#And I end up with the following list of tags:

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - II

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: Arthur's obsession with you intensifies and reaches a point of no return when you catch him red-handed... ✦ Warnings/tags: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation (again), Arthur is still a little pervy, stripping, p in v, Arthur's self-esteem's still shitty, sub!Arthur at first then switches into dom, Reader is a BIG tease. Mainly Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 5k (oops) Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

 A ruby, squared, soft form.

His eyes are stuck on it as his thoughts unthread and tangle endlessly in his brain. 

Arthur was a damned man. He had been for a while now and this fatality had settled into his head for a few years already. His sins were so numerous and varied that he hadn’t even considered the thought of going to rest in Heaven when the Grim Reaper would finally put an end to his sufferings. 

But even considering all of this, the gunslinger had definitely not planned on adding a new sin to his list by jerking himself off while watching you almost every night for more than half a month. Oh, the same old speech was still playing in his head; his gesture leaking with shame and muscles sweaty from fear of getting caught. The adrenaline and depravation of the act, the sweet, sweet relief of his orgasm, and the momentary satisfaction he was pulling out of it every time was a very dangerous cocktail; he knew it.

He knew, knew, knew everything of that, of course he did. And still, his fingers opening his fly carelessly. Still, his eyes searching for this sublime silhouette of yours. Still, his cock hardening, itching, burning, begging to be grabbed. And still, his hands taking the doomed responsibility of answering the call. Still his muffled groans, his lips bitten, his silent words spoken in his head, your body joining him. Still, your hand, instead of his. His spend, less and less consistent, spurting quickly and spreading on his dirty clothes, the silence following, the emptiness, the shame, the guilt, the coldness amplified by his intimate fantasies. Like those dark loud nights of storms, air charged with electricity, and left in heavy disturbing quietness after the last lightning struck. Still, dreaming, wanting, longing. 

Still you.

He felt insatiable, like an enraged, mad dog, pathetic bastard. And paradoxically, as he finally had found sleep again after allowing his body what it needed, he felt weaker than ever. Weakened by you.

You hadn't left him after the first night he had succumbed to temptation. You had branded his spirit with a red-hot iron. Damned him to a lifetime of ache, a mortal succumbing to a Mermaid's melody and sailing in search of her on an infinite sea.

 A ruby, squared, soft form. 

It’s your shawl lying on a chair. You forgot it a few minutes ago, but he didn’t say anything about it. He’s still looking at it, hands fidgeting, mind pondering. What’s good and what’s bad. The ugliness of his self and soul. The risks, the benefits. 

He thinks back to the day you and him just shared. A job in Rhodes, “needing to be taken care of by two people”, Dutch’s words. He had sent him, which was predictable —the gang’s workhorse rarely knows rest. But you? It surprised him a whole lot more. Something about the job requesting some “feminine charm”. He hadn’t complained. Not when he had realized he would be able to spend some time alone with you. 

And his gaze had been wandering way more than what common decency was allowing him to. Staring and dreaming were all he had been doing lately, anyhow.

Looking at the delicious cleavage your fancy dress was offering when you got out of your tent and joined him back at camp, your breasts pressed up and round, almost impossible not to devour with his eyes. All he could do was make a sarcastic comment about it as the only defense against his urges. You moron Morgan, just say something nice for once. Luckily -or not- for him, you had wrapped your appealing shoulders in the sophisticated cherry-colored cape to prevent the coldness of the night.

Looking at your back as you both rode into town, looking at your neck when he helped you off your horse once into Rhodes. Looking at your lips as you two were sat in one of the Parlor’s house boxes, the job long-forgotten when he had noticed this little wrinkle next to your lips, that one you have when you laugh and find something funny. He would have to add it to his endless sketches of you.

Looking at your thin, sneaky hands from afar as they were slipping into that wealthy gentleman’s pocket to steal the papers you were both here for in the first place. It all felt distant and insignificant to him now, as a forgettable theater play set in the background. 

Later, you had been the one looking at him when he had come to your rescue. The “gentleman” was being insistent with you. As you both had crossed eyes from across the reception room, Arthur had read your apprehension and silent call for help in just a split second. And here he was, puffing out his chest, look dark and intense, muscles tensed. The perfect look of a man you don’t want to cross, that look he and Hosea had worked hard on building, scars and broad shoulders gained after all these years of intimidation. He was so used to it by now he wasn’t even sure he knew how to be anything else. His pointer finger tapping threateningly on the shiny Deputy Star he had on his jacket and his deep, menacing tone had acted as the final details. You should leave the lady alone and get some fresh air, pal. The fool had dropped the case and returned with his tail between his legs without any clue what had actually happened.

And then, your sweet voice asking for a drink. “Come on, we got to celebrate! Finally, a job well handled without a drop of blood.” How could he ever say no to that? It was almost too good to be true. Spending the evening with you, laughing, talking, philosophizing.

