a glint so bawdy, yet inlaid in a bad case of puppy–face, bullshit purity on her glossy lips. She knew the consequences, and consumed them like nothing.

"Pshh– decent? Babe, please, I'm like the microwave master!" exclaimed she, feigning a biggety tone atop her rasp.

You scoff, "Ah–" shuffling your thighs in light see–saw motions, "again, decent."

The knot squeezes as she finger–fucks the tranquility of mind from your pussy, staring knives at you when her supple thumb drags your clit in flicks.

"Sure it's not good?"

"Mh–mh.."

"Like, really good?"

No way she was referring to the microwave meals anymore.

Your mother intrudes softly, "Honey I can start bringin' you my homemade food if it's not–"

"It's okay, she's just playin' around–" Ellie replies before a vowel can flutter your lips, proceeding to eye–fuck you with a smug visage, "she loves my cooking." she rasped, eyes slimly showing.

All you can spotlight on is her gropey hands, jerking you like some toy, it felt too fucking good. Too pleasant to snuff, too divine to scold, exhilarating to your veins sore with salaciousness. Then, you route back to a ponder, what more could she stipulate? 

"M' gonna go to the bathroom," you swat her hand out and jostle your fly up, netting a coo of amusement from Ellie– secretly.

"You good babe?" she vocalizes after, keeping her pussy–prune digits free of smear.

"Come with me." purred you, hoisting from the oaken chair.

Ellie's lids arise with tangible hots– an aphrodisia densely potent of kindiling her eyes. No anointing of sanctity will ripen her intentions, nor anchor the even throb of her cunt. For a throb is a hymn, to you. She wants you, and she's going to have you. Moments and minutes hence, falter to compare in energy.

Cue her cheek pleating smile.

"Okay–" a light snort prances off her open lips, whirling her lap aside to skim through the tight wedge and stumbling to you, "which bathroom we doin'–"

"Just follow me," your voice aspires over, cusping your hand and snagging her calloused ones in the curve of it, "gonna' show you somethin'."

"Heh–" she chuckles dryly, tailgating with a gentle pull of your forearm.

You two whip around a door nook, glide through the foyer and advance upon a staircase. Your cotton–clad heels stroke wood planks beat by beat, soft wallops that carom off skyscraping maroon wine walls. Ribbons of lunar light dangle on and off your heads, crafting gauzy shrouds that mix and mingle off the corners with a bobbing ascent. Every wall laid reminiscent of a ritzy manor, a lacquer of lavish. 

The flight of stairs then ingress into a much thinner hall, in a much quainter space, and fitted to each doors awaiting enigma. Duller light spills through, glossing the path you took towards a fawny brown door– your bedroom.

Ellie espies the cleave of an abutting door, aiming a bead on with her index, "Wait– isn't that the–"

"Shh," you gingerly rustle air on locked teeth, shifting your arm towards the gilded rotund knob and twining with metal clicks and clacks, "bathroom was just a cover up."

"Oh~" 

"Hmm hm~" you kittenly croon.

The barrier pendulates sideward from your stride, only to be elbowed soundly back to a wisping shut.  You pinch the little knob's notch and, click, lock the door. An amused flit of breath pours from her agape lips, catching your wordless gist bereft of another second.

Ellie thrums that same old rasp, sweetening you up, "Real smooth babe, takin' us up here.." her feet coast her closer to you, kitty–cornering you to a rearwards stumble.

Plaster bumps, a welting sharp ridge– they trench in your ankle and up as your calves butt the wall, inevitably backed up. Trapped, positively trapped. 

"Well–" a scoff enlightens your latter words, "couldn't just stay there with you two fingers deep, hm?" and your 'hm' asks for her agreement, pitch yawing.

"Was 'gonna make it three, but.." 

"But?"

Her head shrouds yours in a gray penumbra, orangey–tint nose a scant whisker from brushing yours, and sends you into a conundrum with a mere utter, a tepid utter, "got uhh', something better for you." tying off with a willed lip bite.

"Oh really?" you moon with pep, hooking a calf around hers.

She smokily coaxes, "Fuck yeah– look." her knotty digits then cruise around her hips, meeting at her denim zipper and tugging that metal tab down. Fleeting as starlight, she thumbs the belt–band and chucks her jeans just beneath the ruck of her asscheek, chafing fabric to fabric with her lax boxers.

A lone brow quirks, expressing the fact that with the way she juts hers hips forward and palms her crotch weirdly– it reared too obvious, "Ellie, don't tell me–"

A springy mass wiggles against the front inseam, held in her teasy tauty grip– veins popping of course, "Tell youu whaat?" her words muff in hoarse laughter.

"Baby.." you exhale, adjoining a whiny moan. Ellie's such a goofy tease.

That simple mass in her crotch, was a sign– a clear, lucid, taintless and foretelling, that you were getting stuffed like a turkey tonight.

In counter, her exhale fuses with yours in dancing particles, so gentle, finer than purity made flesh, "Babe.." and such gentleness caresses your ears, a pureness forgotten in those divinity forsaken puppy eyes– pout moist.

You can't rend your pupils elsewhere, trapped like mice, you gape with encroaching arousal dowsing out your nerves– and drenching down below. Markedly, where you gaze now– her fingers tug the waistband down, exposing the bulbous green head of her cock in her boxers tight band, barely, literal orb of luster dabbled on the tip.

Now your eyes truly cannot escape.

Cotton tenderizes in lines around the bulge, her hand stroking above the shape. And the way you stare, fucks her mind good, speaking throatily, "God," a gulp bubbles, "can't stop starin' hmm?"

"Hehe– couldn't help but wear it?" you snap back.

"Yes ma'am," said off a grunt, pushing said bulge to your curious hand, pleading for a rub, "you gonna' suck her?" soothing is her tone, a breathless moan.

You coo, "Want me to?" and weasel your palm in circles, watching her pelvis follow.

"Uh'huh babe– mhh, need it.." she rolls the hem of her shirt up to her ribs, flaunting that strapping waist– perfectly toned.

Appetent with sure appetite, you nod, a nod that tows her lids down, down.. down, till the green born of her eyes rely on a thin horizon hawkeyeing you. A sliver of sparkle, eager in you. It only takes you dual bends of the knees, stamping chiffony flesh to cold oak and your fingers tucking in her underwear– to excite Ellie.

"Yeah, m'gonna suck her, suck that cock." you mouth in broken vowels, steeping breath on her firm navel pouch.

"Fuck.." she nimbly grunts and tosses her head back, tightening skin on the jounce of her adams apple, swallowing.

Giving tender pressure on her boxers, you slither them netherward until they sojourn atop her bunching jeans fixed above the knee. You swear, those quads of hers clench at your brushing touch, causing your sights to skip up on that dangling cock. Wow. The fat head pokes your nose–tip, curbing up as she cradles its silicone girth to palm.

"Hold uh'," what you expected to be 'up' erupts as a tiny grunt snuffing, eyeing her other hand concealing her lips with a muffled 'puh' to top, "there we go." that hand draws down to smear her spit along the length, squelching mildly.

"Mhh–" you hum shorn of audible sound, batting keen breath on her strap, "–so big.."

You tell her that, everytime. And everytime, she revels in that negligible fact, shutting her eyes in skin–sheathed darkness– pinpointing on how too–too hot that seems. And the way you say it? Oof.

Ellie tacks five fingerprints on your head's crown and coaxes in flits of force, easing you on, "My god, babygirl– oooh.." she relishes an oval–mouthed moan, watching your lips wrap her cockhead.

And it's warmer than anything you've gobbled so far this eve.

Balming a heat like that, tucked in her boxers so neatly and snug– it tickles your gums. Soft and pliant, your lips are, they crease and roll under as you swallow her in, impressing a pit on your tongue when they meet.

"Hhmmm.." you moan a mouthful on the frothed up silicone, dragging your lips back over to motion a bounce of your head.

"I know~" she coos to your bumble, pucking her hips with an equal piston to her pelvis, "them' lips feel goood– fuuckkk.." as if you can feel them, dork.

You clasp her thickness in hooks of your tongue, sending splotches and globs of spit to pool around your oval–ringed mouth, courtesy of her tip bumping your throat in, "Guh- guh, guh, guhh–" prods. 

Ohh, that birdsong. The quaffing of your vocal bands subject to her humps, producing a rhythmic beat to alight her hormones. Your song worthy of hearing. You wimp the swelling sink that her nails wreak, a flicker between cuspate tapering and a meek love– a calling for more.

Enlighten me a morsel of those twisted, dirty thoughts, auburnhead devil.

Leathery wads of her free digits roam hot on your pulping cheeks, chiseling out as you suck. Her fingers then find themselves arcing a tuck behind your ear, thumb printed to your temple. A dash of encourage, she presses, a truer than blue visage, she contorts ran by pleasure. Squelch, suckle, drag spit, and repeat.

Due to your stretching spread of lips taking her well, likeness of a blockade in your mouth, you couldn't speak. Obviously. So over the wish–wash of saliva, Ellie tunes you in with her filthy comments.

"Suckin' my filthy cock.. fuck–" she pauses with a gruff moan, baking in your brain deep, "gonna' make me cum so goood–" her vowel strains, clenching her pussy lips around nothing except the cool, cruel air, "yes.." 

A reed of cold nips your chin, seconds hence realization settles; you're getting sloppy. A manifestation of Els actually fucking your noggin to slosh, wouldn't spark surprise if liquid poured from your cranium at this point.

Her own arousal rots you further down, too.

With the feeling of her cock climbing near hellward down your throat, smacking on the gummy walls, and the husk her moans endure, crucifies your pussy with an ache of want. Fabric of your jeans suffers a beat, your clit, throbbing. It hurts so good and it stings so right, so tight, you need her now.

A faster bob you give, the more Ellie can't take it either. 

"Babe–" she hawks out, but fails to halt your bopping movements, "babe, fuck–" the digits parked behind the conch of your ear skip and push your jaw up, staking her cock out with a spring. 

"Ghh– schhlp, huh?" a chuck of spit muddled your words, unfurled tongue lapping up every web left by your messy, messy mouth.

Nook of her hand like a cusp to your jaw, she beckons you with a nudge, and rasps, "Up– c'mon, n'turn that ass around." 

Ass. Something about that word reverberated in you, bothered you hotly, made a tepidness leak from your cheeks. The rasp she rung it with, eyeing you with twin fern flames for irises– an approaching engulfment to marry your skin with ashen blessing, more consuming. Ass, Ash, haha.

A flutter in your hips spreads like fire across your legs. It weakens the muscle you bend, standing upright challenged resemblant of a feat, especially when Ellie's grabby gropes found purchase in the crevice of your hips, spindling you on a quick axis. It wanes the composure you hold like a goblet, dwindling to shattered shards across the floor, primarily as those bedeviled claws slot under rough woven denim and remove them false of trouble and trick– ruching to nothing at the root of your ankles.

Where happy hubbub clamors downstairs, pleased pandemonium moans upstairs.

A jut of two knobby hip bones thump into each asscheek, denting the skin into a gully. Warmth, a ligature of it rides through your backside, making you shake. Not like her hands would let you tremble, one being so immovably returned to your hip.

"Fuuck that pussy 'been waitin' for me, huh? Can just tell.." mumbles her with vocal fry, pupils ogling bare of shame at your cinched folds, clasping nothing.

"Your fault."

"Oh really?"

"Mhm.." you hum timidly.

"Gonna call me dickhead again, or–" a fat ball teases the dripping lips of your pussy, spreading them slightly and sloshing the skin around, "Is this enough?"

To give way, was a mistake, buckling your pelvis deeper on her cock which faces a grip ardent to shaft– teasing with rolls of her wrist. The cockhead, or literal dickhead, warps and smooshes against your clit as she toys with it. A whiny, "Huuh– Els.." mangles in your larynx, pitching.

"Yeah, you like that? Know you do." that damned smirk lives in her curving tone, sweet with a dash of tang. Her cock dilates your delicate folds further, exposing the velvet flesh to cold air and an intrusive visit. 

Your fiendish pussy kisses her cocktip and ceases its movement, clamping her in place, whimpering, "Mhh, ahh– ah.." 

"Hey, 'lemme go– was just getting started babe," she laughs crisply, landing a fine plume touch to your ass, "c'mon.. loosen up.."

A flux of slacken tires the muscles that clamp her in, hugging your entrance more softly around her tip.

Ellie winches weight on her knees, crouching her groin into you with a slow swerve, "There we go.." she purrs with tension in her tune, relieving a sigh when her cock pops in silkenly.

You seize up, gasping sharply, hips begging to break brittle in her grasp of iron– but iron does not deform easily. Pressure stays pressured, and digits knurl over the hill of your hip bone to prop it upright. With walls expanded on her cock like your pussy was made for her, it humbles you, belittling you to sludge in her metal caress.

"Fuuckk yeah–" she broadens her sigh of bliss, abrading on the 'K', like a crackle. Pleasure kills neutrality in the smoothest way, gathering grooves in her forehead, "y'feel so warm baby.. mhmm–" 

"That's not even your dick.." you half–way give a giggle, suppressing the moans you choke up.

A tense whistle of air sounds from Ellie's nose, a reaction of vague irritation, "Swear to god.." her tongue smacks after and a sudden thrusting of her fat cock catches your mind astray, winding those choked moans out. 

"Uhn– uh fuck, huhh–" you babble.

"Not my dick huh? Who's fucking you? Tell me, fuck– yeah?" Her words warble where skin smacks, wetness palping in obscene squelches. 

Does she really expect you to answer when her cock continually swells your cunt and abuses your g–spot? Yeah. Ellie will fuck the answer from one hole to the other, if she so feels compelled to.

But of course, you don't answer.

"Baaabeee," she taunts, "baabyyyy," and tortures, "who she getting fucked by right now, tell mee.." and fucks, cooing purer than vernal spring washed in the rain, mushing globs of pre–cum all over your cervix.

"Y-you.."

"That's right."

This feels almost violating to your vagina, to be stuffed like this. Did she size up? Get a new strap? Whatever the case presents itself as, it felt fucking good. Made you woozy, each bop she played like a drum on your sore ass, summoning a white ring of creamy sap to veil around her cock's girth. White droplets failed to envelop her cock, though, each jiggle of your muck bodies lashing beads of it onto the oak boards, your thighs, her pretty auburn bush, etcetera. Attempting to grab the wall, duh– that fails, then you scramble jittery digits across said wall, awkwardly finding a rigid door trim to grasp at long last– speak of the devil, Ellie laughs at that.

"Haha– aww, too big for you princess?" she utters to you like a dumbass, ego brimmed with the pumps her cock skids on your gummy walls, smirking with thinned lips.

Vulnerability loathes humility, "Fuck y–you."

"Sure."

Her perception of sight, harboring verdancy, drops low to your bulging hole that swallows her good– as you should, tender milk that pools inwards as she slides out, and froths a flood of slick when she humps it back to the same hole it spilled from. 

Might she indulge more sampling?

Ellie's hell–sworn index traces your swelling folds mellowly, togging a cap of pearly cum on her finger pad. Scrutinize, then she licks. Her peach lips kiss her finger softly, puckering wrinkles as she sucks the sleek off, "Sssmhpt–" her lips zip, "yeah–ha, that's what 'm taking about–" delighted, she is.

The knot in your womb begins to coil and fill, a rapturous sting impaling inside. Your folds, springing on her friction, sends a ripple to fluctuate in your ass cheek. Enticing. So enticing, Ellie grabs a handful, bloating fat strokes of your buttcheek between the webs of her delirious fingers.

"Ghh– yes.. yes–" she growls, deep in her lungs. The harness in return rubbed her clit in all the right ways, electrocuting her legs with a twitch, "arch that bsck f'me baby, c'mon– arch on my fuckin' cock–" 

Harking her, you heed. Heed with a convex draw of your back, protruding your ass out for her messy usage. That– that was the last straw, her only straw. You being so keen. Something less than a mutter of, "Good girl." was the last audible voice you could pick up, her game swapping to a faster ramming into your sloppy pussy.

"Ellie!" you wince, praying on a star, "So g–good.." you gape and fall forward, smearing slobber on the drywall.

Her cock was too much. 

A tear soaked upon that very wall, gifting it a taste of your salty heaven.

"Mhmm– god, fuck fuck fuck! You're so good, s'good t'me.." a breath shuddered, she limps forward onto you. Her pale hips still punishing with a litany of humps, now scores deeper on your gushy cervix, her drenched chest marking hot on your clothed back.

"Needa' cum– Els, babe.." why you were even asking, might flummox a future specter of yourself– purling on her thickness, feeling the endless tension pull from you in strings of cum, kissing the head of her cock, you were on the train track to cumming already. Dumbified questions really egged Ellie on, luckily.

"Yeah baby, want'chu to– all over her, she needs it, mhm–" she assures you, two foam–spit lips stamping your lobe, "feel that baby?" her elbow mounts like a belt to your hip crest, ducking under and tamping your womb, palm to pudge, and intones, "She's so fucking deep– shit.." 

Spade of her cock punching your walls, over and over, you finally snap. The added hand to your belly, sought it done. Done well, pronto. 

You convulse in tight vices to squeeze her dick, orgasm shaking you to the literal core, "Huunhh– Ellie, Els! Ssuhh– Ell–" a clammy paw wedges your mouth from splitting the walls with your uproar, fingers tender on your lips cushion.

"Shh– shh.. not so loud babe, take it easy–" snuffing you, she talks clemently, little grunts detailing you on how close she was, too, "that's it.. don't hold back baby– uh, fuck."

Her cock fucks you just right, blows you fried so easily, with every heavy lunge– you weep.

A pang twisting inside averts a sightly gaze to the beautiful coastline of darkness, pure oblivion. Fuzzy dollops of faded splotches prance your vision like a sick joke, mocking your high. You can't even croak, not even a peep, just sit back and let cum dribble from your hole, plashing her filthy cock in a sick mess.