Arthur didn’t know he could be that talkative. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was your presence. Maybe a bit of both. And he had paid for everything. A good hot dinner for both of you, your drinks, and two rooms the moment you told him you were too tired to ride back to camp. Oh, he could have given you all the Wolrd’s treasure if that meant you would keep looking at him with these pretty playful eyes.

As the evening passed, the gentle flow of your endless conversations had led you from the bar to the stairs, to the second floor, to the hallway, and eventually to his room, naturally and serenely, like a rowboat ride on a summer lake.

And finally, after a few yawns exchanged, some delicate eyelids rubbed by you, you had left him to sleep, completely forgetting about your shawl, hanging on one of his room’s chairs. And you had greeted each other goodnight. As friends. This was all he would ever be to you, he knew it. And it was better that way. Like this, he was preserving you from having a pathetic man and a pathetic life being his. He was like an infertile soil, anyway. Any seed you would plant and try to harvest with him would end up rotten, corrupted. Fruitless.

And now left in the stillness of the room, in this deafening silence without the sound of your voice, his vision fixated on your abandoned piece of clothing, the most sinful of all thoughts is digging its way through the fibers of his brain, fed by need and alcohol, gnawing at his neurons, eating up any rational reasoning. 

A ruby, tempting garment of yours.

He wants to grab it. To smell it. He wants your perfume to completely fill his nose, so much it would be like drowning in your scent. You wouldn’t be coming back for it anyway, considering how tired you looked a few minutes ago. And you’d never know about it. Just like you didn’t know he was watching you all this time through the fabric of your tent. After all, he was already so deep down into this rabbit hole of lust, what would it change?

And just like that, before he can even think about it more, his arm is already extending, his fingers wrapping around the forbidden fruit.

A descent into Hell he is not able to stop nor control. And at the same time, it feels like getting closer to Heaven.

He lays on the bed, back against the coarse sheets that still felt better than his cot back at camp, and brings your stole to his nose, almost covering his face with it. He closes his eyes.

And he breathes in.

Hell. If God wanted him to stay virtuous, why did he create such a temptatious woman like you? Your scent is without any surprise just as irresistible and bewitching as your whole self.

The fruity notes of it remind him of your skin and lips he wants to taste so badly, a mouth-watering gourmet scent. The floral and fresh ones, of this sparkling mischievousness in your eyes. And in the end, as he exhales, warm and spicy aromas rain on him. They fill his mind with a deep sense of comfort, as if scenting directly your hair. It’s intoxicating, spellbinding. Driving him deeper into his madness. He doesn’t try to resist, not anymore, this delightful fresco of fragrances painted just for him.

Naturally and almost subconsciously, his vicious right hand reaches his crotch. He’s already hard. Just by smelling your shawl.

This time you’ve really hit rock bottom, old bastard.

He doesn’t even bother thinking about it more, he already knows he’s too deep in; already knows he won’t be able to stop himself. 

Ah shit, screw it, jus’ a quick wank.

He quickly unbuckles his holster belt, then unbuttons his pants, and snakes his hand between the folds of his union suit. A silent swift dance he is used to repeating by now. 

He breathes again a long, deep whiff, and wraps his fingers around his cock thinking of you, once more. 

He sees you and your perfect body, and everything blends and blurs in his heated psyche. The form of your breasts and ass through the tent's canvas he knew by heart at this point. Your smirk, your eyes looking back at his, only his during this night spent together. Your heady, addicting scent surrounds him and fuels his fantasies even more, making them more vivid than before, the soft fabric of the stole against his skin a light caress he imagines yours.

He strokes and strokes and strokes, he needs it more than ever, even if, truth be told, every time is more than ever. His pinkish cock’s head is reddened and swollen from having been rubbed so many times lately, sensible and almost pained. But he doesn't care. It makes him feel even more alive. Even more here. Simply better.

He wants his body to feel pleasure. Pleasure, for once, instead of pain. Pain all the time, pain everywhere, bullets through his muscles, knives on his skin, cutting through his flesh, fists against his bones, breaking his jaws, his nose, his cheeks. Broken, used, beaten, ripped, bruised, overworked, abused. Oh, he’s tired of it. Only in those prohibited moments, he can experience pleasure. No matter how wicked and profane.

The room is now filled with those wet, fast-paced sounds, his rustling against the sheets, and the smallest of grunts coming from his unholy lips as he fucks his fist. Your name escapes him from time to time, muffled by your shawl he's still holding all against him with his left hand, and breathing the air from.

As if all the World’s oxygen would never be as good as breathing through it. As if everything else would feel thick and fusty in his lungs. No Mountains, no Oceans, no flowers, not the tastiest food, nothing could ever compete with smelling your scent. 

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Goddamn it, she’s perfect. A big, hard stroke. Oh God, yes, just a bit more…

Too absorbed by his delirious daydream, he doesn't notice right away the creaking of the door as you enter his room again, searching for the very thing he's using to masturbate right now.

“Arthur, I’m sorry to bother you again but I think I forgot my sh—”

You freeze.

SHIT! He instantly curses loudly and jumps from the bed so suddenly that he almost falls to the ground. A stumbling mess, his holster crashes on the wooden floor with a loud percussive sound as he shoves his member back into his clothes as fast as possible, looking like a disjointed chaos of limbs. He is mortified. There is no way in the world you won’t understand what was just happening. He ends up standing next to the bed, after having thrown your cape at the other corner of the room with such force it looked like the damn thing was made of burning iron. And he doesn’t even know why. Maybe to distance himself from his sins. To try and erase this horrible vision from your pretty eyes. His labored breath and fast-beating heartbeat are now ruled by panic instead of lust. For all his life he had never experienced such shame and felt so utterly stupid. 

There is a small moment of silence, heavy and embarrassed. A little time of denying. No, this can’t be happening. But your look turns in circles from the bed, him, and the scarf, circling him like a cornered animal. That’s it, his pride is dead right here in this stupid hotel room. You see right through him, he’s sure of it. Your piercing beautiful gaze lands on his ears a few times, and he knows they’re crimson just by the heat he can feel on them. But the worst thing of all is his bulge, obvious and raised up as a flag right in the middle of his thighs, under his badly buttoned fly. Like a Mausoleum to his Dignity. The damn thing refusing to shrink and obviously screaming loudly his offence to the whole World. All the contrary, your gaze falling on it produces the exact opposite of what he wants, his cock almost twitching in return. 

Damn it!

Damn it, damn it, damn it!-

“Where you… Hum…” You start, before clearing your throat slightly.

“ ‘m sorry, Am… I didn’t mean to… ‘m such a goddamn fool.” This is the best he can come up with. What excuses could he have anyway? Nothing could justify what he did.

You had never heard his deep asserted voice so chagrined. Utter fear and shame. You didn’t even know he could feel that way.

His gaze is fixated on his dirty boots, refusing to cross yours. Just as goddamn dirty as me. 

“Were you pleasuring yourself, Mister Morgan?” You ask, your tone slightly playful. He doesn’t see it, but a mischievous grin settles on your face.

He takes your tone as a mocking one. You would have all the right to mock him. That’s all he deserved.

He tries to answer but doesn't even dare to admit it verbally, as if it would aggravate his situation. He just nods slowly, as seriously as if he was at a funeral. 

“With one of my clothes?” You ask again, your grin widening.

Another nod, his eyes shutting as if he had been hit by something, your sentence making the whole thing even worse. Oh, just a few seconds ago, he was feeling more present and alive than ever, and now all he wanted was to disappear or die.

He hears more than he sees your steps on the parquet. Every stomping sound hurt him a bit more. He doesn't even dare to move. As if everything he would do from now would offend you. Even breathing, no, even existing is too much.

She’s going to slap me. A step. She's going to yell in my face. Another step. I’m dead. A final step.

You’re so close to him now he’s holding his breath, eyes closed, ready to face the well-deserved punishment of your choice for his trespass.

But he's only met with stillness until you speak again.

“Arthur, do you really think I was that hot in my tent, every night?”

The words reach his ears but his brain refuses them. His mouth opens in astonishment. He closes it to swallow loudly and opens it again as if trying to speak in utter confusion.

“You… I… Wait, really?”

“I never thought you could be that naive, honestly.” You answer, a little chuckle escaping you. One of your hands slowly reaches the side of his face, but he still shivers slightly when it touches him. You guide his head back up for him to finally look you in the eyes.

Arthur's two blue sapphires are topped with anxious brows. A bright confusion and a soft vulnerability. They don’t settle too long on one point of your face out of nervousness, as if they could burn you.

“M-me neither.” He simply whispers, a bashful, nervous smile settling on his mouth. He still doesn’t move.

“Do you really think I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, mmh?” You continue, your fingers traveling from his face all the way down his neck, gently caressing the base of his hair.

You can’t be serious right now.

“I… I don’ know…” And he really doesn’t. This is all so unbelievable to him that he’s persuaded this is all a dream and he’s going to wake up any moment.

The only thing anchoring him to reality is your fingers exploring him, making him slowly let out the breath he had been holding in his chest.

“Let me help you finish what you've started…” You murmur, voice low and obvious to what you’re implying, sultry, suggestive.

He feels his shaft pulsing again instantly in answer, his body once again taking the lead. He’s about to say something, to ask you if you’re sure you want to do this with an old bitter moron like him, but one of your hands is already reaching straight to his crotch, palming his warm, needy erection.

“Anh…!” The moan turning into a groan he lets out duplicates your own arousal.