Right on a dream–like cue, a snarled groan mauls from the deepest depth of her diaphragm, fresh on your ear, "Ghhodd– fhmm, good fuckin' pussh– mhh!" 

Splash.

Her lids squinted tight, nose flared wide, she came. In waterfalls you couldn't observe, but swore you heard. A geyser to the floor, hyaline ribbons of her precious flavor taint the floor so disgustingly, so vividly, it shines.

Guess the wine loosened both of her lips.

She usually does not cum like that.

Damn.

Muggy exasperation fans your neck in ghostly hands that wrap, a recalescent mist baying for some kind of relief in dramatic swells and shrinks her chest pushes into you. Then, something moreso flobbed, a chuckle.

"Heheh–" her fingers slip from your lax lips, tapping kittenly on your chin.

"That's was, mhh– um–" you huff, dead of air just like her.

"Good?"

"Yup, just– couldn't.. oof.." 

Her lips purse and plant a kiss to your scruff, grinning against the flesh, "Did good for me," moist smacks besmirch further, rasping, "felt so good t–"

A beating of hardy steps peals through the door's underside, sending a wash of shock over both of you abruptly.

"Fuck." Ellie's voice muffles sotto voce, darting grips to your folded hips, thumbs tacking on the streched knoll your ass provided.

You perk your ears in tune of this noise, gut instinct curls and kicks your body to move, bucking back on Els– who mind you, was still sheathed inside you.

That knocked another grunt from her, "Hmmph– don't do that– god, babyy.." she whines, runting back into you.

Hole stuffed back up, you clench your fists into a ball. This idiot.

"Ellie? You in there?" A familiar, dense, Texan drawl aptly known as Joel's, beacons from beyond the door.

That's bad.

"Shit what do I–"

"Get off, for onee–" a tense on your chords, you huff, bucking her muck sweat thighs off your hind and skidding out her cock pronto. The sudden emptiness was jarring, but, no time to waste.

"Fuck! Again–" she hisses.

You crouch your bare bum inches from the floor and swoop up the pooling pile of denim and cotton panties, rearing them up and fiddling with the metal button. Ellie followed suit, the best of her abilities– sex really fogs up her faculties, and pressed her cock plumb to her stomach as to tuck it properly her boxers, letting the band snap in place on waist– gently.

Triple knocks erupt, and then his bellow, "Kiddo?"

"We're good, we'll be down!" she calls back, eyes far from not studying your scurrying silhouette, just has to comment, "–fuck that ass." like she wanted more.

A grumbled 'Hmm' vibrates on the oak, trailed by fleeting footsteps that trudge away, thump, thump– you get it.

"Oh?" you kink your whisper, foxily, "second rounds?" and pivot around to face her.

"Mphht– not what I meant, dickhead." her voice deepens weirdly at the brink her sentence plonked upon, cocking her head with a smirk.

"Whatever." your eyes roll, capering off the room's corners.

"Hmph–" gruffed in amusement, "Cutie." gingerly steps huddle you right against that wall again, two biceps meeting warmth–to–warmth with your soaken shirts waistline.

Scoff, just scoff, "I think this is how second rounds start, liar." 

She goes all bumbly, furrowing those bushy orange brows and frisking her eyes in a roll, copycat, "Don't get me started, pleasee." she begged fakely, cadence dense.

"Too late."

"You're right." her lips, wisp to yours so perfectly timed, interlocking one pink bud under your top lip and butting noses, plushing together in tide. Even plopped a little smack to the clad meat of your ass, how sweet.

A scant hint of dinner lingered on her breath, passed to you like a spill. Makes you want to slink those stairs in one go for a different palate of seconds. But, alas, you two bet smooches on the hope of no further interruptions, scarfing up kisses like hungry dogs.

(pls lmk if u wanna be added to the perm list, some mentions didnt work!)

@whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss

[woodland-gremlin]

Lemons? Pt. 2 (Adoption AU)

Here's the first part:

Dick took another deep breath while leaning against the cool metal that made up most of the watchtower. As much as he appreciates puns and how much easier it will be to track down these kids' villain relatives with a last name he still feels a bit weak in the knees with these revelations being thrown out one after another. They talk about it so casually and that makes him sick to his stomach. Potential villain grandparents, their terrifying weapons that disregard ethics, and apparently weapons that make the one they mentioned seem tame in their eyes. All of that speaks of those kids going through something they shouldn’t have had to.

“Is that how Dad got his terrible naming sense?” the first voice asked, dragging Dick out of his depressing thoughts.

“Huh,” Ellie huffed out, “Never thought of that.”

“Tt. It is likely that it is a biological disposition if you consider the naming sense of those that share his species alongside the Fenton genes. Now cease this needless drivel and assist me with returning home.”

The more words that come out of these kids' mouths, the more Dick just wants to disregard any stealth and poke his head through the door’s opening so he can bundle them up in a bunch of blankets. Maybe ask a few questions about their dad and ask them how they would feel about being adopted by a billionaire. He is sure Bruce wouldn’t mind, even if they, or even just their dad, weren’t fully human from what they have said.

“Alright Dami,” said the first voice with the sound of something being shuffled in the background. “Though-” before they could continue the sound of something tearing cut them off.

“Wulf!” one of the kids cried with joy.

Before Dick could begin to panic and do something about a wolf of all things somehow getting into the watchtower the kids began to speak again.

“Wulf, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Dami said softly as if he was looking at a cute puppy.

“Yeah, and you have perfect timing too!” The first voice cheered.

“Just don’t tell Dad, okay?” Ellie asked.

A gruff voice replied in a language Dick has neither understood nor ever heard before.

“Oh come on,” Ellie groused, “It’s no big deal. No one even saw us.”

The new person just replied in the same strange language.

“All right, all right.” Dick could practically hear Elle roll her eyes while she continued to grumble, something about causing a prison riot and breaking out?!?

The sound of feet shuffling and zipping was all he heard before it became silent.

After a minute of silence Dick peeked into the meeting room which he previously heard the kids in only to find it devoid of anyone. A lemon lying on the floor being the only evidence that he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

Note: Dick later checks out the security footage of where the kids were only for the footage to be full of static for the whole encounter.

[artdcnaldson]

ok so like jumping back in time a bit, before they start fucking. but a little while ago we were talking about mean art pinching pats sisters nose closed while fucking her face, and you'd written something in the tags about her watching videos online to learn to give head. WOOF!!! got me thinking, thinking thoughts, brewing something up. i think art would be asking her how shes gotten so much better suddenly, while fucking her face of course. has she been slutting herself out or something? TIHI possessive art is so hot and sexy!!!!!

he nearly cums right there when she tells him shes been practicing for him, with the pink sparkly dildo he knows she has. the mere thought of her alone in her room sucking on a big piece of rubber for his sake? to make this feel better for him? oh shes such a slut for him, the sheer devotion makes his heart swell just a little bit, before hes groaning deeply and pushing her back down further. she tells him she's watched videos to learn what guys like, for inspiration. and it sparks something in him, an idea...

it started innocently enough considering the circumstances, a link sent to her one night when he was away for a match in a different city. she didnt even really consider reading the link before she had pressed on it. porn. he had sent her porn. surely a mistake? surely this was meant for patrick or something? weird as that was, it would make more sense than him sending it to her. she texts him back like, "upsie think you meant to send that to someone else!!, no worries tho <3". she doesnt want him to be embarrassed for mixing up conatcts!! he just replies, "no. for inspiration." shes confused for a minute before it clicks, he wants to do this with her, whatever the video is, its something they'll be doing together. which means he's thinking about her while hes gone :)

slowly it progresses from relatively tame, a girl with fingers stuffed so far down her throat shes gagging around them, girls bent over laps getting spanked, hands tied to headboards... further out there than they had been before, but still not anything too extreme. but slowly he sends her things that are always just a little more fucked up than the last. he for sure sends her stepcest porn... i will never forget the fauxcest moment, it was very special to me. people fucking in bathrooms of parties or restaurants. meanwhile shes thinking, "he wants to take me to a restaurant and have dinner with me". she just wants so badly to be wanted, and this feels like he is thinking about her all the time.

i do think this would also be before he fucks her anal and before the racket. maybe this is kind of how he introduces the ideas to her? manipulating her, normalizing it for her before he suggests it to her.

hhhmmm yummy...

-🐞

Hngngnnggg

Exactly like. You’re all pretty, laid out between his legs, sucking his cock to “celebrate” after he performed well in a tournament. His hand is in your hair but he’s not even having to really guide you at all, you’re not even gagging on him as much as you used to.

He groans as you take him down to the hilt, when he reaches down and feels the bulge of his cock in your throat. You blink, all half-lidded and hazy, small puffs of air expelling from your nose as you breathe. He feels your tongue slip from between your lips, feels you licking at his balls, and he has to pull you off of him by your hair so he doesn't cum immediately.

“How the fuck did you get so good at this, huh?” He asks once you’ve released him from your mouth with a wet plop. Your lips are so swollen, wet and shiny as they twitch into a tiny smile.

"I practiced," you say, almost shyly, if that's even possible anymore. "I have this, uh... toy, that I use. I wanted it to be good for you."

And christ, that mental imagine is fucking enough as is, isn't it? Pretty lips wrapped around a silicon cock like a popsicle, forcing it deeper and deeper until your eyes water and you gag, making yourself work through it until it's second nature. God, he wonders if you fuck yourself with it once you've wetted it with your mouth, if your poor little cunt gets weepy when you practice sucking cock for him.

He forces his cock into your throat, deeper and deeper as he listens to the sloppy pathetic noises as he fucks into the wet heat of your mouth. God, you must’ve watched so much porn to teach yourself how to give a good blowjob— he can see it in the way you keep your gaze locked on his, eyes half-lidded and darkened with lust. How he feels you moaning around his dick like you’re getting off on the way he’s using you.

He cums down your throat and you swallow everything he gives you with a pretty smile. Give a few soft licks to the sensitive head of his cock, then smile up at him like you’re pleased with yourself.

It’s literally that night that he sends you the first link. He just can’t stop thinking about you trying to find inspiration and guidance from shitty porn websites, he wants to give you some more <3 Stuff he likes. He likes thinking about you touching yourself to it, desensitizing yourself to kinkier things as he introduces you. The first video isn’t even that bad— just a bit of gagging on fingers, some guy fucking a girl with his fingers fishhooked in his mouth so she gets all drooly and sloppy.

You practice timidly— hooking your fingers in your cheek like he shows in the video while you’re playing with yourself. It aches a little, but it’s not crazy. You wouldn’t mind letting him do that. Sure enough, the next time you fuck, he has you on all fours with his fingers shoved in your mouth— messy and drooly and muffling your pathetic little moans as he bullies his cock into your tight little pussy. And god, he swears you’re tighter like this, when you’re submitting to what he wants, when you let him do whatever he wants to you.

So he ups the stakes a little. Shows you things that make you get all embarrassed about when you think about actually doing it. Spanking piques your interest, so does bondage, the total submission of it all. Maybe for things like that he’s there with you, and you’re laid against his chest, his fingers are playing with your pussy, getting you so, so wet while you watch. Making sure you take it all in before he has you act it all out for him.

You get so wet, grinding up against his fingers because you need more— because you’re greedy. You’re watching porn where the girls are treated like toys and you’re drooling for it— dripping messy and needy onto his fingers, onto the bedsheets. He kind of wants to push your limits, to see how far things could go, but he doesn’t… yet.

You do drip for him when he bends you over his lap, when he spanks your ass until it’s stinging and aches and your eyes are all teary when you tell him it hurts so bad. He stops, but he’s consumed by the desire to see how far he could take things, to see what your limits are. Maybe some other time, when you know what a safeword is and you understand the game he wants to play. But even then, the thought of having that much control over you is intoxicating— maybe he shouldn’t have it.

He rewards you for taking the spanking so well with his mouth on your pussy— lapping at your soaked, swollen cunt until you’re cumming onto his tongue. He could live between your thighs, spend his entire life chasing the taste of your juices, the feeling of your pussy pulsing around the intrusion of his tongue. You’re a mess of spit and cum by the time he’s finished with you— your poor little clit overstimulated and twitching. But still, you take his cock. Soft and warm and pliant for him, so fucking perfect.

And you love it, don’t you? You love pleasing him like this, keeping him happy by doing what he wants. He always wants you, there’s no other girl he’s doing this with, no one else he’s thinking about when he’s jerking off. You’re like a muse in that way. Besides, there’s nothing he could show you that you’d turn away from, nothing he would do that would ever hurt you. You trust him, so it’s okay. You love Art, and this is just his way of showing you he loves you back, because of course he can’t say it.

—————

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LADYBUG ANON WE LOVE U <3

[flowerandblood]

Archmaester Gyldayn's Chronicle

The Price of Pride Chapters from 1 to 8

Archmaester Gyldayn's chronicle combines information gathered by Septon Eustace and Mushroom concerning what happened after Prince Aemond ordered the abduction of Daemon Targaryen's eldest daughter with his first wife, Rhea Royce. As is common in history, lies and truth become one.

Previous part ➽ Next part ➽

Sources disagree on when exactly Prince Aemond ordered the abduction of his cousin — Septon Eustace believed it was an attempt to repair his image in the eyes of his family after the murder of Lucerys Velaryon, Mushroom, however, argued that the Prince desired her for himself out of sheer vanity, displeased that he had to marry the daughter of a mere Lord. This is how Septon Eustace described her arrival in the Keep:

The guards were surprised by the calmness and dignity with which she endured the discomforts of her cell — apparently this also impressed the young Prince, for although cool and mocking in his manner, he appreciated her steadfast character and attitude by assigning her one of the chambers. King Aegon received his cousin with joy and treated her as a member of his family. “Our family has forgotten you,” the ruler was to say when she was presented before him, “and I am deeply sorry for it.”

Mushroom, however, believed that the story had been falsely presented in a light favourable to King Aegon and his brother, maintaining that Prince Aemond had taken his cousin by force on the very first day, delighted by her beauty. According to reports, just after the act was over, the Prince was to say to his guards that he was surprised that she was a maiden.

Whatever might be the truth, the familiarity between the Prince and his cousin did not escape the gaze of the court, and their solitary expedition to the Vale together only furthered the rumours about the nature of their relationship. The fact is that the pair returned victorious, flying on their dragons over King's Landing.

Eyewitnesses recounted seeing Vhagar and another large, terrifying dragon flying side by side in the skies — a few days later, Sheepstealer was circling alone with his Lady during a patrol, his shadow causing fear and panic among the commoners.

Mushroom mentions the reaction in Dragonstone to the news that Princess Rhaenyra was not the only one who was trying to consolidate her position in the war with the help of dragon seed.

The Rough Prince, when word was passed to him that his daughter had tamed the mighty dragon sat down in his chair, hid his face in his hands and wept. “You have abandoned her and she will take revenge,” his wife told him, “we will all pay for how cold your heart is.”

The Prince's lone expedition with an unmarried woman aroused envy in his betrothed, Borros Baratheon's daughter, Floris, who came to the Red Keep demanding an explanation. Septon Eustace describes the events in detail:

Lady Floris was received with honours by the Prince himself, who walked out to greet her — they were seen strolling together through the corridors of the keep, walking hand in hand. During the evening feast, Borros Baratheon's daughter loudly expressed her displeasure and insulted a royal relative.

“I did not know that you look so ordinary, my Lady,” she was to say, referring certainly to the dark hair and eyes of her betrothed's cousin, for which the Prince was to rebuke her in front of everyone. “Jealousy does not suit you,” he was to reply, humiliating his betrothed “just as the gown you are wearing.”

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed when Lady Floris assaulted Prince Aemond's favourite in one of the corridors, hitting her on the back of her head with a candlestick in a rage of jealousy. The Prince's fury was great and he ordered her to leave the keep immediately, himself spending the entire night at his cousin's bedside.

While Mushroom confirms that Floris came to King's Landing demanding an explanation, he depicts recent events as having taken place completely differently.

When Lady Floris walked into her betrothed's chamber, intending to wish him a good night and place a kiss on his lips, she saw to her despair the bare bodies of her Prince and his cousin in a tight, hot embrace. The servants said they did not notice the poor girl for some time, absorbed in their own pleasure.

Floris Baratheon left the Red Keep the next day drenched in tears. When she returned to Storm's End, according to Mushroom, her father was furious.

Lord of Storm's End rose from his stone throne, calling his daughter a foolish goose. “For centuries men have had wives and mistresses — a wise woman knows which is more important. You could have been a princess, and you will be a nobody.” Despite his desire for revenge, after what happened to Lucerys Velaryon, Lord Baratheon dared not put up any real resistance to the One-Eyed Prince.

The betrothal between Prince Aemond and Lady Floris was broken with no effect on the alliance, and from that point onwards it was certain that the Prince began to take his cousin to his bed. Septon Eustace depicted their fiery affection as follows:

The young Prince became inflamed with affection for his cousin, appreciating her wisdom, courage and sincerity. Rejected by his father and suffering through the sins of his past, he sought solace in her person, spending whole nights in her company. Out of respect for her, he did not take her maidenhood, simply enjoying her presence, spending long hours discussing history, philosophy and poetry.

Mushroom is not so lenient in his assessment of their intimacy, leaving no illusions as to what was taking place behind the closed doors of the chamber:

The guards recalled loud moans of pleasure coming from the Prince's chamber every night. It is said that Prince Aegon desired his brother to share her sweet, shapely body with him; however, Prince Aemond, being a vain and jealous man, refused him, telling him to return to his own wife, for which Prince Aegon was later to take lavish revenge.

Previous part ➽ Next part ➽

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Hook Man | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, mentions of religious trauma/parental abuse

Word Count: 4869

A/N: Guys. We hit a bit of a milestone earlier in the week. Just wanted to say in celebration that I am so beyond grateful for all of your love and support. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! Giving big big kisses to all of you!!! Taglist is open!!

Edit: Hey.... I suck I forgot to add the taglist when I published. So sorry!!! fixed now!!!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You and Dean were sat at an outdoor cafe; coffee cups in hand. He was clacking away at his laptop while you wrote in your journal. You wrote your excerpt on the shapeshifter next to a drawing of Dean’s necklace. 

“Is that…?” Dean asked, pointing to your journal.

You nodded. 

“I didn’t know you could draw,” he said.

“No offense, lovebug, but you don’t know much of anything about me,” you retorted.

He scoffed. “Will you take the compliment and be quiet?”

“I didn’t hear a compliment,” you giggled. “Well, maybe in ‘Dean Winchester Land’ it was a compliment.”

“Oh, shut up,” he responded playfully. 

Sam hung up the payphone he was standing in and came back over to your table.

“Your, uh, half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin’ cold over here, Francis,” Dean jabbed at his brother.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you told him.

“So, anything?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam huffed. “I had ‘em check the FBI’s Missing Persons Data Bank. No John Does fitting Dad’s description. I even ran his plates for traffic violations.”

“Sam, I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t think Dad wants to be found.”

Sam looked disappointed.

“Check this out.” Dean turned his laptop around to you and Sam. “It’s a news item out of Planes Courier. Ankeny, Iowa. It’s only about a hundred miles from here.”

“Thank god, a short trip,” you sighed. 

“ ‘The mutilated body was found near the victim’s car, parked on 9 Mile Road,’ “ Sam read from the article.

“Keep reading.” Dean nodded at his laptop.

“ ‘Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer. The sole eyewitness, whose name has been withheld, is quoted as saying the attacker was invisible.’ “

That last line caught your attention. “Could be something interesting.”

“Or it could be nothing at all,” Sam protested. “One freaked out witness who didn’t see anything? Doesn’t mean it’s the Invisible Man.”

“But what if it is? Dad would check it out,” Dean responded.

***

The one hundred mile drive concluded with the boys dropping you off at a sorority house. 

“Remind me why I have to play barbies for the week again?” you asked.

“Because this is Lori Sorensen’s sorority house; the witness from the killing,” Sam replied.

“Great,” you mumbled.

“Have fun making s’mores and singing campfire songs,” Dean remarked.

“Bite me,” you snarked. “You’re going to a frat, though, Steve McQueen, so I wouldn’t be so cocky.” 

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he grumbled. 

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” you said and shouldered your duffel bag. You bid them goodbye and reluctantly marched up to the door of the sorority house.

A girl with long, dark curls opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “Can I… help you?”

“Yeah, I’m (Y/N),” you explained. “I’m your sorority sister from Ohio State. Do you guys have an extra bed I could sleep in? I just transferred here.”

“Sure,” she grinned. “I’m Taylor, by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

She led you inside and introduced you to Lori Sorensen. She was a sweet girl; very naive and a little stuck-up. Taylor seemed a little more like a party girl, but still relatively tame. You decided you could gel with these girls for the time being. 

They told you they were headed to Sunday service at Lori’s father’s church and invited you to go with them. You obliged.

In the middle of the introductory rites, you heard the heavy church door slam shut. Your head swiveled to find Sam and Dean frozen and looking guilty. You scoffed amusedly and rolled your eyes, turning your attention forward for the rest of the service. 

Taylor invited you and Lori out to a party after the service, but Lori said she couldn’t. Her father had dinner with her every Sunday since her mother passed away. She and Taylor hugged and Taylor bid you goodbye before heading off.

Sam and Dean came over to you and Lori.

“Guys!” you said excitedly. “Sam, Dean, this is Lori.” You introduced her to them. “They’re my friends from Ohio. They transferred with me.” 

“I saw you inside,” she told them.

“We don’t wanna bother you. We just heard about what happened and…”

Dean cut his brother off. “We wanted to say how sorry we were.”

You knew where this was going; he was cruising for another hookup.

“I kind of know what you’re going through,” Sam broke back in. “I-I saw someone..get hurt once. It’s something you don’t forget.”

Lori nodded slightly. Just then, her father came up to your group.

“Dad, um, this is Sam, Dean, and (Y/N). They’re new students.”

Dean shook the reverend’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say, that was an inspiring sermon.”

“Thank you very much,” he smiled. “It’s so nice to find young people who are open to the Lord’s message.” 

“Yes, sir,” you replied and began leading him away from Sam and Lori. “Actually, we’re looking for a new church group…”

***

Later that day, you and the boys were sitting together in the local library. Sam relayed to you what Lori had told him about the passing of the guy she was with.

“So, you believe her?” Dean asked him.

“I do,” he nodded.

“Yeah, I think she’s hot, too.” Dean smirked at him. 

“You think almost everything with a vagina and legs is hot, Dean,” you remarked.

“Not you,” he jabbed back, still smirking.

You clutched a hand to your chest. “I’m hurt, you dick.”

He rolled his eyes at you.

“Can we focus, please?” Sam broke in. “There’s something in her eyes. And listen to this: she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car.”

“Wait, the body suspended? That sounds like the—”

 Sam cut you off. “Yeah, I know, the Hook Man legend.” 

“That’s one of the most famous urban legends ever,” Dean added. “You don’t think that we’re dealing with the Hook Man.”

“Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began,” said Sam.

“Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?”

“Well, maybe the Hook Man isn’t a man at all. What if it’s some kind of spirit?” 

You had the librarian bring over boxes of arrest records. The three of you poured through pages upon pages for hours. 

“Hey, check this out. 1862,” Sam said finally. “A preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes. Uh, right here, ‘some of the deceased were found in their bed, sheets soaked with blood. Others suspended upside down from the limbs of trees as a warning against sins of the flesh.’ “

“Get this, the murder weapon?” Dean was looking at another page. “Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident. Had it replaced with a silver hook.” 

You pointed to a page in Sam’s book. “Look where all this happened. Nine Mile Road.”

“Same place where the frat boy was killed,” Sam chimed in. 

“Nice job, Dr. Venkamen and Annie Potts. Let’s check it out,” the older brother quipped.

The three of you headed to Nine Mile Road. Dean parked off the road in a clearing in the woods. He popped the trunk and handed Sam a shotgun. “Here you go.”

“If it is a spirit, buckshot won’t do much good,” Sam said.

“Yeah, rock salt. It won’t kill ‘em. But it’ll slow ‘em down.” Dean led the three of you through the clearing. 

“That’s pretty good. You and Dad think of this?” 

“I told you. You don’t have to be a college graduate to be a genius.”

“Cool it, Winchester. You and your daddy aren’t the first people to think of rock salt bullets.” You loaded your own gun with shells of your own.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“They’re a bitch to roll,” you said.

“Oh, one hundred percent,” he remarked. 

You suddenly heard rustling in the bushes.

“Over there,” you whispered to Sam. The two of you aimed your guns and cocked it. 

The “ghost” came out from behind the trees. A sheriff. 

‘Dammit.’

“Put the gun down now!” he yelled. “Now! Put your hands behind your head.”

“Wait, wait, okay!” Dean told him. 

You immediately dropped your gun and put your hands up.

“Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it! On your knees!”

You three obeyed.

“Now get down on your bellies,” he commanded. “Come on, do it!”

“Are you just on a power trip or something? ‘Cause— ah!” you were cut off by a sharp kick to the shin from Sam. 

The sheriff brought the three of you into the station. It was early the next morning by the time you were able to leave.

“Saved your asses!” Dean jeered. “Talked the sheriff down to a fine. I am Matlock.”

“How was it that you were left in charge of talking him down?” You raised a brow at him. “And how in the fuck did you do it?”

“Sweetheart, this may surprise you, but I’m good at my job. And I told him Sam was a dumbass pledge, you were his girlfriend we’d dragged along, and we were hazing you.”

You and Sam both recoiled at the idea of dating each other.

“First of all, ew,” you started, “No offense, Sam.”

“None taken.”

“But what about the shotguns?”

“I said that you were hunting ghosts and the spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know, typical Hell Week prank.”

“And he believed you?” you asked incredulously.

“Well, Sam looks like a dumbass pledge.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You stuck your tongue out at Sam.

Moments later, several officers ran out of the building to their cruisers. Barely needing to share a look with the boys, you hurried into the car and sped away to follow them.

You could see Lori wrapped in a disposable blanket in front of the sorority house you were staying in. You weren’t exactly sure what was going on, but you had no doubt that it was another murder. The stretcher carrying a body bag rolling out of the front door affirmed that thought seconds later.

Dean parked the Impala around the back of the house. 

“Why would the Hook Man come here?” Sam asked as the three of you crept around the building. “This is a long way from Nine Mile Road.”

“Maybe he’s not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it’s about something else,” Dean suggested. 

You pulled his arm back seconds later to avoid being seen by your “sorority sisters.” You used the fact that you had now pretty much pulled yourself in front of him to allow you to lead the way up to the second floor. 

While Dean made a stupid joke about a naked pillow fight, Sam was busy giving you a boost before climbing up himself. You looked back down at the ground to see Dean struggling to find his footing.

“Need help?” you smirked.

“No,” he grumbled.

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

You waited patiently, leaning your head in your hands on the railing of the balcony and smiling down at him. He struggled for a few more moments before he conceded. All he did was open and close his hand he was extending upwards, similar to a toddler asking to be picked up.

“What’s the magic word?” you sing-songed.

“Come on!” he hissed. “Please?”

“There we go,” you smiled. You dug your heels into the ground and pulled him up.

You then realized the window you were entering was the one in Lori and Taylor’s closet. You hoped to god in that moment that Taylor wasn’t the one dead.

Your fears were realized, however, when you entered Lori and Taylor’s room to find the words “Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?” crudely etched into the wall above Taylor’s blood soaked bed. You didn’t exactly get attached to people on hunts, but seeing good people die was never easy for you. It didn’t get easier. Your dad would call you soft, but you always liked to look at your compassion as a strength.

“ ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?’ That’s right out of the legend,” Sam whispered.

“Yeah, that’s classic Hook Man all right.” Dean tapped his nose as he spoke. “It’s definitely a spirit.”

“Yeah, I’ve never smelled ozone this strong before,” Sam muttered.

“(Y/N), you okay?” Dean asked you. 

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. Fine. It’s just… look at this symbol.” You were referencing the one beneath the writing. “Does that look familiar to you?”

Your head jerked toward the sound of footsteps approaching. You quickly shooed Sam and Dean back into the closet and out of the house. Thankfully, you made it back to the car without being seen. You pulled the copy you’d made at the library of one of the pages on Jacob Karns out of the backseat. That was where you had seen the cross symbol; on Karns’s hook. 

You showed it to the boys. “Told ya.”

“Alright, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down,” Dean said.

Sam took the page from your hand. “ ‘After execution, Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an Old North Cemetery. In an unmarked grave.’ “ He flicked the page with his finger, looking aggravated; as were you and Dean.

“Super,” the older brother muttered.

“Ok. So we know it’s Jacob Karns. But we still don’t know where he’ll manifest next. Or why,” Sam pointed out.

“I could just be spitballing here, but Lori definitely has something to do with it,” you said, looking up at the sorority house.

***

You managed to get into a party at the fraternity house Sam and Dean were staying in later that night. Dean had been busy mingling with thin college girls dressed in mini skirts while Sam stuck to the outside wall. You bounced around from talking to Sam and hustling some of the drunk frat guys in multiple rounds of pool.

The three of you reunited around the pool table you’d been dominating that night.

“Man, you’ve been holding out on me,” Dean told Sam. “This college thing is awesome!” He smiled and winked at a passing girl.

Sam looked intensely uncomfortable. “This wasn’t really my experience.”

“Let me guess. Libraries, studying, straight A’s?”

Sam nodded. You chortled.

“What a geek. Alright, you do your homework?” 

“Yeah. It was bugging me, right? So how is the Hook Man tied up with Lori? So I think I came up with something.” Sam unfolded a piece of paper. 

“1932. Clergyman arrested for murder. 1967. Seminarian held in hippie rampage,” Dean read.

Your eyebrows knitted together.

“There’s a pattern here,” Sam explained. “In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality. And then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out— get this— with a sharp instrument.”

“What’s the connection to Lori?” Dean asked.

“Her dad. Man of religion who openly preaches against immorality,” you pointed out. “Maybe this time, though, instead of saving the whole town, he’s just trying to save his kid.”

“Reverend Sorensen,” Dean tsked. “You think he’s summoning the spirit?”

“Maybe it’s like when a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place,” you suggested.

“Yeah, the spirit latches onto the reverend’s repressed emotions, feeds off them, yeah, okay.”

“Without the reverend ever even knowing it,” Sam chimed in.

“Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight,” Dean told his brother.

“What about you?” 

Dean looked over to the opposite side of the pool table where the blonde you’d been playing with smiled at him. He reluctantly said, “(Y/N) and I are gonna go see if we can find that unmarked grave.” 

“We are? I wanted to play more eight-ball,” you told him. 

He looked back over at the blonde, back at you, and shook his head in disappointment. “C’mon. I’m not happy about it either.”

***

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go back?” you asked Dean as the two of you trudged through the Old North Cemetery. You were holding shovels and flashlights searching for the grave of Jacob Karns.

He shot you a look.

“I know, I know, I’m kidding,” you laughed. “But seriously. Now that we’re… acquaintances, we should go out to a bar sometime. Preferably one with a pool table.”

“That’d be cool, actually,” he said, smirking at you. “You’re pretty good.”

“What, at pool?”

He nodded. “I could probably still kick your ass, though.”

“You’re on, pretty boy.”

He stopped and turned to you. “Don’t objectify me.”

“What?” you asked, stopping next to him. “You know you’re gorgeous. You frequently use it to your advantage.” You marched on.

You smiled when you heard him mutter, “You are so confusing, woman.”

You walked for a few more minutes before your flashlight landed on a grave marked with that cross symbol from Taylor’s room. “Jackpot.”

You and Dean set to work exhuming Jacob’s corpse. Your back and shoulders ached more and more the deeper you dug. “How fucking far down is six feet?” you remarked breathlessly. 

“I don’t know, but next time, I get to watch the cute girl’s house,” he replied.

“Aw, you don’t wanna spend quality time with this cute girl?” you asked playfully. 

He eyed you strangely with a lopsided smile. 

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing. You’re just funny,” he told you.

You smiled back and got back to digging. Your shovel finally hit the wooden box lying below. You broke through it to reveal his corpse. Or at least, what remained of it. 

“Hello, preacher,” Dean said. He threw his shovel aside and helped you out of the hole you had dug. After he had climbed out, you poured salt and lighter fluid all over the bones. 

“Goodbye, preacher.” Dean threw a match down into the grave.

Your nose twisted up in disgust. “I will never get used to that smell.”

“What, burnt, hundred-year-old preacher? Me neither.”

You and Dean packed up and headed back to the car that was parked in the cemetery’s parking lot. Your body was exhausted. 

“Um, weird question,” you started. 

He turned to you and threw his shovel and duffel bag in the trunk. 

“You think we could sleep in your car for a bit? I’m running on two days of no sleep.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It should all be over now and Sam should be layin’ it down with Lori.”

And so, you did. You stretched out over the backseat, and Dean laid down on the front. A few moments of silence passed between the two of you, and strangely, you no longer felt tired. You supposed it was the strangeness of the situation. You were now sharing a somewhat intimate moment with a man you despised just weeks prior. You weren’t quite sure where your relationship with Dean was heading, and that bothered you a bit.

“Dean?”

“Hm.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

***

Four hours of shut-eye later, you felt recharged. You awoke to the sound of Dean’s phone vibrating over which Sam told you to meet him at a hospital.

“Hospital? Why? Is he okay?” you asked Dean, climbing over the front seat to sit shotgun. 

“I think so, but he said the reverend’s hurt.”

About fifteen minutes later, you were walking down a long corridor only to be stopped by two cops in wide-brimmed hats. 

The sheriffs put a hand to Dean’s chest to stop him.

“No, it’s alright, we’re with him. He’s my brother,” he explained. “Hey! Brother!” he called, waving dorkishly at Sam.  

“Let them through.”

“Thanks.” 

You and Dean began walking toward Sam, who met you in the middle.

“You okay?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah,” sighed Sam.

“What the hell happened?” 

“Hook Man.”

You looked incredulous. “You saw him?”

“Damn right. Why didn’t you torch the bones?” Sam responded.

“We did,” you rebutted, confused. “You sure it’s the spirit of Jacob Karns?”

“It sure as hell looked like him,” Sam returned. “And that’s not all. I don’t think the spirit is latching on to the reverend.”

“Well, duh, he wouldn’t send Hook Man after himself,” you remarked.

“I think it’s latching onto Lori. Last night she found out her father is having an affair with a married woman.” He whispered that last part.

“Damn.” You gritted your teeth. “I could see how that could upset her.”

Sam nodded. “She told me she was raised to believe that if you do something wrong, you get punished.”

“Ok, so she’s conflicted,” Dean chimed in. “And the spirit of Preacher Karns is latching on to repress the emotions and maybe he’s doing the punishing for her, huh?”

“Right,” the younger brother nodded. “Rich comes on too strong, Taylor tries to make her into a party girl, Dad has an affair.”

“Remind me not to piss this girl off,” Dean muttered. “But we burned those bones, buried them in salt, why didn’t that stop him?”

“We must’ve missed something,” you said. 

“No, we burned everything in that coffin.”

“Did you get the hook?” Sam asked the two of you.

Realization struck you. “Fuck,” you grumbled. “No.”

“Why does that matter?” Dean asked.

“Well, it was the murder weapon, and in a way, it was part of him,” Sam told him.