His hips rock against your hand involuntarily, the need for contact of any sort getting more powerful than his shame. He still doesn’t dare do much to you though, not wanting to cross any more limits. He lets you handle him just like you want. He lets the flow of life take him instead of fighting against it, for once. The only gesture he allows is settling his big hands on your back, sweaty and almost shaking.

Oh, your sneaky fingers. They touch and grope and palpate, and he sighs louder. It feels so much better, to have your hand touching him.

After a few more teasing caresses, you sway in a smooth motion and playfully push him backward, making him fall on the bed. He sits there, looking up at you with those two adoring cerulean pupils, as if you were the Sun itself. A distant magnificent star, impossible for him to reach, condemned to only contemplate.

“Get your clothes off.” You order, his reactions making you more confident and straightforward than usual. 

He is quick to obey. You could have asked him to jump off a cliff and he would have done it without even thinking. His clothes fall one by one on the floor and you feast on every area of skin he’s offering you. He ends up entirely naked for your eyes. This Titan, cascade of virile hairs everywhere, prominent scarred muscles carved into stone by Ares himself, gorged with raw powerfulness and designed to kill. To survive. And between those open thick thighs, his aroused member. The one he thought of as the triumph of his shame a few minutes ago, is now the Apotheosis of his Glory. Thick, long, hard like him, surrounded by a crown of tawny curls.

“Look at you…” You let out, almost licking your lips. But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t see what you do at all. Instead, he let his gaze wander on your chest, and you can almost hear the silent plea in his gaze for you to join his nakedness.

Standing right in front of him, you begin to strip yourself out of your clothes, agonizingly slowly, your face displaying this provocative grin that turns him on so much. It’s purposeful, and you feel your own arousal rising as you notice the red coming back to his cheeks and ears.

First, your boots and socks, discovering your delicate legs. Then your blouse, showing your shoulder and chest, then your skirt. He stays silent all the while, enjoying your little show more than you could imagine. Your hips swaying, your arms gracefully dancing, each piece of clothing falling on the ground, this is all a trance he's getting hypnotized by.

Seeing you undress just for him after all those nights spent on his cot touching himself watching your shadow is like adding all the missing color from a masterpiece, enhancing and fulfilling.

“That’s what you’ve been thinking about?” You purr proudly, now in your undergarments.

“God yes. Yer a real’ angel.” He praises in a fevered-like whisper.

You smirk as all answer. “Come on now, show me those dirty things you’ve been doing.” You speak while nodding at his crotch in an almost challenging way.

His hand instantly reaches for his cock. It was itching him to since you had looked at it earlier. He presses his fingers hard around it and he grunts softly, the sound incredible to your ears. Obeying you and surrendering fully to his depravation, he slowly starts stroking himself again while watching you intensely. What did he do to deserve such a splendid spectacle?

That’s when you decide to slowly bend inward and undo the last pieces of clothing you still have. Just a few gestures and your breasts are bare and hanging for him to look at. Jeee-sus. You see and hear his hand speeding up. 

Lastly, you reveal your own sex to him, a pearl between those gorgeous thighs of yours, and he curses out loud this time.

“You're so goddamn beautiful. I could... Damn, I could finish right now jus' lookin' atchu.” He confesses, his cheeks, ears, and chest getting even redder at his own words.

“Really, uh? You're quite easy to tease, Mister Morgan.” You tease, before turning around and bending again, wanting him to see your bottom, taking a more than suggestive position with your ass up.

“Oh, for God sake.” He nearly chokes, his rhythm accelerating again; almost frenetic. This is all he ever wanted during those cold lonely moments. All he ever needed to see. And he can’t help but engrave every little detail in his mind; the little scars you have here and there, the different tone and grain of your skin, your hairs, your body’s hollows and bumps. Every little imperfection. And they make it all even better. Better than any fantasies he had ever pictured in the past few weeks. Because they are making you yourself.

You turn again to face him and straddle his lap, unable to resist your own urges that had been building and building since you had found him touching himself to the thought of you.

That’s when something finally lights up in his mind. The moment he feels your soft, warm thighs around him, and how you’re soaked in between them, it hits him. You’ve been wanting him just as badly as he wanted you. As odd and surprising as it sounds to him. This new reality is right there against his tip as you start rubbing your entrance against it, teasing, playing, pressing just a few inches in, gently praising how big he looks and how good it would be to have him inside of you. 

That thing inside of him explodes.

Suddenly his hands are all over you. Touching everything they can, discovering, molding your curves under his fingertips. Hands on your thighs, hands on your hips, waist, neck. Each part of you touched is breaking every chain that was holding him back, one by one. These perfect sensations blind him to any reasoning, any sense of restrain, and push him to palm your breasts. God, the softness, the warmth. He sighs in appreciation as he kneads both of them and you join his pleasured breathing.

More.