“So, like the bones, the hook is a source of his power.”

“So if we find the hook—”

The three of you finished Sam’s sentence in unison, grinning. “We stop the Hook Man.”

“Well, back to the drawing board,” you said as the three of you began walking away from the reverend’s hospital room.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“Do you know where the hook is?” you raised your eyebrows at him. 

He said nothing.

“Exactly,” you giggled.

***

Your next stop was the library for the second time this hunt. As much as you liked to read, obnoxious amounts of research was not your thing. Finally, you thought you’d found something. “Log book, Iowa State Penitentiary. ‘Karns, Jacob. Personal effects: disposition thereof.’ “

“Does it mention the hook?” Sam asked you.

“I don’t know. ‘Upon execution, all earthly items shall be remanded to the prisoner’s house of worship, St. Barnabas Church,’ “ you read aloud. “That’s where Lori’s dad preaches.”

“Where Lori lives, too?” Sam asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“Maybe that’s why the Hook Man has been haunting reverends and reverends’ daughters for the past two hundred years,” Dean added.

“Yeah, but I think someone would’ve noticed a blood-stained, silver-handled hook hangin’ around the church or Lori’s house.”

Dean pulled out another book and slapped it down in front of you. “Check the church records.”

Sam pulled the book to sit between the two of you. You and he flipped through pages upon pages of records before he found something. “ ‘St. Barnabas donations, 1862. Received silver-handled hook from state penitentiary. Reforged.’ “ He sighed. “They melted it down. Made it into something else.”

“Goddammit,” you grumbled. 

Later that night, you and the boys returned to St. Barnabas Church. Dean shouldered a duffel bag and began leading you to the church. Sam followed close behind.

“Alright, we can’t take any chances,” the older brother began. “Anything silver goes in the fire.”

“I agree. So, Lori’s still at the hospital. We’ll have to break in,” Sam added.

“Okay, take your pick,” you told him.

“I’ll take the house,” Sam responded.

“Dean and I will take the church, then.”

“We will?” the older brother asked.

“Yup.”

You led Dean up to the church. He called back to his brother. “Hey. Stay out of her underwear drawer.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice and giggled.

You took the top floor of the church while Dean scoured the basement. The two of you, along with Sam, met up in the furnace room. 

“I got everything that even looked silver,” Sam told you.

“Better safe than sorry,” Dean said. 

Your head turned upward at the sound of footsteps. You could hear Dean taking his gun from his jacket as you grabbed yours.

“Move, move,” Dean told you quietly.

You crept up the stairs as quietly as possible. When you got back to the ground floor, you could see Lori hunched over, her shoulders shaking. You lowered your gun and lightly pushed Sam forward. He shot you a look, but headed over to Lori anyway. You and Dean went back downstairs to continue melting the silver. 

“I feel for her,” you said quietly. “I know how much religion can fuck you up.” Silver clanked against the coals in the furnace as you spoke.

Dean turned his head to you. “You do?”

You nodded. “I’ve watched so many people go through crisis after crisis when their loved ones end up dead.”

“Me too,” he said earnestly. “Probably why I don’t pray.”

“Well, it’s a little difficult to believe in a higher power when all day, everyday is blood, guts, and monsters,” you remarked.

He chuckled. “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ve met one religious hunter.”

“I have,” you said. “My mom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She was somehow still convinced of ‘God’s plan.’ “

“Catholic?”

“Oh, very.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied playfully.

“Yeah, me too,” you smiled. “My dad wasn’t, but, uh, he had his… other issues.”

Before he could ask further questions, you heard commotion upstairs. It sounded like running heading toward the opposite side of the basement.

“C’mon,” Dean urged, sprinting out of the furnace room with his gun in hand. You followed closely behind. You could hear the breaking of boards and slamming of what you assumed were bodies that practically shook the walls that got louder as you got closer. Sam was maneuvering himself behind the Hook Man’s clunkily-moving apparition. 

Dean gruffly called to his brother, “Sam, drop!”

His brother obeyed and Dean shot the Hook Man, who disappeared.

“I thought we got all the silver,” you said.

“So did I,” the older brother answered.

“Then why is he still here?” Sam’s voice was frantic.

“Well, maybe we missed something!”

You looked around and noticed Lori’s cross necklace. “Lori, where did you get that chain?”

“My father gave it to me,” she responded nervously.

“Where’d your dad get it?” Sam asked.

“He said it was a church heirloom,” she answered quickly. “He gave it to me when I started school.”

“Is it silver?!”

“Yes!”

Sam ripped the chain off her and threw it to you. You caught it with ease and went to start running back down the hall when the invisible Hook Man started dragging his hook along the wall.  

You threw Sam your gun and started running down another corridor you hoped would bring you to the same destination. You could vaguely hear Dean say to his brother, “I’ll cover (Y/N), shoot anything that moves!” before you heard approaching quick footsteps behind you.

You sprinted down winding hallways and thankfully quickly made it to the furnace room. You threw the necklace into the fire and watched as it slowly began to melt. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered anxiously. It took longer than you would’ve liked, but the cross broke off the necklace and burned into ash. As soon as it did, you and Dean ran back to the latter’s brother to make sure the ghost was gone. Thankfully, he had, but Sam seemed injured. He was clutching his left shoulder and wincing. 

You called the police to the scene and urged them to send an ambulance. They arrived in no time, and Sam was able to get his injury patched up. 

“And you saw him, too?” A sheriff was asking you and writing in a notepad. “The man with the hook?”

“Yeah, we all saw him,” you responded. “We fought him off and then he ran.”

“And that’s all?” The sheriff was skeptical.

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen. You and those two boys—”

Dean came up behind you and answered for you. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re leaving town.”

You laughed at his response. Sam and Lori talking near the ambulance caught your eye. You continued watching them in the rearview mirror once you’d gotten in the backseat of the car. Sam soon left Lori, who looked after him sadly, and stooped down into the car. 

“We could stay,” Dean suggested. 

You could tell Sam wanted to, but he shook his head. A deflated air had settled over the car, but you knew the younger Winchester wasn’t ready for anything yet. He’d been dating Jessica for a year and a half and had just lost her less than four months ago. You knew he needed more time. The best way you knew to comfort him was to wrap your hands around his shoulders gently, minding his injury, from your place in the backseat. He tensed for a moment, but allowed you to hug him nonetheless. He responded by holding your arm with his good hand. And for a moment, if you closed your eyes, it was almost like hugging Steven again. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee

[mammoth-clangen]

In my opinion deextinction is a case by case tool. The northern white rhino cross species surrogacy problem? Hell yeah. The moa? Sure, bring em back - emu can be farmed relatively easily, and New Zealand has both a major interest in farming (we have domesticated deer, like not tamed, domesticated fully), and very large tracts of land that have not been disturbed. And off shore island sanctuaries to start with. But bringing back the haast's eagle? Nah fam, leave the Known Man Killer apex predator alone.

Disclaimer: my reply to this ask is a lot more opinion than hard science. So don't take it as The Truth™, because there isn't one.

To me, Aotearoa/NZ is actually a great example for my exact points from earlier. It has one of the most fascinating ecosystems; with incredible levels of endemism, very few native land mammals, and some amazingly unique birdlife. For those unfamiliar, see below!

Image source: theafterworkphotographer.com

But-

94% of reptile species, 82% of bird species, 80% of bat species, 76% of freshwater fish species, 22% of marine mammal species and 46% of Aotearoa's vascular plant species are facing extinction.

I cannot see any reason to dedicate time and money to resurrecting (one of nine) moa species that have been gone from the ecosystem for 500+ years. Not when so many extant species need desperate assistance, unless we want them to end up on an extinction list with the Moa, Haast's eagle, and huia.

This is how I feel about the Thylacine too.

I personally doubt there would be enough demand for Moa meat to make farming a viable reason to clone them. People barely eat emu in Australia, and they are right there as a perfectly viable ratite for captive-breeding and farming. Both Au and NZ export huge amounts of meat compared to the amount we consume. So unless they can find a huge international market for ratite meat, it's not really a worthwhile risk to most farmers.

Bird cloning/ genetic modification is also much harder to than in mammals. While mammal embryos can be implanted into a surrogate, it's much harder to implant a bird embryo into an egg and still have it hatch.

Extinction in Aotearoa is personal to me- -because my family are all Kiwis, even if I don't live there. I visit often and always lament how few native birds I actually see when I do.

---

It's worth noting the Northern White Rhinoceros isn't extinct quite yet; there are two individuals remaining, Fatu and Najin. However, as they are both infertile females, the species is functionally extinct.

Unfortunately, saving the Northern white rhino with cloning/GMO relatives or even cross species surrogacy will likely suffer nearly all the issues of true de extinction.

A company called BioRescue has 30 frozen Northern White Rhino embryos. Which looks great on paper! But every one was created using Fatu's eggs. Meaning all the potential rhinos would be full or half siblings. As I said in my Wrangel Island mammoth ask, sometimes species do strangely well as an entire population with extreme inbreeding depression. But most don't.

Side note, and this is purely my own speculation (and Polarwooly's), I wonder if the Wrangel Mammoths survived with inbreeding depression because elephants (and relatives) have extreme DNA repair 'machinery'. They also have extremely low cancer rates, so it could easily be linked!

I really don't want to sound like one of those "Useless animal! Let it go extinct!" people, because I don't think we shouldn't try. I just genuinely don't know how much anyone can do for them at this point. It all feels a bit 'too little, too late.'

And again, the Southern White Rhinoceros isn't extinct, functionally or actually. But they are threatened with the same things that drove their Northern cousins to the edge. That said, the Southern subspecies nearly went extinct in the late 1800s, being reduced to less than 50 individuals. Their numbers rebounded spectacularly when effort was put into habitat preservation and protection from poachers, but their numbers have been dropping again in recent years.

It just makes me wonder if the time and money being put into resurrection wouldn't be better spent fixing the underlying problems...

Also, can you please give a source for the "domestic deer"? I mean this genuinely, not as a dig! I couldn't find anything when I looked except that 'deer are farmed in NZ' (which I knew because I've seen deer farms there before lolol). But it takes more than "bred in captivity for x generations" to qualify as fully domestic!

Repeating my disclaimer: You, dear reader, are absolutely welcome to disagree with my opinions, and think having moa back would just be cool AF. Because logistics aside, it absolutely would be cool af!

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 17)

Aside from their new third. The night went rather similarly to how it normally would, Uzi had brought over several more movies for them to go through over the next few days. Pretty much resigning herself into cooping herself up in N's apartment while she was playing the part of Tera's live in nanny.

And currently, they were trying to choose which one to start with, N digging around the pile of disks as she laid with Tera, keeping the little one curled slightly under her arm so that there would be no more rolling away.

“N oh my robo-god just choose!” She laughed in faux irritation, not loud enough to wake the baby but definitely loud enough for N to pout back at her.

“But all of these are scary!” He pointed out, lifting up several of the boxes to reveal the graphic covers, Uzi just giggled mischievously.

“Dude we deal with way scarier stuff. Nothing compares to centipede J.” She replied, rolling her eyes at his second pout, adjusting the charge cord still sticking out of her like it would make any difference in her comfort.

“I guess…” He picked the one that had the least terrifying cover and popped it into the player, watching as the beginning credits zipped across the screen.

“What one did you pick?” She asked, head tilting to the side, small smile on her face.

“Uh… I didn't look at the title, just the cover.”

“Oooh~ Roulette.”

He didn't quite like the sound of that… were all of these the same level of terrifying? Was it like a “choose how you want to get traumatized” thing?

He settled onto the couch, holding his tail in his hands as Uzi focused entirely on the screen, well, her eyes were focused on the screen, the other hand was subconsciously petting the droneling snuggled next to her, still solidly in sleep mode.

Still being amazing at this, without even trying.

As the movie started the tension that had settled over N slowly unwound, this was… fine. A little creepy sure, but Uzi was right, it was tame in comparison to the genuine terror they'd already experienced, although the stakes being your life instead of a passive observer probably helped.

“Where… are they going? Why are they separating off from the rest of the group?” He asked as the main couple snuck off together, hand in hand, as one of the other characters was explaining that they should probably stick together, because something creepy was going on.

“To make out.” Uzi smirked, literally all these horror movies were exactly the same, teenagers were dumb… even in real life.

“Now?!” He asked incredulously, the entire group had just witnessed movement outside the house they were staying in, and they decide to leave? To kiss?

“Love is always the best decision.” She quoted him, and he felt his own words come slapping him in the face, that had felt so long ago now…

“That was an entirely different scenario, that was romantic, this- this is dumb.” He defended, watching as the couple went outside their relatively safe cabin leaving it unlocked so they could get back in. And went off into the woods in the middle of the night.

“They deserve this.” He mumbled to himself, and he half meant it, not only were they dumb, but complete assholes to the rest of their “freinds” that were totally going to get murdered.

Uzi cackled at his reaction, trying to muffled it after Tera stirred, thankfully she didn't wake up.

“Honestly yeah…” Uzi admitted watching as the camera followed the couple through the forest, the undergrowth getting deeper, darker, and way more thick around them, not that they seemed to notice.

“Immoral makeout sesh. Check.” Uzi hummed and N just shook his head.

“Seriously, what's so great about it that it's seen as this important? Rebecca and Darren did this too…” He was honestly talking more to himself then to Uzi, but once he realized he was referencing camp. He shut his mouth instantly.

“Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring… that up.”

“It's fine.” She still had a smile on her face, and it wasn't a forced one; he knew what that looked like. It was a little pained, but it looked like she wasn't so effected by it anymore.

“Some people get turned on by danger?” She suggested, breezing right past whatever perceived mistake he'd made and barreling right into a dumb joke.

“Uzi!” He found himself blushing at her crass, even if it was such an Uzi thing to say, he hadn't expected it to come out of her mouth, she laughed a little at him.

“I mean, look at them, don't they need air?” Uzi brought his attention back to the screen, where the couple was noisely sucking face, hands going way too fast but going to places he didn't want to see.

He immediately ripped his head away from the screen. Watching drones make out was one thing (he'd went past a few couples the longer he spent in the bunker.) But watching humans had another level of uncanny valley, especially since his only real experience with them was Tessa. And her parents, but they were less pleasant to think about.

“Ew.” He found himself saying, which was surprising even for him because usually he was into romance, but right now all he felt disgusted.

“Really? You're grossed out? Damn I am rubbing off on you.” She laughed again, but blessedly fast forwarded it to when they finally stopped (which was ten whole minutes later, why was that necessary to include?!)

“It's not even that, it normally wouldn't bother me. I mean, I'm… a romantic.” He started, doing his best to phrase it in a way that didn't imply anything.

“A helpless romantic.” She corrected, shit eating grin and all, he felt his visor heat up again, yes he was, for her and her smart mouth.

“As I was saying, I've seen drones kiss before, that doesn't bother me. But I just fell like I don't wanna see… that? I dunno.”

He didn't want to see what should be private between two people? Maybe, would he feel the same way if it was him and someone else? Immediately, his processors betrayed him, serving him a hot and piping thought of Uzi up against a tree, hot breath leaving her, and him leaving a trail of kisses down her neck-

He shook his head so hard he could almost hear it rattle. That was not where his brain needed to go right now, in fact he needed to get far far away from that line of thinking pronto. He willed his furious blush away, wishing he could focus on the actual movie like Uzi was doing.

Uzi wasn't too focused on the movie either, instead she was having a private little daydream about pushing N up against a tree and kissing his cute little golden face until he was breathless. Thankfully she was stone faced, so long as she didn't look at him she wouldn't fluster, but that had taken some practice to reign in. Practice, because at this point thoughts like that were so common that she'd overheat constantly if she blushed at all of them.

Thankfully for N the rest of the movie pushed it out of his mind. Not because it suddenly became scary. Humans being chopped to bits with a meat cleaver was a lot less terrifying when you weren't human and you thought the entire cast was stupid. No, but it did become funny.

To make fun of.

The effects were laughably terrible, the killers mask was crooked the entire time, and, intentional or not, it destroyed any intimidating factor he had, since it looked more and more like a grown ass man in a bad Halloween costume.

It didn't help thar the voice acting was equally as bad, sounding sarcastic at best “Oh no don't kill meeeee.” And straight up bad at worse, some of the delivery was so off N had to rewind to even catch what they said.

“This movie is terrible.”

“This movie is laughably terrible.” She corrected him again, and he shot her a look that made her dissolve into laughter again.

He supposed she was right in that regard, they were making fun of it, and he no longer feared being scared tonight. Heck if all the movies were like this he wasn't fearful of ever being scared by them.

“Are all of them like this?” He asked, relaxing back into the couch with a sigh as he watched a teenage boy get decapitated, huh, he knew how that felt, ow.

“Only my favorite ones!” Uzi replied, laughing as one of the girls conveniently tripped over… something, her own stupidity most likely. Giving the killer time to catch up.

That didn't surprise him in the least, she was the one who wanted to go to earth and wipe out all the humans, so that tracked.

Still she kept trying to adjust, the cord seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable the longer she laid.

“You good?” He asked as the movie began to wind down, the final girl setting a trap for the killer, to finish him off for good.

“I'm fine. Just… not used to having a baby attached to me. I can't get comfortable.” She admitted, crossing her arms awkwardly. N just smiled, and without thinking spread his arms to invite her to join him on his side of the couch.

She hesitated, before this there had always been some sort of plausible reason for them to end up in close proximity, weather it just be the size of what they were on or a traumatic event. Now though, there was no pretense. He was asking to be close because he wanted her close.

If she was looking for hints he might feel the same. This was her biggest one.

She did accept, crawling over to his lap where she could lean against his chest, she slotted perfectly there, tucked underneath his chin as she adjusted Tera again, only this time, N took her into his arms, removing the tension from her side almost entirely.

“Better?” He willed his voice to not crack like he was five, he hadn't meant for this to happen, he'd just… done it. Subconsciously. And now he was having to quell his feverishly humming core due to his own dumb actions.

“Heck yes… didn't realize how much she was pulling on me.” Her tension released immediately, and once again she found herself soothed by his ambient warmth, and his core humming underneath her. The movies credits had just begun to roll, that was fine, she'd seen it before.

“Maybe we can get you a baby bag or something, so she's not hanging off you and you don't have to carry her?” He suggested, and while on one hand that sounded *great*, and appealed directly to the “problem = solution” portion of her brain, it also made her fluster.

It would feel much more official then, that she was a parent as much as he was, it had been a feeling she'd been ignoring, starting from whenever they'd first seen Tera and growing every day since then. That this pillbaby, this… fragile thing. Was hers.

That she was a mom. And N was a dad.

And that thought made her giddy and flustered and scared. Best freinds don't typically adopt children together, even her very limited experience of friendship could tell her that.

"Uh... maybe..."

Their relationship right now was… complicated. They weren't together, neither of them had said anything or addressed it, but she did know that they were too close and their lives too intertwined to still just be calling it “freindship.”

And yet she was, and so was he. Because what else would either of them call it? She still couldn't completely prove he felt the same way! He'd been closer… more touchy. But that was kinda just N! "Boundaries" was not a word in his dictionary.

But here they were, cuddling, looking like a happy couple that had just brought their newborn home. She looked at them through the reflection of the now blank television.

N looked happy, extremely happy, eyes closed and holding both her and Tera close to his chest like they'd both slip through his fingers somehow, his tail was slowly wrapping itself around her leg, almost like it was trying to sneak up on her.

But her biggest hint? The thing that made her core flip when she realized? He was purring.

It was so soft it was almost impossible to hear. But she could feel it, the soft rhythmic vibrations that poured out of his core presumably without his knowledge. If he'd done it before she'd become… this. Then maybe it wouldn't have tipped her off so much. But now…

She had a purr too, another change made by the solver to her body to make her more like a disassembly drone, and her purr had only ever triggered when she was thinking about N, specifically how much she loved him.

While she was sure N's would be less specific in what and who triggered it, it something reserved for love. And considering she'd never heard it before, she could decern that it wasn't just something N just did.

Which meant it was her that was triggering it, or her and Tera together that was.

She felt a blush work it's way to her face as she looked up into N's visor, even though his eyes were closed, she knew he could still see her with his visor, and had probably been watching her the entire time.

So she just smiled, and curled herself into him. Hiding her face just in case she got flustered.

N liked her, and she finally had her proof.

Next ->

[sonoftydeusthemusical]

My friend has never heard of Diomedes before; how would you describe him? Like his motivations, his way of thinking, his strengths and weaknesses, his relationships, major plot points?

(I would explain him myself but I'm still not that far in the Iliad.)

Hello, thank you soooo much for this ask and sorry for the late reply!

First of I want to say that we’re by no means experts on Diomedes. We’re still in the process of learning more about him and discovering and exploring him through this musical, so people with a background in ancient studies might have a more detailed/accurate analysis of him than we can provide at the moment. But we still try to answer you to the best of our abilities!

(You’re welcome to correct us in the comments/reblogs ^^” )

In the words of @holy_mother_of_whumpers:

Diomedes kicks ass more than anyone in the Iliad, is scolded more than anyone. Odysseus best friend (according to historians). Shitty childhood (incest, prophesies and and a lot of dead relatives, which is almost as ancient Greek backstories go), shitty post Troy (banished from his city, cursed by Aphrodite). Actually happy ending (founder of cities, immortalized by Athena).

He’s like Odysseus, but with an unbelievably tragic childhood and less disaster energy. He gets stuff done and slays doing it

But here’s our answer…sorry if this is turns out too long!

Starting out with your question about his motivations

Oath bound, Diomedes avenged his fathers death at the age of 14, sacking the city of Thebes (the epic surrounding it is called “Epigoni” but unfortunately it’s a story lost to history, also he was 4 when he took the oath, should that count rly? shouldn't there be an age of consent for oaths? anyway)

The story surrounding his fathers death is tragic and a bit disgusting (he ate brain and Athena who wanted to gift him immortality was too disgusted to do so)

Diomedes doesn’t remember his father, and he still gets compared a lot to him (just see Agamemnon low-key trash-talking him by stating how much of a better fighter his father was to motivate him for battle) so that kind of plays into his motivations

Additionally like so many other heroes, glory and honor are definitely also motivations of his. Often it is Athena who pushes or motivates him to many of his greatest deeds and other feats (like wounding Ares, throwing the spear at Dolon, beating everyone in the funeral games,…..yeah Athena HATES loosing)

What’s interesting that despite the fact that he was raised on war, later on – after Troy (and admittedly, even more warfare) – he’s said to have wanted to settle down more, founded his cities in peace (or as peaceful as life for kings was back then haha)

In the Iliad Diomedes is always the first to volunteer, and despite often getting treated rather badly (Nestor kicked him awake, my boy was even sleeping in his armour, Agamemnon calls him a coward) he tends to keep a cool head and doesn’t retaliate (…except that one time….or two?) BUT he also definitely doesn’t take BS, he calls out Agamemnon for being a bad leader when he suggests to leave (Diomedes insists they stay and fight until they won)

For his way of thinking…he’s rather pragmatic, a good strategist (mentored by athena), first to jump into the fray, trusts his own strength, knows when to back down/when to talk back, can get caught up in the heat of the moment in battles, doesn’t shy away from violence, lies & trickery…. (correct me on this if I'm wrong or missed something)

Strengths & Weaknesses

One thing that makes him stand out among the other heroes is that arguably, he’s one of the few greek heroes whose lives don’t end in a complete tragedy because of his hubris against the gods (…….wellll………..his wife betraying him after he injured aphrodite and being exiled for arogs is an instant where he still pays for his acts against the goddess, but its tame compared to many other heroes fates, who committed lesser crimes) and in the end he even gets deitified (or at least in some versions, like athena wanted to do with his father, but his father messed upppppp so…..)

He’s more level headed than many other heroes (cough Odysseus “i am in the infamous odysseus” King of Ithaca)

He’s one of the best fighters - or THE best fighter of the greeks next to Achilles, the trojans were more scared of him than of Achilles (….since Achilles didn’t fight) without him the Achaeans….would’ve probably lost the war

As for his weaknesses….one thing is something that’s not even within his own control: his young age (compared to the other kings), almost nobody realllyyyy respects him despite his badass deeds on the battlefield and good battle advice, his many ships he brought and his battle experience even before the war and two) the kind of lingering shame of his fathers final moments (nom nom brain, and failing to take Thebes), but also his fathers supposed greatness that he keeps getting compared to and has to live up to

Now…..his relationships…oh boy theres so many, I’ll try to sum up the most important ones I know in once sentence for each

His family:

His father: he doesn’t remember him, but people keep bringing him up and comparing him to him

We dont know much about his relationship with his mother

most…of his other (male) relatives die in his early youth (which is how he ends up as King of Argos) like his grandfathers, and his uncles…

The achaean kings:

Agamemnon: the boss who’s a bully, but Diomedes talks back to him sometimes at least (…unless he’s insulting him, he just accept that)

Ajax: Diomedes almost kills him during the funeral games….the acheans have to break up the fight

Achilles: Diomedes doesn’t like him, Dio is the only one who wants him punished for killing Diomedes cousin that everyone else hated

Odysseus: LOTS of tea to be found here (he seems to see Ody as a mentor figure and keeps picking him as companion for missions, they both have Athena as their patron goddess but while Odysseus leans a little bit more on the wisdom part, Diomedes leans more into the pure strength of battle, they work well together and have a bunch of missions together)

Comrades

Most noteable are Sthenelus (known him since early childhood) and Euryalus, who are with him in Troy, they were part of the Epigoni (its rly a long story)

His wife: is his cousin, he marries her to strengthen his rulership, in the end, its said that she betrayed him with a new lover and exiled him from his own kingdom (another long story)

Glaucus: they met on the battlefield and realized their grandfathers were bro’s so they didnt fight each other, and instead exchanged armours (but Diomedes got the better, golden armour, while Glaucus got the bronze armour..)

There is sooooo much more to say about him, all the stories of the Iliad, the events before AND after it, his relationship with Athena, etc. I barely scratched the surface here so maybe we have to make a whole series of posts about this one day so we can get more into detail because its so much! (Let us know if we should???)

I hope this answered some of your questions, though! And again thank you so much for your interest and apologies for the late reply!

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

Tug of War (Chapter 1)

Summary: Crosshair decided to rejoin Clone Force 99 after the destruction of Kamino, even though his brothers still drive him bonkers and the kid is annoying. Now, Ciddarin Scaleback is sending them off to Imperial-occupied Serreno. What could go wrong? (This is a reimagining of how the events of season 2 episodes 1-2 "Spoils of War/Ruins of War" might have played out had Crosshair been on the mission with the squad.) Rating: G

Read on Ao3   | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

    The sun shone brightly, tinting the clear blue sky a few shades lighter than the cerulean blue of the calm ocean below. Tame waves lapped invitingly on the white sands of the shoreline, promising cool refreshment to offset the moderately warm ambient temperature. Birds chirped happily in the deep green trees, bushes, and other foliage lining the beach; otherwise, the island was quiet, blissfully free of any tourists who may disrupt its tranquility.

            Inside the Marauder, which was perched on a rocky outcropping affording an idyllic view of the ocean and sandy beach, Crosshair hunkered down in the copilot’s seat, stared out the viewport at the peaceful scene outside, and scowled darkly. He chomped on a toothpick with more intensity than was strictly necessary as Tech, ignoring (per the usual) Crosshair’s foul mood, sat in the pilot’s seat with his attention engrossed in his datapad.

            The picturesque sight of a flock of birds performing graceful aerial maneuvers over the water was enough to spur Crosshair into speech. “Why are we doing this?” he groused to Tech.

            Tech didn’t look up from his datapad. “Because Cid told us to,” he replied.

            “We can find these jobs on our own,” Crosshair persisted, “and keep all the profits too. Why do we keep working for her?”

            “Because she knows who we are.” Tech let Crosshair glower for several moments before he finally put down his datapad and gave him a steady, if stern, look. “We’ve been over this before, Crosshair. Acquiring jobs on our own, without the benefit of a third party acting as an intermediary, runs the risk of our being recognized and apprehended by the Empire. We also do not know many viable options of places on which we could settle that are hospitable to human life, relatively free of the Empire’s influence, and would meet our needs should we part ways with Cid.” Tech looked back down at the datapad before adding, “Besides, Cid understands the value of our skills and is ruthless in ensuring her own interests. The chances of her reporting us should we ever part ways with her are dangerously high.”

            “She’s blackmailing us.”

            Tech wasn’t fazed in the slightest by Crosshair’s tone. “That’s what I just said.” 

            Crosshair scowled. He did know all of this. That didn’t mean he had to like it. “How can you take this so calmly?” he asked now.

            Tech shrugged slightly as he swiveled the pilot seat, rising and heading toward the open ramp. “We must make the best of the current situation,” he said simply before stepping outside.

            Crosshair remained on the flight deck, the recent conversation having done nothing to improve his foul mood. He again squinted his eyes at the view of the ocean, while the conversation Tech was currently having with Omega drifted back to him. The kid was learning various skills from all of her brothers – well, all of them except Crosshair, who didn’t have the patience to even entertain the idea of teaching anything to anyone, especially not anyone of cadet age – but Tech was her main tutor and mentor in most subjects. Now, Crosshair’s attention was drawn by Omega lightly groaning about being forced to study while on a mission; and despite his irritation about his squad’s current situation, Crosshair couldn’t hold back an amused snort. Right now, she sounded just like he, Crosshair, had when he was a young cadet and had to do homework…

            Crosshair suddenly frowned at the thought. No, he and Omega were nothing alike. Before he could dwell too much on this unsettling idea, however, the comms beeped, and Hunter’s voice sounded through the flight deck.

            “Tech, we’ve got the cargo, but we could use some firepower.”

            Before Crosshair could do more than blink, Tech was back in the pilot’s seat and responding to Hunter’s call. “Wrecker woke the pod, didn’t he?”

            “Yeah, and they’re not happy. We need a pickup.”

            “Copy that,” Omega jumped in to the conversation, “we’re on our way!” She entered the ship, only to just as quickly exit again as something else attracted her attention.

            “We caught something,” she announced, looking excitedly at the line she had dropped into the ocean for some casual fishing during the wait. “And I think it’s big!”

            Crosshair straightened up in the copilot’s seat and rolled his eyes at Omega’s innocent but misplaced enthusiasm as Tech called back to her, “Release the line. We do not have time to reel…”

            Tech was abruptly cut off by the appearance of several enormous crabs climbing up onto the Marauder’s viewport and proceeding to aggressively test the durability of the transparisteel. Crosshair, startled, jumped out of his seat and reached for his rifle while Tech, grimacing, tried to take off – only for the Marauder to tip precariously to port as Omega’s catch turned out to be another aggrocrab. Because of course it was.

            Can’t say I’m surprised, Crosshair thought to himself as the jostling of the ship sent him tumbling toward the open ramp. He caught himself on the threshold just in time to witness Omega lose her balance, but not in enough time to do anything to help her. A brief widening his eyes was the only outward sign he gave of his alarm upon watching her fall; inwardly, he refused to acknowledge his momentary panic. There was no reason for it, anyway: Omega had grabbed the line and clung on, just out of reach of the aggrocrabs. He quickly dismissed the idea of shooting at the crabs below: given the current shaking of the ship, there was an infinitesimally slight chance he might hit Omega.  

            “Omega!” Tech called from the flight deck.

            “She’s okay,” Crosshair informed him at the exact same moment that Omega called back “I’m okay!”

            Tech nodded. “Hang on,” he replied as he tried to take off again, though Crosshair knew the attempt would be futile as he looked over his shoulder at the crabs that were still attacking the viewport. 

            “They’re wrecking the ship!” Omega stated the obvious.

            “I can’t shake them,” Tech replied, also stating the obvious.

            I can’t shoot them off the ship from here, Crosshair thought the obvious, frowning as he considered his options.

            Omega reached a conclusion faster than Crosshair did: she slid down the rope, daringly leaping off one of the aggrocrabs and dropping to the sand below with a practiced roll before aiming her energy bow at the monsters obstructing Tech’s view and letting off some well-placed shots. Crosshair bit back a smile: with the kid out of the way, he could now help shoot the crabs who were holding down the line, though it wasn’t really necessary as the creatures had now released the line and were turning their attention toward Omega.

            Tech was now able to right the ship, and Crosshair adjusted his stance at the entryway, looking on as a horde of crabs exited the forest behind Omega. She hesitated, clearly debating how to proceed; Crosshair, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to open fire on the new threat, though his shots ricocheted off the creatures’ thick shells and didn’t do much to deter their progression.

            Omega, coming to a sudden decision, began sprinting across the beach. Crosshair found it necessary to stop shooting for the moment and brace himself against the doorframe as Tech, keeping a close eye on their sister’s position, swung the Marauder around to parallel her course. Repositioning himself yet again as the ship steadied, Crosshair silently took up shooting at the crabs that persisted in running after Omega and was rewarded by managing to hit several of them in their sensitive underbellies.

            “Grab the line!” Tech called out to her. Crosshair wondered how the kid would manage to reach it, but he didn’t have to wonder for long: Omega shot at a crab, prompting it to duck under its near-impenetrable shell for cover, before she capitalized on the opportunity by leaping up and off the crab’s back to reach the line. Successful in her maneuver, she hooked the rope to her belt and let the Marauder carry her up out of reach of the crabs. She didn’t give up trying to ward off the threat, however, and she joined Crosshair in firing shot after shot at the monsters.

            Crosshair felt the corners of his lips turning up at the sight of Omega’s ingenuity… and then he shook his head.

            He didn't like Omega, he reminded himself. She may be a clone, but she was nothing like them, the squad of 99s who had made it to full commissioning; she was nothing like even the regs: she hadn't fought in a war, she hadn't been raised as a soldier, for that hadn't been her intended purpose. Oh, she was learning and training now, of course; but she would always be different, and not in any ways that would make her superior enough to be part of the Bad Batch, as far as Crosshair could see. Besides, setting aside the lack of any distinctly superior skill set, Omega was just so annoying: childish, naive, prone to finding chaos and making foolish errors, far too trusting, inexperienced, vulnerable, and with an aggravating propensity toward empathy and gentleness. The kid would never make it in this galaxy with a disposition like that.  All the Bad Batch's efforts to protect her would eventually prove futile. 

            Still, it was undeniable that the kid possessed tenacity and grit in spades, and while Crosshair would never admit it out loud, he was consistently impressed by both qualities. For all the qualms he had had when first joining the squad as he learned just how involved Omega was on these jobs – needing to protect a child while on a job didn’t sound like a good idea no matter what anyone said – by now he had to acknowledge that Omega was bound and determined to hold her own on these missions, and she almost always succeeded.

            Wrecker’s voice now came over the comms, and Crosshair could tell the brothers were still on the run. “Tech, where are you?”

            The words were barely out of Wrecker’s mouth when the Marauder swung around the bend into full view of the sprinting soldiers; at almost exactly the same moment, Hunter could be heard demanding, “Why is Omega hanging off the ship??”

            “It… is an unscheduled study break,” Tech replied almost casually, and Crosshair couldn’t help but let out a snort of amusement at how quick Tech still was at coming up with an explanation to deflect Hunter’s exasperation. Despite his amusement, Crosshair didn’t stop shooting – it seemed that for every crab he shot down, two more took its place.