One of his hands leaves your chest to grab your ass, roughly, and he squeezes, hard, while he sucks on the breast that has been abandoned. “Arthur!” You moan out in return, pleasured and surprised voice, mouth left open in delight. Oh, he will satisfy you. Those renewed vows appear as clear as day between the mess of his head as he keeps devouring your nipple endlessly, almost suckling at it. He will push that voice of you to its limit, break it until you won’t be able to scream.

“That’ what you wanted all this time, uh? Drivin’ me insane?”

You search for something clever to throw back at him but the calloused hand on your breast suddenly reaches your cunt and you gasp instead. 

“That’ what you do? Torture poor devil like me until they can’t help but fall for you?” He asks again, his confidence heightened by your sweet sounds, his tone getting darker and darker. Touching your folds pleasures him almost as much as you, his brows furrowing into a needy and intense expression.

“J-just you… ‘Just wanted you to notice me…” You admit, your hips rolling on his lap and against his hand. His fingers part your cunt and trace their own way through this little Heaven, exploring this place he had craved so much; and it makes him more excited than any thoughts he could have had on his own.

“Well, that sure worked, girl.”

He lets go of your pussy and you squeal in protest, almost ashamed of your own sound. He smiles triumphantly at you, feeling satisfied to give you a taste of your own medicine. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, your chest ending up pressed against his face; his nose is shoved in it and he sighs louder this time. 

He can’t wait any longer. Not when he has been dreaming of this for weeks. Not after discovering your unforgettable perfume. Not after having felt this wet, warm promise of your entrance. He looks up at your face, searching for any trace of disgust or apprehension but you're completely free from any. Mouth agape, breaths deep and hips shamelessly searching for his, you're even more gorgeous than before, and he snaps.

He guides you carefully, his hands warm and hard against your bare skin. And he pushes.

His sex entering you slowly is deliciously hard and hot. His cockhead is big, way bigger than what you’re used to, and feels so good already. His arms hold you in place as he pushes again, wanting to be completely stuffed in, a long, low growling sound accompanying his movement. Oh, Christ Almighty. He had never felt so good than buried like this in your warm, silky, divine cunt right now.

Once fully settled, you both sighs and breath loudly for just a few seconds, your gazes meeting and silently agreeing on how fucking delicious this feels. Then you move up, wanting to ride him, feeling his shaft pull out as you do, but his arms grab you tighter and put your hips back in place.

“God!” You whine as you feel his length plunging again and hitting that spot inside of you.

He starts to buck his hips up against yours, unable to resist anything anymore. His rhythm, he wanted slow and meaningful at first, is quickly turning fast and hard, a remnant of how incredibly frustrated and needy he had been all this time.

“I’m gonna -Ohh, shit- I’m gonna show ya what ya get teasin’ me like that.”

Arthur's southern drawl is even more prominent, his voice hoarse and deep from effort. His thrusts up are more and more powerful, making you jump up and down on top of him and for the first time in days he thanks himself for having pleasured himself so many times lately, otherwise he would have come instantly right there in your heat. Your breasts bounce in this erotic, unresistible dance that he’ll remember for every future night he'll spend alone.

“Oh Arthur, don’t stop!” 

His cock pulls out and shoves into your cunt so fastly it's rubbing perfectly how you want it deep inside and you reach for his shoulders, needing to hold onto him, already so close. “Yes, yes, yes, right there!”

He hears your accelerating breathing, your higher-pitched moans turning into screams and he searches for your lips with his. Your tender petals against his dirty mouth. But he doesn’t care, there’s only your pussy right now, and your incredible smell he’s filled with once again, just like you’re filled with his tongue and his dick inside of you.

Both his hands grab your ass and he fucks frantically, his balls slapping against it with each thrust, making your plump flesh jiggle and those hitting and smacking sounds resonating throughout the room. Again, and again, and Damn it again.

It’s too much for you. 

You cry out loudly as your fingers dig into his shoulders and your head tilts backward, and his big, solid arms keep you pressed against his chest, completely wrapped around you; and he finally, finally feels it. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, instead of pain. This irresistible release, your pussy clenching and squeezing all around his cock. “-Ngh, s-shit yes angel, give it t’me!”

You give it all to him without any resistance and in a obscene scream. And it’s too much for him.

“Ah, God…” He hisses as he feels it coming, quickly pulling you up —as effortlessly as if you weighed nothing— and pressing his cock against your clit, well nestled between your lips.

He reaches your lips again, needing to finish while kissing you, both of your bodies almost sewn together, his moans sounding more and more like primal growls and hisses at every rubbing movement against your core, movements getting faster and faster, impossibly faster, So fucking good, Jesus so goddamned perfect, Perfect, perfect!- Until he finally comes, translucent cum leaking all the way down his shaft and spreading on your lower belly, all panting and grunting, a complete mess; a satiated beast.

It’s better than any of the dreams he ever had, waking or sleeping. And it’s not just the release of this one and only time, it’s the pinnacle of all these lonely pleasures shared with no one in regretful secret.