            The Marauder met up with Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo in short order; and the three of them managed to hook up the cargo, pile onto the line, and be reeled out of harm’s way just before the aggrocrabs descended on them. Crosshair stepped out of their way and sauntered to the rear of the ship as Wrecker dragged the cargo on board and Tech closed the ramp to prepare for their departure.

            “I thought the beach was gonna be relaxing,” Wrecker groaned, briefly resting against the large container that had been their mission objective.

            Meanwhile, Hunter was gently chastising Omega. “Appreciate the backup,” he said, “but try staying inside the ship next time.”

            “I’ll try,” Omega promised before admitting with a grin, “but it was still pretty fun.”

            Crosshair glanced at Hunter in time to see his brother pause before smiling and sitting in one of the passenger seats, keeping the conversation going with their sister. “Your aim keeps improving,” Hunter said now.

            Omega shrugged. “Maybe. Crosshair’s the one who actually put some of the crabs out of action.” Unable to prevent himself from looking up when his name was spoken, Crosshair found himself staring directly at Omega and her hopeful expression as she asked him, “Crosshair, do you think you could teach me how to shoot as accurately as you do?”

            “No,” Crosshair instantly responded, shaking his head and looking back down at his rifle, which he had nearly finished cleaning.

            He heard Omega sigh, but no one pressed the issue; instead, Wrecker and Omega enthusiastically started to swap stories about the mission, with Echo and Tech occasionally interjecting and Hunter shaking his head more than once at the descriptions.

            Crosshair, for his part, remained in the back of the Marauder near the gunner’s mount – or, more accurately, the kid’s room – idly wondering yet again what had possessed him to rejoin this chaotic mess of a squad.

            Though it had already been weeks, it seemed like just yesterday that Crosshair had finally managed to trap his brothers all in one place to try to convince them to join the Empire, only to have them refuse and stun him into unconsciousness before dragging him along as they escaped the Empire’s impassively thorough destruction of Kamino. They had all managed to get back to the Marauder in one piece, and Wrecker had asked him on the platform if he was coming with them. Crosshair, of course, had scoffed as he claimed, “None of this changes anything,” to which Hunter had tried to reason with him by saying, “You offered us a chance, Crosshair. This is yours.” Crosshair had tried to stand firm, snapping back with “I made my decision.” Hunter, a resigned expression on his face, had replied with, “We want different things, Crosshair; that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies,” before a familiar steely glint shone in his eyes as he added, “But if you want to stay here alone for who knows how long just to prove a point… well, that’s up to you.”

            Kriff. Hunter had had him there, and he knew it.

            Hurt and bitterness and loneliness had been making Crosshair feel unsettled and cantankerous and cross, and when he felt that way he showed it by being even more ornery and stubborn than usual. Climbing out of the makeshift boats, Crosshair had decided the best way to be ornery would be to refuse to join his brothers and instead sit by himself on the platform in the off chance the Empire came back to ensure their work had been complete. But Hunter just had to prove he could see right through Crosshair’s scheme. So the best way to be ornery had turned into calling Hunter’s bluff.

            “Really? We aren’t enemies?” Crosshair had sneered. “Then prove it. Take me to the Imperial outpost on Korwin.”

            Hunter had frowned a bit before glancing over his shoulder at Tech, who had shrugged. “That won’t be a problem,” Tech had said. “We can be in and out before the Empire notices us. We can only do a quick drop off, though,” he had added, directly addressing Crosshair.

            “As expected,” Crosshair had returned levelly, not willing to show that he was slightly stymied by them calling him out on his attempt to call their bluff. Nor had he been willing to admit to himself that he had backed himself into this corner. Instead, he had found some comfort in telling himself that his brothers owed him this ride for the mess they had created just a few hours ago.

            “Won’t the Empire want to know how you got off Kamino?” Echo had asked shrewdly as they had made their way to the Marauder.

            Crosshair had shrugged in response, refusing to openly acknowledge he had already decided to think of some excuse to cover up the fact that Clone Force 99 had survived. And then he had realized to his own surprise and dismay that the idea of the Empire interrogating him – which it undoubtedly would – really got under his skin.

            For the first few hours of the trip to Korwin, with tensions still running high and the awkward silences interspersed with even more awkwardly stilted attempts at conversation weighing heavily due to the as-yet unresolved quarrel between Crosshair and his brothers, Crosshair had told himself repeatedly that he couldn’t wait to get away from his annoying former squadmates and the sickeningly cheerful little girl, even as the thought of returning to the Empire had begun making him feel increasingly uneasy. What he had said on Kamino in the training room was absolutely correct, he had reminded himself: his squad had no purpose or direction, the kid had claimed the last ounce of sanity and common sense his squadmates had ever had, and they were just aimlessly wandering around the galaxy living hand to mouth. Besides, they had left him behind and spent months running away from him, and they still didn’t trust him – their assumption that he had been aiming to shoot Hunter when he was actually trying to save the foolish kid was more than enough proof of that.

            But… The Empire didn’t trust him either. The elite squad he had been given command of had bucked against his authority since day one; and while his rather forceful demonstration during their first mission had convinced the others to not openly question him, he had still sensed their simmering antagonism against him. The other clones were just as judgmental and standoffish as ever. Admiral Rampart was condescending, had repeatedly dismissed his warnings about Clone Force 99’s capabilities until it was far too late, and had rebuffed almost every one of his suggestions during other missions. The Kaminoans had experimented on him under Tarkin’s orders – Crosshair didn’t know exactly what the longnecks had done to him before setting him after Clone Force 99 the first time, but he knew they had done something. He had then discovered there actually was a chip implanted in his brain – it wasn’t of any concern anymore, but it had indeed been there. And then, despite his strict obedience and adherence to orders both with and without the chip’s influence, the Empire had just left him behind and destroyed Kamino while he was still on it. Clone Force 99 might have ignored his admonitions about obeying orders and left him all those months ago, but at least they hadn’t left him to die.

            Of course, Crosshair had reminded himself, the Empire was just doing what needed to be done, nothing personal; but the fact remained that Clone Force 99, his brothers, had… well… cared… enough to try to save his life.

            Introspection was not Crosshair’s strong suit. These thoughts had crossed his mind as he had sulked alone in the back of the Marauder as they made their way to Korwin, but he had not sat with the thoughts long enough to compare Clone Force 99’s behavior towards him against the Empire’s, much less consider that maybe, just maybe, his former squad’s distrust of him was more than justified, while the Empire’s prejudice toward the clones in general and dismissiveness of him in particular was not. What he hadn’t been able to avoid, however, was the nagging thought that he didn’t actually want to return to the Empire after all – no, he wanted to stay with his brothers, irritating and exasperating and clueless and misguided though they may be.

            But how to tell them he had changed his mind without looking weak?

            Opportunity had come in the most unexpected way – though, come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t unexpected considering that Clone Force 99 was involved.

            The trip to Korwin should have taken about seven hours from Kamino.

            Six days, four detours, a pirate ambush, two standoffs with two different guilds, a broken shield generator, evading a skirmish between some local gangs on Geridan, and three wildlife attacks later, Crosshair had had ample opportunity to prove to his former squad that he could be trusted with his rifle; and, finally, finding themselves one system away from Korwin, Crosshair had abruptly taken his chance.

            “Don’t bother going to Korwin,” he had told Tech offhandedly, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. When all the others turned questioning looks at him, he had quickly clarified, “If I show up now, the Empire will either be suspicious or think I’m incompetent, and they don’t take kindly to people who are under suspicion or incompetent.”

            He really had missed his window of opportunity with the Empire, he had suddenly realized – thought it hadn’t been because of the recent delay to get to the outpost. No, his place within the new galactic order had been irrevocably lost the moment the Empire had abandoned him on Kamino. Much as he still sympathized with the Empire’s demand for loyalty and order, he didn’t sympathize enough to want to go back to where he knew he wouldn’t be welcome or even remotely appreciated.

            And after all, even at their most distant and distrustful, his brothers were more welcoming of him than the Empire and even the other clones – the regs – had ever been.

            “Will you be staying with us?” Wrecker had asked hopefully, breaking through Crosshair’s epiphany.

            Crosshair had forced a deep scowl. “Looks like I have to.” Noticing the looks of relief that had swept across his brothers’ faces – even Hunter hadn’t quite managed to hide a small smile – Crosshair had hastened to add crossly, “Besides, you all are hopeless. I have no idea how you all survived as long as you did without me around to save your necks.”

            At this, Hunter had sighed, Echo had raised an eyebrow, and Tech had full on rolled his eyes at Crosshair before turning back to the controls, but none of them had said a word about Crosshair’s rather weak explanation for his sudden change of mind; and their silence, combined with Wrecker’s grin and even Omega clapping with glee, meant Crosshair hadn’t felt any need to showcase his stubborn independence by recanting on his decision.

            Crosshair sighed as this recollection came to a close and he found himself in the present day, reclining near his rifle in the back of the ship. Though he sometimes still wished he had managed to convince his brothers to let go of the girl and join him in serving the Empire – he persisted in telling himself they wouldn’t have been left behind on Kamino if he had been successful – he had to admit that he didn’t regret rejoining the squad. Things were finally starting to get back to normal – well, what passed as “normal” for their abnormal squad. He just couldn’t yet figure Omega out, nor could he understand why his brothers doted on her so much; but as far as his other siblings were concerned, a few squabbles and heated arguments had managed to clear the air enough that, while he knew it would be some time yet before his brothers completely trusted him, Crosshair was finally starting to ease into an altered yet still familiar dynamic with each of them. He couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed barely having enough resources to get by at any given time; but at the end of the day, the important thing was that he was starting again to feel that he belonged.

            The only skank in the scud pie was the lizard.

            Ciddarin Scaleback didn’t like being referred to as “the lizard,” of course, which was precisely why Crosshair called her that and nothing else whenever she was within earshot. The squad hadn’t had a chance to tell Crosshair much about Cid’s personality and their history with her before she had contacted them to complain about Gregor just as they altered their course away from Korwin, but the lack of background information didn’t matter. One look at the shifty Trandoshan was all Crosshair had needed to know exactly what she was: an opportunistic thug who didn’t possess even an ounce of true loyalty for anyone but herself.

            And so Crosshair had loathed Cid from the moment he first laid eyes on her, and the more he had interacted with her, the more sure he was that she was an imminent threat to the entire squad. At first he thought the squad simply didn’t understand the danger of continuing to work with her. He knew better now: all of them, except perhaps Omega, were well aware of the threat Cid posed to each and every one of them, which unfortunately was precisely why Hunter refused to break ties with her, especially since they remained without a viable alternate source of income and resources. But what vexed Crosshair the most was the understanding that if his brothers didn’t insist on keeping the stray kid around, the squad likely would have called Cid’s bluff long before now. In fact, if they hadn’t picked Omega up in the first place, they never would have ended up anywhere near Cid at all. And this was just another reason why Crosshair didn’t bother shaking the lingering vestiges of perpetual annoyance he harbored toward Omega: she was the main reason why his squad remained in such precarious circumstances.

            At any rate, Crosshair fully understood the situation now, but that didn’t mean he had to like it, and it certainly didn’t mean he ever had to be civil to Cid.  

            His irritation toward Cid always seemed to grow in proportion to how close they were to Ord Mantell, and this time was no different. Crosshair kept his silence, however, as Tech guided the Marauder into its usual place at the dock and Wrecker picked up the cargo to present to Cid. The trek to the tavern was short, and Crosshair held back a sigh as they entered the dimly lit, seedy establishment. His squad had apparently long since grown accustomed to this place, but Crosshair hoped his own standards would never be brought low enough to remain completely unfazed by his current surroundings. Nothing would be gained by complaining yet again to his brothers, however; best to get this debriefing with Cid over with.

            Crosshair followed his brothers into Cid’s office, slipping a toothpick into his mouth as he brought up the rear. By the time he had stepped far enough into the office to look over Hunter’s shoulder and see the stranger positioned by the desk, Hunter was already arguing lightly with Cid.

            “You told her?” Hunter was saying.

            “Don’t get twitchy,” Cid snapped back. “Phee’s a friend. She’s the most trustworthy pirate I know.”

            “Is that supposed to be comforting?” Echo asked skeptically.

            The stranger, Phee, seemed to take mild offense to that. “Aren’t clones supposed to look alike?” she said as she stepped forward, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “So much for quality control.” Her eyes lingered on Echo only briefly before she turned her attention to the rest of the group, working her way down the line. “This one’s too big. This one’s too small.” Ignoring Wrecker’s and Omega’s crestfallen looks, she barreled right on to Hunter and Crosshair. “These two’ve got face tattoos.” She snorted. “Yeah, real subtle.”

            Apparently noticing Crosshair’s deepening scowl, Phee met his hard gaze and openly smirked. “You must be the outgoing, friendly one on the team,” she declared. Before Crosshair could react, her eyes flicked to the toothpick in his mouth, and she added, “Careful with that, you’re gonna crack a tooth if you chomp down any harder.” Still smirking, she turned her gaze to the last member of the team and suddenly tilted her head in a gesture of lighthearted interest.

            “Oh. Hey now. Got a name, brown eyes?” she said invitingly to Tech.

            Oh, for the love of Fett’s warrior genes, she’s flirting with him, Crosshair realized in horror. It was one thing for something like this to happen while the squad was at, say, 79s – indeed, watching women try and fail to flirt with his oblivious brother was one of Crosshair’s favorite sources of entertainment, second only to the limitless opportunities such events provided to tease Tech about afterwards. But now they had Cid as part of the audience, and to make matters worse, this woman Phee was Cid’s friend. No good could come of this; and as his horror mounted, Crosshair inadvertently bit down on his toothpick with enough force to snap it clean in half.

            He needn’t have worried about Phee’s attempt to chat up his brother. By the time Crosshair had surreptitiously run his tongue across his teeth – reassuring himself that he had only cracked the toothpick, not a tooth – and had tuned back in to the conversation, Tech had apparently already used what Echo had once sardonically termed Tech’s “unparalleled social charms” to successfully – if likely unwittingly – turn Phee off her flirtation attempts, and the pirate was now stepping toward the door with Wrecker in tow.

            “And, Cid,” Phee said, turning back to the Trandoshan before stepping over the threshold, “that intel is not free. I expect a cut if your ‘top team’ comes through.”

            Wrecker followed Phee out of the office before Hunter turned to Cid. “What is she talking about?”

            “Your next mission. You lot are heading to the Outer Rim.”

            If anyone heard Crosshair’s groan, no one gave any indication as they stepped forward to look at the holo of what appeared to be a castle that Cid was now pulling up. Crosshair stubbornly kept his place by the door as a not-so-subtle hint as to his approval of the proceedings, though he still listened to the ensuing conversation with barely-veiled interest.

            “That is Castle Serenno,” Tech was saying now, “the former home of Count Dooku.”

            “Who’s that?” Omega asked.

            “A Jedi who betrayed the Republic and led the Separatists in a war,” Echo replied, in a tone that told Crosshair the ARC trooper didn’t consider Dooku’s death to be a loss.

            Cid wasted no more time getting to her point. “With him being dead, Dooku’s entire war chest is up for grabs. The Empire has already started pillaging his palace, but there is still time to strike before it’s all gone.”

            Crosshair could see Hunter’s answer on his face before the sergeant said a word. “Too much of a risk,” Hunter said firmly. “You want that war chest? You go after it.”

            At Hunter’s unspoken prompting, the others filed behind him out of the office; but Crosshair, casting a quick glance at Cid, knew the Trandoshan would not accept no for an answer.

[hereticpriest]

Swallow

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x reader

Summary: This is a prequel to Bite and a sequel to Chew. This is the wedding night of Laszlo Kreizler and his new wife, The Typist. After much planning through increasingly intimate letters, Laszlo and his wife finally get to indulge in each other.

Warnings: Loss of virginity, educated but not experienced, odaxelagnia, sexual letter exchanges, breeding kink, oral sex, vaginal fingering, mating press, panty kink, panty sniffing, scent kink, mutually masturbating with your partner's clothing, pillow humping, praise kink, pregnancy kink.

Note: Kincsem means 'my treasure' and szerelmem means 'my love' in Hungarian.

Despite your shared disinterest in propriety and societal standards, Laszlo keeps your relationship proper for your good appearance. Regardless of the way you burn for each other, as you both make clear in your decidedly improper letters, you don’t share your first kiss until the end of your engagement, shortly after you set your wedding date. Your courtship is short, which is entirely natural, however your engagement is almost equally short, shocking most of the society pages. Three months after you get engaged, you find yourself married in a lavish but short ceremony, and you demand a portrait for your society column announcement rather than a photograph. John Moore paints you with your new husband, and you know it will cause a stir, for unlike most portraits you’d forgone the stoic expression. Instead, you were smiling, leaning into your husband’s side while he gazed at you with all the love in his heart. Laszlo requested John make a recreation for your home, and your husband smiled as you squeezed John’s hands while professing your adoration for the portrait, drawing an endearing blush to his cheeks. Rumours abound that the speed with which you marry is to cover up a pregnancy, however your lack of bump dispels those rumours quite swiftly. Then, they discover the truth. That you’re simply in a marriage of true love.

You move into your new home in the dead of spring after your wedding ceremony, and Cyrus kindly helps you carry your luggage in, despite your insistence that you can do it yourself. That only spurs Stevie to help, and you find yourself pouting as you’re left with only one bag for yourself. Laszlo meets you in the foyer to show you up to your bedroom, and it is only in private that he reminds you you needn’t stay in your own bedroom, and it can merely be a place for you to get ready for events and store your clothing. Your face burns as you take the bag containing your nightdresses and robe into his bedroom instead, setting it on the bed. He slips up behind you, his arms around your waist as he lays kisses across your shoulder, and you sigh blissfully at the feeling.

While you both have not been what anyone might call tame, you’ve only kissed thrice, and you’ve come to crave the feeling of his lips on your skin. Physically, you’ve been relatively chaste. Laszlo had given your bottom a gentle tap one evening to get you to walk, and you once helped him change his shirt when it had been ruined. That was the most inappropriate physical contact you’d had with each other. Your letters, on the other hand, had been filthy. You had a habit of leaving page and line numbers along with a book title in your letters, leading him to either a sensual quote from a novel, a passage from a scientific text about sexual acts, or a line of poetry that reminded you of him.

In one, Laszlo confessed to enjoying the way you smell, and the way your soap and perfume blended. He would often walk past you just to get a whiff of you. Touched, you replied that you would give him a piece of clothing to hold in your absence - anything he wanted. Your face burned when you read his request, but you couldn’t help the way his choice made desire spark across your skin. The following day, he found a gift box on his desk containing the underwear you’d worn the day before, and you felt his gaze searing into you for the rest of the day while you did your best to focus on your work.

The gift box was back on your desk the next morning, and when you checked inside, you found your underwear, the gusset still wet and the back covered in a questionable stain. You shamelessly wrote him a letter during your work day requesting an item of your own - the shirt he was wearing that day. That evening, while you both were sharing a drink with Sara and John to discuss a development in the police’s case, Laszlo headed up briefly to his bedroom. He returned in a different shirt, a gift box in hand, which he placed in your lap with a charming kiss to your knuckles.

Laszlo came into work the next morning to find the gift box on his desk, a letter attached. In it, you confessed to putting his shirt on your pillow, which made him smile. He paused partway through the letter to open the box, and his cheeks flushed as puzzle pieces clicked into place. He raised the shirt to his nose and groaned softly, going back to your letter to find his wildest dreams come true. Overwhelmed by desire for him, you’d placed your pillow between your legs and ground against it until you reached completion. You’d even demanded a replacement at the end of your letter, since he’d made you ruin the first, as if that was entirely unavoidable and entirely his fault. That day had nearly broken the both of you. You could hardly count the amount of times Laszlo stepped up behind you as if to observe your work, breathing you in and sometimes giving your shoulder a squeeze before continuing on his way.

Which brings you here, to your new bedroom with your new husband who you’ve done nothing but fantasise about for months on end. Whose desires have been laid bare before you, and with whom you’ve shared your own with absolutely no shame to be found. There is no question here - no hesitancy. You know Laszlo wants you, and he knows that you want him. 

“There are no expectations for our wedding night.” Laszlo murmurs against your skin, and you scoff playfully, nudging him in the ribs with a pointy elbow.

“On the contrary, dear husband, for I have expectations indeed. You will make good on your lurid promises from your letters that have kept me warm in bed for the many months I’ve waited to have you.” You correct him, and he laughs quietly against you, clearly pleased. You can feel the hard curve of him against your bottom, and it twitches at your words. You spin in his arms, nipping at his lower lip as your arms drape around his neck, then nuzzling your nose against his.

“This biting compulsion…” He teases, trailing off as you nip at his chin, his hands skirting over your sides to take hold of your hips. You bite your way down his neck, and his breath hitches with every one until you find the throb of his pulse and sink your teeth in properly. Laszlo groans, throaty and beautiful, his hands clutching your hips tightly enough that you might bruise and it makes you tremble with delight.

“Will you rid me of it, Doctor? This burning desire?” You whisper against the growing bruise you’ve left on him.

“I should much rather stoke it, szerelmem. I endeavour to see you fall apart for me many times by the end of the night, little wife.”

His words go straight to your core, and you press your lips to his, clumsy but hungry and willing to learn. He is no more experienced than yourself - though he has the scientific knowledge of anatomy and sexual acts, he has no experience with it, as he confessed often enough in his more intimate letters to you. You tremble as he strokes his thumbs over your hipbones, his lips moving against yours as if he simply cannot get enough of you. Your hands have found their place, one tangled into his perfectly styled hair while the other grasps at his chest to feel his breath shake under your touch. You part with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you pant against each other.

“I love you.” You whisper, and he trembles, pressing closer to you until you can feel the firm line of him through his trousers pressing into your aching heat even through the layers of your clothing.

“Én is szeretlek.” He murmurs back, cupping your cheeks in his hands and kissing you softly, “You are so beautiful, my sweet little wife.”

You whimper. His lips move against yours, tongue sweeping past your vicious teeth as if unconcerned that you might ever hurt him, and you reciprocate clumsily but eagerly. You wish to devour him. You can see it in your mind’s eye, sinking yourself into his body until you can hold onto his heart - chew and swallow until it lives inside of you.

“Breathe.” He reminds you, whispered against your lips as your chest seizes in a desperate need for air, “We have all night. We have the rest of our lives.”

Nothing has ever sounded sweeter.

Laszlo slowly begins to undo the buttons and lacing of your dress, though a bit clumsily with only one hand, and you help him as best as you can. He helps you out of your clothes with the patience of a saint, which you find interesting since he seems to get frustrated when he struggles with his own clothing. Once you’re down to your last layer, you begin to help him undress as well, taking the time to indulge in several sweet kisses as you work. By the time you’re both in only your underwear, you’ve got a beard-burn starting around your mouth, and Laszlo has a bruise forming on his neck. Laszlo presses you back into the mattress, hooking his fingers into your underwear and pulling them down while you blink and examine the expanse of his chest for a place to bite the meat of his pectoral muscles.

“You’ve got the look, little wife.” Laszlo teased, bringing your underwear up to his face and breathing in your scent. You lick your lips, watching as his eyes roll back, a low growly groan vibrating in his chest as he soaks in the smell of your cunt. He drops your underwear off the side of the bed, crawling onto it with you and dropping a kiss to your knee, parting your legs so he can slip between them. Another kiss to your belly, and then the centre of your chest. You catch him off guard when you lock a leg around his hip and flip you both over, and his hands grasp at your thighs, his cheeks going pink at the sight of you atop him. Grinning, you lean down to kiss him softly, combing your fingers through his chest hair. He knows what is coming, but he doesn’t stop you. It’s like he can feel it when you get the familiar ache in your jaw, the need to bite, the bloom of desire to see your mark on him. He looks so pretty with the imprint of your teeth in his skin.

A low, long groan leaves his lips as you cup his chest in your hands, giving yourself room to get a mouthful of his pec, and rolling the flat of your tongue across his nipple. His fingers lace through your hair, gripping gently as you sink your teeth into his skin, and you feel a shiver down your spine at the rightness as the ache in your jaw eases. Laszlo’s voice gets low and soft as he asks you how it feels for you when you bite him, and you whine against his skin, eyes half-lidded as you release him. You haven’t broken the skin, thank god. You always feel horrible when you do. Laszlo guides you to sit up, sitting atop his pelvis with your naked cunt grinding against the rigid hardness of his erection through his underwear.

“It feels… when I get the urge to bite you, I get an ache in my jaw. It feels like a need, Laszlo, not a desire. And when I finally do bite you, the ache goes away, and my thoughts get… quiet. Fuzzy? It feels right. Like eating when you’re starving, or drinking water when you’re parched.” You murmur, splaying your hands over his stomach while you grind on him.

“Fascinating.” Your husband murmurs with not a hint of judgement, resting his hands on your hips, “Would you like to take me like this, kincsem?”

You shake your head after a moment of consideration, laying down atop him and kissing him softly, cupping his cheek.

“No, my love, I want it how we discussed. I want to feel your weight on me. Perhaps next time I’ll try being on top.” You whisper against his lips, and he hums, carefully rolling you both over again so he can fulfill your desires. After so long a seduction - so many desires laid bare with this man who you knew wanted you desperately - you weren’t as nervous about this night as you thought you would be. If it were anyone else, you’d be petrified. But with your husband, how could you possibly be scared when you knew how deeply he desired you? When you knew that he wanted you so badly that the mere scent of your cunt had him taking himself in hand? You are utterly relaxed as Laszlo gently spreads your legs a little wider so that he can see all of you, and you gasp, eyes fluttering as he runs a finger down the seam of your cunt.

“You’re so wet. Does my sweet little wife want her husband?” He asks, rolling his thumb over your clit, a smile spreading across his lips as you gasp and arch your back, “Sensitive, szerelmem?”

You whimper in response, and he circles his fingertips around your hole, easing you into the feeling before he pushes one thick finger into you. It’s a little uncomfortable - his fingers are longer and thicker than yours, and you’ve only ever been able to fit two fingers before this - but more in its fullness than any actual pain. Laszlo takes it slowly, sinking in to his knuckles, then slowly pulling out. He gives you a couple of slow pumps of his finger before he gently pushes a second finger into you. He swallows your moans and whimpers, whispering quiet praise that has you shivering and clenching around him.

“You’re so beautiful, szerelmem. So soft. Your sweet little cunt is so warm and wet, swallowing my fingers, and hugging them so tightly. Have patience, I’m going to give you an orgasm before I take you for the first time, wife. I don’t want to hurt you. I want our intimacy to be nothing but pleasure.” Laszlo murmurs, his thumb gently circling the button of your clit, rolling it in time with the thrusts of his fingers.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was everything you’d ever imagined and more.

A cry rips from your throat as the tide sweeps over you, and you’re dragged into the riptide, your orgasm hitting you with the force of a tsunami. You grip onto Laszlo’s bicep but do your best to be mindful that you’re holding his weaker arm despite the overwhelming pleasure. You’re left trembling in the aftermath, and you watch in awe as Laszlo delicately pulls his fingers from your weeping heat and brings them to his nose, then flicks out his tongue to lick your essence from them.

Your clit throbs in protest of him turning you on again so violently and so quickly, but you watch with bated breath as his pink tongue swirls across his knuckles, and against the pads of his fingertips. You moan loudly as he slips both fingers into his mouth and sucks every drop of you from them. His own answering moan is throaty and deep, breath pushed out his nose harshly as he searches for more.

“Las.” You whisper, and he blinks as he comes back to the moment, his nearly-black eyes examining the way you’re laid out across his bed. He takes a steadying breath, then pushes his fingers back into you, adding a third on the next thrust to make sure you’re ready for him.

“Relax, Mrs. Kreizler, I’ll take good care of you. Perhaps we can spark those rumours up again as to the rush of our wedding.” Laszlo murmurs as he slowly stokes the fire inside you, scissoring his fingers to spread you open a little further for him, “Would you like that, wife? Would you like it if I put a baby in your belly on our wedding night?”

You moan, overwhelmed, your hands skimming up his arms to squeeze at his bicep as you roll your hips into his hand. Your lips can’t form an answer, all words leaving your head except his name, which you whimper desperately. He smiles, fond but edged with desire that strains at his husbandly nature to be good to you, and you gasp as he pulls his fingers free. His weaker hand pushes his underwear down over his hips, and he strokes his wet fingers across his length before fisting himself. You help him remove his underwear the rest of the way, your eyes fixed upon the thick cock you know will soon be splitting you open as he strokes himself before you. His fingers squeeze around the base, and you watch as his balls tighten, and you find yourself reaching for him before he can stop you.

He feels soft but rigid, and you can feel him throb through your palm as you wrap your hand around him and give him a gentle stroke, his quiet moan encouraging you. When you get to the base, you release him, instead cupping his balls and drawing a deep groan from his lips but inciting him to grab your wrist and push you back on the bed.

“Enough, little wife, unless you’d like to bring this night to an early end. I have dreamt of you for long enough that the sight of you was nearly enough to ruin me.” Laszlo says as he lays down atop you, positioning himself at your entrance and then holding himself up with both arms. You sigh blissfully, bringing him into a kiss that is hungry from the start. You break away to bite just under his jaw as he slowly thrusts his hips forwards, and even just the head feels like a fullness you’ve never known. Every inch feels more cataclysmic than the last, and your thighs clench around his hips, every part of you pulling him in deeper while you desperately try to keep a firm grip on who you are. The push of his pelvis into yours, the little gasp he gives as he bottoms out, and the firm pressure of him against your cervix is all doing its best to tear you apart.

Laszlo stops there, nuzzling his nose against your cheek and pressing kisses against your lips as you pant for breath, seeing stars and trying to make sense of them. You feel full, and that fullness feels right, like a completion you’ve never felt before. It doesn’t hurt, but the pressure is somewhat uncomfortable, though it's becoming less and less so as every moment passes. You press your feet into Laszlo’s ass, your arms looping around his neck as you finally come back to yourself, and your husband groans against your cheek as you clench around him.

“Move, Las. Need you to move.” You whisper, and he nods, panting a little as he slowly pulls out of you until only the head rests inside. He plunges back in, and you both groan in unison, trembling together as you struggle for self-control. Laszlo kisses you hard to smother his groans as he planted his arms at your sides and started to thrust. His pace was perfect - not too slow, but not too fast that he didn’t get nice and deep with every thrust, and you had never felt so full. You encouraged him by pressing your heels into his thighs and ass to push him into you, your hands grasping at his back as you moan for more.

“I’m going to… I’m going to orgasm, little wife. Shall I pull out?” Laszlo asks, an edge of a taunt in his voice, and you fall for his teasing easily.

“No! Las, no, don’t, I want it. I want your seed, I want you to fill me up! I want you to put a baby in my belly, Las, please, you promised!” You cry, and your husband’s responding chuckle is dark and lovely. You look up at his smug face with overwhelmed, teary eyes, examining the tenseness in his jaw and the flush to his cheeks to remind you that he’s just teasing and is just as affected as you are. His soft lips kissing away your tears certainly helped.

“Of course, kincsem. I’ll give you anything you desire.” Laszlo grips your thighs and pushes you up, moving with you to bend you in half, and using his body to pin you to the bed, “This position is said to be better for conception. Are you comfortable?”

You nod, your lower lip caught between your teeth as he sank impossibly deeper, and Laszlo begins again after his brief break. His thrusts are once again at that perfect pace, driving himself deep into you while you both pant for breath. He reaches between you both with his weaker arm, needing the stability of his strong arm to keep himself from crushing you, and you howl as he strokes across your clit with trembling fingers. Here, his weakness isn’t such a disadvantage. The soft strokes drive you wild, and you gasp for breath, chest seizing as he drives into you over and over and over again. You come so suddenly you can’t even warn him, and Laszlo groans gutterally as your clenching cunt sends him reeling over the edge into his own sweet abyss.

You sob as you feel his hot seed fill you, seemingly endlessly, each jerk of his hips pushing more deeper inside of you. It takes what feels like an age, and simultaneously like mere seconds before he’s spent, and he presses his face into your chest while he sucks in lungfuls of air. The angle keeps most of it inside even as he slowly begins to pull out to avoid the overstimulation as your cunt flutters, still wracked with the aftershocks.

“I love you.” Laszlo breaths, cupping your face and kissing you so softly your heart skips a beat. You nip his chin once he breaks it, then his nose.

“I love you more, my sweet, perfect, handsome, talented husband.”

He blushes, his smile genuine and soft, almost shy in a way you’re not used to. He wedges a pillow under your hips, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Another method of ensuring it takes?” You query, and he nods, stroking your thighs as he watches a bead of his cum drip out. He kisses your stomach on the way back up, laying beside you and pulling you in close.

“The timing is good. It could happen.” He murmurs, and you giggle, pulling him into a kiss.

“And you accused me of being the one desperate for a pregnancy. Look at you, Las, you little hypocrite.” You tease, bringing his hand up to your lips so you can nip at his fingertips.

“Nothing would make me happier than to see you pregnant with our child, szerelmem, except that you chose to marry me in the first place. Against all odds.”

“Against no odds. There was no one else. I have never felt anything for anyone like what I feel for you. I love you, so desperately I want to devour you and keep you in my heart forever.” You insist urgently, and he soothes you with a kiss, smiling against your lips.

“I love you too, kincsem. I’m so lucky to have you, my sweet wife.”

Your smile is blinding as you stroke the bruise on his pretty little throat.

“You’ll have to wear a high collar from now on, my love.”

“A punishment I will bear with grace.” He whispers as he presses a final kiss to your lips, “Sleep, wife. We will have plenty of time in the morning to play.”