For the second time that night, he thinks he’s dead. 

He falls backward, back against the mattress, and you follow, unable to stand without him. In that silence only disturbed by your exhausted breaths, he turns and grabs the first piece of clothing that he has at hand’s reach, his flannel. He gently uses it to clear your belly from his seed and seeing it, on your smooth and soft skin, makes a wave of culpability crash onto him once again. Shouldn't have done all of this. Should have taken care of her properly.

A dark, glum expression settles on his face and he wraps himself in a deep silence instead of your arms as he finishes to clean the both of you. God, did that man ever know rest for more than a few minutes? At this thought, you bend over to put a small kiss on his forehead, as a thank you for his aftercare.

“Satisfied enough?” You finally break the silence, getting up from the bed –not without stretching your back slightly and swaying your hips before bending to reach for your clothes on the floor.

Arthur cannot help but think of a Nymph as you do all of this still naked. Those irresistible, divine beauties that lure men with a simple move of their finger, as they say in books. He knew it was all stories from another time, but he was more and more convinced they would look exactly like you if they did exist.

“More than in a long time. You?” He replies, voice neutral and features closed as usual. He stays on the bed and put only his pants back, his cock finally softening under the coarse fabric. He never stops looking at you all the while.

“Couldn’t be better”. You assert, your blouse falling back on your upper body. You then roughly fix your hair in this casual, impish way that was yours.

That was driving him insane.

“You’re a little minx, ya know that? Gettin’ naked on purpose every night…”

“Oh, please. You didn’t really complain as far as I know.”

“Nah, but ya did make me insane. Teasin’ littl’ thing y’are.” He says with a fond voice he would have preferred less obvious.

You innocently shrug your shoulders, cheeky grin on your face. The way you're playing with him that easily should have been shaming to him, but he doesn't feel any shame anymore, not after what you have shared.

"Goodnight, Arthur." You throw as all answer, leaving him as you walk through the door of his room. He greets you back, the trimmest trace of longing in his rough voice.

Once again alone, once again cold, Arthur grabs a cigarette from his pocket to smoke before falling asleep; maybe to keep this lingering warmth just a bit longer, the sensations of your body, and especially your sex squeezing around his, still remaining on his skin. Lying completely in the bed, he smiles to himself as he notices you have forgotten your shawl —again. Or maybe you had left it on purpose. Maybe you had both times, now that he is thinking about it. The ruby fabric had landed wrapped all around his old, worn-out leather jacket, like a flame dancing around, enveloping, lapping at a tree.

It looks great that way.

Maybe you were only playing with him. Maybe this was only a one-time thing. But who cared? Tonight, Arthur had been taken care of by a Nymph. And no other mortal pleasure, no other solitaries delights, not even the most lustful and depraved images he could have pulled out of his tormented mind could ever compete with that slice of Olympe you had given to him.

a/n: Yeah, 5K words, I knooow! I'm hopeless. It's quite a lot, but I didn't feel like cutting, nothing felt right. What can I say except thank you, so much, for everyone's interest in the first part, for your notes, comments and reblogs, and for reading all of this! I am in utter PANIC rn because I feel like nothing I could write would be as good or as well received as the first part, but here it is! I really hope it didn't disappoint!

Also, to give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, the holster falling was completely inspired by my dear @zae-heeyyy's Piquancy (II)! I thought it would fit the comical aspect of the scene eheh (go check it out)

tag list: @a-court-of-valkyries, @redwritr, @cassietrn, @esquilone, @starlightt180, @narcoticv3nus, @thoughts-of-bear, @emjiroki, @prettyundeadgirl, @eternalsams (I tried to tag people who had shown interest in a part2, really sorry if I missed anyone!)

[ouidamforeman]

Hello! Thank u for tagging me :)

Last song: I was doing errands and listened to I Melt With You by Modern English in the car lol

Favourite colour: green green green

Last book: the last book i completely finished was Piranesi by Susanna Clarke but I'm currently reading a lot of other ones especially paying attention to Wild by Amy Jeffs (medieval folklore retellings with woodcut illustrations), Seeing Sodomy in the Middle Ages by Robert Mills (a textbook about depictions and visibility of deviant sexuality in medieval Europe), and The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune, all of which I have been enjoying

Last Movie: literally couldn't tell you lol, genuinely I think it might have been Wicked last month

Last TV show: Bluey jfdhgjkdfhg I always have a cartoon on while I'm working

Sweet/spicy/savoury: all of them I don't have a preference

Last thing I searched online: oh jesus i havent saved my google search history since 2018 so I couldn't tell you but according to my browser history my most recent Search search not just clicking around socials was uhhhhh looking for pre-16th century artwork on the public domain image archive lol. I've also been going through my old Ao3 history and the beginning of the good omens tag to find more old book omens stuff for my bookmark rec list