[kanekoii]

a breakfast date with shu yamino (100 follower special)

lyra’s notes -> did i write out the whole damn date with him? perchance. it’s my 100 special so it’s gotta be good yk?

pairing -> shu yamino x gn! reader

genre -> a long ass scenario fic

song -> stops making sense - dayglow

warnings -> food mentions throughout, one singular use of name “darling”

the sun wormed its way through the curtains of your room on a warm morning. it was still relatively early, you figured to yourself as you essentially rolled out of bed and checked your phone, seeing a text from shu asking if you wanted to get breakfast with him in an hour and a half or so. even if he was your boyfriend and had been for a few months now, he never failed to make your heart flutter a bit with his romantic actions. once you texted him a reply that you would be happy to meet him for a date, you got in return a purple heart emoji.

shu had woken up not much before you had, just wanting to take you on a date that spanned a whole day like in his dreams. when you agreed, he couldn’t be happier as he jumped out of bed and began getting ready. he hummed to himself gently as he styled his hair and put together an outfit. he usually wears glasses when not streaming, so he’d have those set aside on his bathroom’s counter while he washes his face using the sink. he was still in his pajamas, just lavender purple plaid pants and a plain black shirt. his hair was messy and his eyes still held the smallest traces of sleepiness in them as he looked at himself in the mirror before running a shower.

you dressed in the clothes that made you feel best, that’s how shu liked it anyway. he’s happy when you’re comfortable and happy with what you’re wearing, so you dressed in that. the restaurant he suggested was a bistro in the nearby city’s downtown area. wouldn’t it be such a perfect day to walk or bike there, you thought to yourself as you strolled a few streets down to shu’s apartment. when he opened the door, you got a good look at his outfit for the day: black jeans, black combat boots, a dusty purple colored t-shirt that was slightly baggy on him, a deep purple belt around the waistline of his pants, only visible because his shirt was tucked in slightly, and a necklace with a penguin charm on it. his hair was tied into a messy ponytail at the back of his head, purple streaks poking through at some points. the front of his hair was relatively the same, pink streaks framing his face. the only different from how he usually did his hair was that his blonde bangs seemed more tamed than usual and hung over one of his eyes a little.

he squinted since he didn’t have his glasses on yet, but he was very vocal about the fact that just because his vision was blurry didn’t mean you weren’t the most attractive person he’d ever seen! he’d stumble around before he put on his glasses, deep purple eyes no longer squinting and able to fully see how absolutely adorable you are! when you asked if he wanted to bike to the bistro he suggested only to be met with the question of if you had brought your bike at all, shu couldn’t help but kiss your forehead! he knows it’s cheesy but just seeing you think and try to figure out things is so endearing to him! he’s super big brain, and you are too to him, even if you aren’t the smartest in reality.

his question of “can we both just use mine?” surely didn’t signal you that you would be sat in the little basket on the back of the seat, wrapping your body around him for support as the both of you laugh from joy and adrenaline. he had put on a jacket before you left, just plain black. you buried your face into the hood to avoid the air whipping your face (seeing as he was biking pretty fast by now) and inhaled his calming scent that was present in the fabric, in his hair, on his skin. he smelled like a campfire. not a bad kind of fire, a warm and comfortable one that reminds you of warm summer nights spent with friends around a fire, laughing and sharing stories and eating s’mores until the sun had risen.

breakfast with shu wasn't anything particularly special, just the both of you ordering filling breakfasts and a caffeinated drink of choice. for him, it was coffee with a vanilla flavored cream to balance out the bitterness of it. he couldn't help but smile so happily when he spends time with you, offering you a freshly picked flower upon leaving the restaurant. he knows you have things to do but he wanted to make your morning a little bit better by tucking the fresh flower behind your ear with a quiet “i love you so much. have a nice day, darling”.

[pishifuzul]

Hey theoretically if you were a relatively new and tame porn blog and someone you followed messaged you in a chill, friendly manner and you got scared and ghosted tumblr for ten days. What do you.. do. How does one reply? Does one reply?? Do I just start reblogging again and pretend I never saw it?? This has nothing to do with you, I mostly just think you’d get a kick out of the interaction (or.. fail of an interaction) k thanks love you bye

this is what we call a "customize your life" choice point. you can do whatever you want. respond (however you like, as if no time has passed at all even), ignore, block, keep posting. i guarantee you the stakes are nonexistent.

[29625]

Slimav Yuletide treat—A tale about a tacky snow globe, Maverick’s pining for Slider, and Slider being a drunk magpie.

Came up with this little piece when I was browsing some holiday decorations. Post TG, pre-relationship (one-sided pining by Mav). Set in my long-term Slimav universe, Just What I Needed, somewhere around late 80s.

Happy holidays!

“Tell the Magpie I Love Him”

“Snow globes are for adults,” he muttered. “You hear that?”

The dive bar was bustling as usual. Maybe more than usual, and more than his own liking. The holiday spirit was all time high, now that the X day was in their sights. Almost three days left. That was why there was a snow globe sitting on the counter, he supposed. A cheap-looking one at that. The red base was ten shades lighter than looking less like a malfunctioned plastic, and even under the dim light, their choice of figurines inside the sparkly water was quite questionable—a Santa and a snowman, their faces melding with the tint of sun-breached glass as they stood, smiling like they meant it.

Maverick nodded at his clearly drunk friend—and quickly came to realize that he wouldn’t make himself understood in the pool of noises, just like trying to talk under the water, their voices bubbling and dissipating into the deep green sea. He enjoyed spending time with him, nevertheless. Even if the topic didn’t make sense, or didn’t sound like it made sense, chit chat, chit chat, it was a perfect talk that both would both amuse and soothe him. He knew how to entertain, or tame, his fiery yet somewhat awkward former classmate-colleague-turned into a friend with his nurturing charm; a small incentive for having dealt with his baby brother and his equally fiery and slightly more reasonable pilot.

His personality had long grown on Maverick. If he wasn’t using the relative term, then, Maverick had long been liking him, even.

“I hear you.” he replied, idly kicking the leg of the bar stool. “Those gaudy little glitters and Santas and stuff?”

“Oh, yeah.” Slider said unfazed and tilted the glass globe in his hand. In an almost delicate manner, he’d say, despite the calloused look of his fingers—matching with Maverick’s own. And that was one reason why he could bring himself to listen to him for a little longer, if not solely for how soothing his deep tenor was in his stoned ears. “Very much so.”

He cleared his throat before placing the snow globe down on the sticky counter. His head soon dropped to the eye-level of those aesthetic atrocities of festive figurines. Not minding his awkwardly squashed posture, or maybe not feeling the uncomfortableness from all the booze in his system. Maverick could relate, at least—he felt warm and cozy inside, in spite of the draft of the air leaking inti the room.

“You think snow globes are for adults?” Maverick asked after a long, drunk, and rather comfortable pause.

Slider nodded in response, his head still rested on his arms. He gazed at the globe, and Maverick followed by lowering his eyes to really look at the same sight as him.

“Y’know,” he muttered. “They are just…some finer things in life.”

They watched as the glitters floated around the miniature house. Those things shined bright, then turned almost colorless under the shadow. Drifting and moving, falling off and shaken up. It had been Slider who would touch the globe, but Maverick soon joined in, each taking turns being the one to influence and the one to witness the sight unfolded. It reminded him of the idle morning in the winter, or how its beauty would blow some chilling wind caressing his cheeks. The paint job, as well as its overall structural sturdiness, would’ve been called a bad one, indeed, considering this thing had sat in some random dive bar as a last-minute and whimsical effort for the festive season. Yet he found himself being drawn to those figurines, how they beamed at them with those derpy eyes and oddly tinted lips, for their peculiar charm that seemed to enhance the sentimental beauty of shimmering snowflakes.

“See?” his teeth were peeking from his lips as he smiled, coloring a soft, boyish look on his otherwise sharp features. “It’s for us adults, those who ‘precitate stuff.”

“Or,” Maverick grinned back, turning and facing him. “It could be for you magpies.”

“Dickhead,” he scoffed at the teasing remark, returning his gaze for a moment worth of teasing glare. “You don’t know shit about good things in life, clearly.”

“What? Tryna be prissy and start critiquing me?”

Maverick playfully nudged him on one shoulder, not being able to ignore the warmth beneath his clothes. His muscles are firm yet pliant under his fingertips, and his lightweight sweater radiated a certain warmth that seemed to cling to his own. The little scenery tilted in the glass globe as they—two grown-ass, muscular men—squirmed in their seats.

“Careful,” Slider said in between his amused giggles. “Think about breaking this, man.” he pointed at the globe, now sitting on the counter, with the water inside of it turned slightly upset. “I don’t wanna look too much like I piss glitters all over my weenie.”

“Your Johnson,” Maverick replied almost instantly, uttering the first thing that popped up in his head. “Was it?” he grinned.

“Jerk.” was the only thing Slider muttered, burying his face further into his crossed arms.

Maverick knew he was most likely giggling still, despite the façade of offense. His hazel eyes peeked from the façade of their childish play, shimmering under the fairy lights above them. Slider was still holding the tacky globe like a fine glass of whiskey, with his mesmerization palpable in the glow of his cheeks, his glued eyes, reflecting all the shimmers on those irises that shone no less brighter than the glass surface. He swore he could see as the small world of the snowy ski resort and the Denali and the Santa village strips its cloak of mirage in his eyes, above the hint of blush on his cheekbones, on those thin lips adorned by the faint residue of gin.

“You joining Baby Goose for the holidays?”

The sentence hit the atmosphere quietly. Slider was not looking at him, his gaze still lingering on the tacky glass globe.

“Well, duh.” Maverick took a sip of his own drink as if to fill in the raspy halt in his speech. “…C’mon, what’s so fun about holidays if not for your cool Uncle Mav, huh?”

Slider returned an approving grin that spread across his face. He’d always be like this, inadvertently showing a glimpse of his nurturing side whenever he was secure—vulnerable—with him. “You two kids have fun, then.”

“Want me to tell him how to appreciate snow globes?” Maverick asked as he rested his head in his hand.

Their eyes met for a while, with his gaze and Slider’s glossier hazels getting intertwined like threads. The tingling feeling would creep up like a plague. It had been creeping up like a plague, like a trail of cold wind tugging him by his ankle. The close proximity between them seemed to amplify the tension that was about to melt the damp blue of the glass in his hand.

“Definitely,” Slider whispered. His lashes framed his droopy eyes, motionless as he gazed into him. His eyes were like a half moon in the sky, reflecting all the luminous lights on those bright surfaces before they were gone in the clouds, hidden by the shadow of his long lashes as he smiled. “I’d love that.”

His lashes fluttered as he blinked, like the silver snow in the water. Onto his shoulders and across his chest fell a strip of shadow, etching a sharp, strong line on the mixture of colors and shapes breathing underneath. And that was the moment when Maverick was reminded of how his body had felt against his fingertips, how pliant his muscles were—moving, writhing, waxing themselves like the shiny wings of those birds. It felt great, however weird it might have sounded. It made him crave for more, a never-ending chase for the shimmer.

For a moment, he felt as though they were alone together, basking in the distant glow of lights, watching the world tilt and flicker.

“Merry Christmas,” Maverick whispered against the rim of his glass as if to say his prayer. “Merry Christmas, Ron.”

His eyes held a serene halo within them, blessing him. His lips opened and closed a few times before forming a slight smile. “Merry Christmas, Pete.”

[spot-the-antisemitism]

All right. This isn't exactly antisemitism, but it's adjacent. I'm sorry for disturbing you, I'm just trying to make a closing comment to my anon asks.

Hello. I am a person who prefers to remain anonymous because I don't want my blog to be associated with political discourse. So far, I sent exactly three anons where I use my self description as an Israeli Orthodox Zionist Jew as the only signature (though another thing two of them have in common is length). I have sent some time ago an ask to Feygaleh, asking her to hear me out in an attempt to de-escalate the situation between her and most of Jumblr with full awareness that it's not very likely to succeed. I tried (among other reasons) because she was relatively new to Tumblr, so I thought she couldn't be too deep. I was not aware of everything she posted on the topic of antizionism and antisemitism.

So, when she said she was willing to hear me out I sent her another ask, detailing a certain outlook at some things - it was relatively tame and was more about tolerance and two theoretical extremes on the scale of Zionism - both with the fundamental flaw of excluding everyone who disagrees with them and not accepting Judaism that isn't Just Like Them. A link will be supplied in the end.

Feygaleh published my ask without saying much on it. That would've been the end of it. But because I've asked on anon and thus wouldn't have been notified of the answer, I was visiting Feygaleh's page regularly to see if she answered. And that led me directly to Mossadspypidgeon's reply on Feygaleh's post about Shabbat.

What I did next was pretty foolish, and a result of me possibly perceiving Feygaleh's willingness to listen as more significant than it probably was. And I didn't really enjoy seeing someone harassing someone else on a post that has nothing to do with antizionism. So, I sent Mossadspypidgeon an ask explaining why I think she's been acting in hypocrisy (one if her reblogs of the aforementioned Shabbat post talked about harassing people on unrelated posts. That... Didn't end up well. She insinuated I was defending an antisemite, sending pictures of myriads of posts by Feygaleh - including one when she reblogged Black September, which I was not aware of. In addition, she insinuated that Feygaleh wasn't Jewish at all and obviously enough doubted my self identifications - which, fair, I really can't give receipts for those, not yo speak of anon. I didn't intend to use it as a way to legitimize my criticism, I just really needed a recognizable signature because I didn't want to be mixed up with other anons. And one of the reblogs apparently suggested that I'm STA? Which, I can't really refute all things considered (still anon), but I'm pretty sure my writing style is distinctive enough from theirs, even though I was a little too cynical and sarcastic in the latter ask.

I'm sending this to you because you seemed to be slightly closer to my views on Feygaleh and this affair - the view that she's probably a Jewish antizionist, and that harassing her on unrelated posts isn't good.

I'm sending this as closure - I don't intend to write any more anon asks on the topic, not to speak of talking about it in my blog. Mossadspypidgeon gave me a stark reminder of why I don't do that - my blog can't have any more credentials than an anon ask regarding my identity.

On that topic, I would say I was trying to develop a way to identify people it's safe to talk to about Israel - based on how many times and in what contexts they mention Judaism or the Jewish people. People who have zero posts mentioning those or just ones about Queer Jews are probably fine, ones where Jews are only mentioned in relation to I/P as tokenization are worrying and probably problematic. And the easiest (though not necessarily certain) meter for if someone is really Jewish is how many posts simply talking about Jewish life they have. With blogs like yours - blogs that focus on talking about antisemitism for the most part - it doesn't really work, though.

Feel free to not answer this ask, as it technically doesn't have much to do with you. Here's the link to my second ask to Feygaleh: https://www.tumblr.com/feygaleh/768809808901128192

I would prefer to not supply a link to my ask to Mossadspypidgeon, but in the spirit of full honesty: https://www.tumblr.com/mossadspypigeon/768960817988288512

That sums up what I've done here, I'm not sure I added any good to the world if I'm being honest, which is another reason for me to stop. So, thank you for answering my ask*, and goodbye. Oh, and sorry for dumping it on you.

---

*no one will see it if you don't answer, so it's sensible to say this!

here's my own reply to it like Feygaleh and Mossadspypigeon have had their little nemesis spat but really the idea that if someone is faking Jewish they deserve harm and harasment is terrible and why she blocked me AFTER unblocking me solely to get screenshots from me so yeah she's definantly using me but I feel like Feygaleh is tokenizing you instead of having a real convo with an Israeli, the fact that you are anonymous and don't have posts Faygeleh could disagree with or be upset by makes you the perfect token Jew

"With blogs like yours - blogs that focus on talking about antisemitism for the most part - it doesn't really work, though." No actaully the way a Jew and a gentile talk about antisemitism is completely different, I think you can tell I experience it first hand when I talk about it so no. I disagree

and the reason she blocked me? I defended her instead of staying silent and let her get abuse!

Be free of drama and go have closure anon,

Cecil

[brookemoonie]

a midnight conversation with a friend on friendship

I was sitting at one end of the bed, Faye at the other, her joint hanging loosely between her fingers. The air was thick with incense and the faint, sour tang of weed. She took a drag, exhaling smoke that curled toward the ceiling like a ghost unwilling to let go. “Every year, she’d text me right at midnight,” I murmured, my voice catching on the memory. “She was always the first to say happy birthday.”

Faye half-smiled, the kind of smile that held both humor and grief in a delicate balance. “No one does that anymore,” she said, her eyes drifting somewhere far beyond the room, maybe to the streetlights, or to the night itself. I stood and moved toward the window, desperate for the sting of cold air to clear my head. I hadn’t smoked in a while; it made me even more paranoid, turned my thoughts into wild animals I couldn’t tame.

“Do you know who remembered my birthday this year?” I asked, my breath fogging up the glass. “You girls, a couple of relatives, and… that’s it.” She let out a raspy laugh, coughing slightly as she joined in. “Same here. Just you guys… and a couple of random hook-ups,” She raised her joint in mock salute. “Not even A or F,” she added, her voice soft, almost bitter.

A and F. The friends she spent every waking hour with, the ones whose absence in her life felt as impossible as the sun refusing to rise. “You didn’t talk to them that day?” I asked.

“Of course we talked,” she said, her tone dry, her gaze still distant. “They wanted to know if I could get coke for G’s birthday party.”

I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Unbelievable.”

She smiled back, but it was a smile tinged with something unspoken. She got up to grab water, leaving me alone with the flickering incense and the weight of her words. I watched the smoke curl and straighten, curl and straighten, as if the room itself were breathing. My eyes wandered to her bookshelf, rows of titles on attachments and intimacy, just like my own collection back home.

The room was quieter now. Fewer cars passed outside. When she returned with a pitcher and two glasses, I decided to tell her about O. The friend who disappeared a year ago, stopped answering my messages, left behind only the ghost of what once was.

“I saw him this week,” I said, sitting back down.

She tilted her head, curious. “How did it go?”

I searched for the right words but found only confusion. “It was… like nothing had happened,” I said finally.

I told her how he hugged me, asked how I’d been, introduced me to his girlfriend—a sweet, warm girl I liked instantly. We had drinks, laughed, swapped stories like old times. But the whole time, all I could think about was the silence he’d left behind, the year I spent wondering what I’d done wrong. I smiled when he joked about how our next meeting wouldn’t take so long. But the joke felt like an aftertaste, bitter and impossible to swallow. I knew we wouldn’t meet again—not like that, not the way it used to be.

Faye lit another joint, her movements slow and deliberate. “It’s not about you,” she said after a moment. “They don’t need us anymore. That’s all it is.”

I stared at her, startled. “But we weren’t like that,” I protested. “There was no transaction, no ulterior motives. We were just… friends.”

“Even that can be a transaction,” she said quietly, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Think about it. He has a girlfriend now. A job. Work friends. A best friend. What can you give him that he doesn’t already have?”

I laughed bitterly. “So friendship is just… that?”

She shrugged, exhaling. “When you say he acted like nothing happened… maybe, for him, nothing did.”

I didn’t reply. Her words hung in the air like the incense smoke, twisting and shifting but refusing to dissipate. She was right, wasn’t she? While I drowned in questions and self-doubt, he had simply moved on.

Faye smoked in silence, her gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, then at the incense stick, now burning erratically, as if it too had been shaken by the night.

It was nearly midnight. I looked at her and smiled, hoping she couldn’t see the flicker of sadness behind it. She smiled back, and for a moment, I let myself believe that we’d never become those friends who only see each other once a year.