Current obsession: its good omens its always good omens but also currently the middle ages obsession has ramped up from its normal background radiation if you couldnt tell haha

Looking forward to: ngl my current reason to live is the good omens graphic novel release in spring/summer, i bought a pretty high tier so im getting a lot of stuff and even a year and a half later i still think it was so worth the money, and also im very excited bc at the end of february im visiting my friend in DC and we are going to a good omens fan meetup together as well as going thrifting at antique malls and my favorite used bookstore :)

people I’d like to know better: hngmgmg fuck idk as soon as i tried to think about it i immediately forgot every person i know lol so if we r mutuals or u follow me feel free to do this if you want to i always like saying hi to my mutuals and followers :)

Ten people i’d like to know better

Thanks for the tag @hermiola

last song: one of the songs I loved most lately is 'In The Modern World' by Fontaines D.C.

favourite colour: blue

last book: that is not fanfic? 😂 The last book I've read is Persuasion (and yes, it was my first time). I'm currently reading Emma and a very Italian book written by the same awesome author who tagged me for this game (@hermiola 💜)

last movie: I can't tell you the last 'new' movie I watched at the cinema because I'm a bit ashamed (it's a Xmas movie made by two Italian youtubers, but what don't we do for our kids?). Last movie I watched on my couch, though, is Underworld: Rise of the Lycans (and yes, I don't feel fine about it 🤣)

last TV show: I'm watching THERE SHE GOES for the first time and I've just re-watched Around the world in 80 days. I'm also currently re-watching Scrubs and Staged with my husband (his first time, he's loving it 😂). Last 'new' show I've watched and finished is probably Dead Boy Detectives, though. Oh, I'm also currently re-watching Good Omens. Like constantly, always.

sweet/spicy/savoury: savoury

last thing i searched online: holiday vacation destinations for next summer (because the kids, again, you know 😃)

current obsession: Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens-Good Omens. Probably, also the whole M+D world (so, Staged too, apparently) 😂

looking forward to: those fu**ing pictures of Michael and David with dyed hair.

ten people i’d like to know better: (no pressure tags 🤩)

@anatomic-girl @ineffablerainstorm @somewhere-in-wales @captainblou @firephoenix2305 @phoen1xr0se @sunrisesinthesuburbs @bellisima-writes @yokohamama @missunderstoodlyrics

[bussolares]

── AFTER PRADA.

ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ 西村力 x fem! reader content idol-au established+secret relationship au inspired by the sound of prada pictures explicit suggestive content one mention of reader calling riki pretty boy kissing implied suggestive ending ✿ warning just a reupload from my previous blog. . .!? ˃ᴗ˂ wc 961 𖦹 mlist and tag list

note. i had made some minor changes to the text but the overall content is still the same.

Draped in a sleek Prada dress that shimmered under the golden lights, you stepped out of the car, waving your hand at the public as you took the lead down the red carpet. Your fellow group members followed behind you, moving in a neat and orderly line. Cameras flashed nonstop without stopping, capturing your stunning appearance until you entered the club where another wave of cameras had been awaiting you.

Upon the staff’s instruction, all of you had to take a few individual and group photos before you could fully enter. Once that was done, you were free to do as you pleased.

Eyes flickered across the crowded room, searching for a face you knew too well. It had been too long since you last seen him, since shared moments were reduced to texts and fleeting video calls. The memory of Riki’s playful smirk and the warmth of his dark eyes washed over you like a whispered secret.

And then, as if conjured by the force of your thoughts, you saw him—entering the club with his members. You were captivated by his figure, watching as he confidently moved through the crowd with Heeseung resting a hand on his shoulder. 

You find it adorable with how Riki’s face brightened up the moment his eyes locked onto yours. He exchanged a few quick words with Heeseung before quickening his pace, wanting to be near you as soon as possible. Your members shared a mischievous giggle when they saw the rapidly approaching figure and left you alone, not before sending you a teasing wink.

You didn’t have sufficient time to react when you were embraced in a bone-crushing hug. You returned the gesture, senses filled with nothing but Riki. 

It was with reluctance that he pulled away but he remained close, close enough that you could see the mischief and happiness dancing in his eyes. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “Oh? I could say the same, Mr. Prada’s favorite ambassador.” 

Riki chuckled, the sound making your heart stutter. “Well, I had to dress up nicely since I’ll be seeing you again.” 

His gaze roamed over you, taking in every detail of your outfit. The fitted satin dress in black hugged your frame, its off-shoulder design showcasing your collarbones and delicate silver necklace; the very same necklace he had gifted you on your first date. The slit along one side revealed just a hint of leg, giving you an air of elegance tempered with a touch of daring.

His eyes softened at the sight, a flicker of admiration and something more intense sparking as he took in the way the fabric shimmered under the lights. 

Before he could say a word, you smirked and stepped closer, hooking your finger through the belt hoop. The action made him freeze, eyes widening slightly as he shifted his gaze back to yours. 

“Stop staring at me like that, pretty boy,” you said, voice playful. 

A lopsided grin broke out on Riki’s face, the tips of his ears turning faintly red. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, leaning in so his words ghosting against your ear. “You make it impossible not to.” 

His grin softened into something deeper, his gaze searching yours as he took a step closer. The chatter and music around you seemed to blur into white noise. His eyes darted down to your lips, a flash of longing darkening his features. Without another moment’s hesitation, he leaned in, closing the space between you with desperation that made your breath hitched. 

You rested your hands on his broad shoulders, having to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eager lips. Riki rested one hand on your waist, drawing circles through the fabric of your dress. The heat of his breath mingled with yours, the brush of his lips igniting sparks in your stomach. He cupped your jaw gently, fingers tracing the line of your cheek. Shivers ran down your spine when he bit down on your bottom lip, aggressively shoving his tongue down your throat as he pushed you back until you were pinned against the wall. 

Thankfully, both of you are in a secluded corner of the club but that doesn’t mean your current position remains completely unseen from the public. Both of you knew you’ll get a good scolding from your respective managers tomorrow and how the entire internet will have a breakdown. Between the two of you, you were supposed to have a sense of responsibility but with how Riki was practically sucking the air out of your lungs, you couldn’t find it in yourself to stop him. 

Instead, you allowed him to take as much as he pleased. A whine was ripped out from your throat when Riki explored your mouth, as if he had been starved for a month. You were starting to feel light-headed and breathless, your lungs begging for oxygen. But no matter how you tried to pull away, he kept chasing after your lips, as if he could not get enough of your sweet taste. You tugged on his hair, trying to get him to stop but he refused, your action eliciting a pleased groan that does wonder to your heart. 

Eventually, he took mercy and stopped ravaging you with his lips. His previously neatly-styled hair was now messed up. His plump lips were swollen and red. There was nothing but desire written all over his face as he greedily drank in your current state. Riki grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the crowd and to where the backdoor is. 

“Where are we going?” You asked, despite already knowing the answer. 

He shots you a smirk over his shoulder. “Somewhere quiet and without eyes prying so I can continue kissing you.”

[rowanwolf]

"Why Are There So Damn Many Ways to Spell Gryphon" - a memoir by a gryphonkin who wants to tag all the other gryphonkin but not spend eight years adding tags to their posts.

[gallawitchxx]

day thirty-one • @gallavichthings kinktober 2024

↳ 31 days of kinks & cards in 3 sentences

WAX PLAY x THREE OF WANDS

By the end of the night, you’re dripping with come and covered in the tri-colored candle Ian insisted on buying at the new sex shop down the block. You’ve survived hours of sensory overload like you’ve never before experienced: the hot sting of the wax, the cool caress of breath blowing it dry, the ache in your balls, the pulse of your prostate, the fullness of Ian’s cock buried so deep your belly bulges, the warm splatter of spunk—yours, a relief, a reward; his, a benefit, a brand. Later, you’ll breathe and bathe, cleaning yourself of all but your filthy memories, but now, you blink and beam, soaking up what you can of Ian’s attention, his praise, and his unconditional, unrelenting love.

[batsplat]

new casey podcast have you seen it

https://m.youtube.com/watch?si=ye8wNfrvaPDjtpDV&v=IuwZN6aP8sg&feature=youtu.be

(link to the podcast) yeah I did, cheers!

there's not that much 'new information' per se within this podcast, though there's a bunch of nice tidbits about teenage casey. what stood out to me is how the framing of his journey to becoming a racer is... well, it's kinda new? it's not exactly surprising, because you could get a lot of this stuff from reading between the lines in his autobiography. the question of 'is this your dream or your parents' dream' is a very common one with athletes, and it's often a thin line... but, y'know, this podcast interview in particular is quite a noticeable shift in how casey himself talks about this issue. it's a shift in how he portrays his 'dream' of becoming a professional rider back when he was formulating his autobiography, versus how he's answering questions in this episode. his autobiography isn't free from criticism of his parents - but casey is always stressing his own desire to race. so you do get stuff like this (from the autobiography):

At this point things were getting serious. Dad used to say, 'If you want to become World Champion you can't be that much better than local competition,' holding his finger and thumb an inch apart. 'You have to be this much better,' he'd say, holding his arms wide open. Dad confirms this feeling still today: 'I know it's a harsh way to look at things but that's the difference between a champion and the rest. Just look at the careers of Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo. Dani had Alberto Puig and Jorge had his old man, both of them hard as nails. If you want to make it to the top I think it takes somebody with an unforgiving view on life to help get you there. So I said those things to Casey, particularly when we went to the UK, because to keep moving up a level he couldn't just be happy with winning a race. If he wasn't winning by a margin that represented his maximum performance then he wasn't showing people how much better he was than the rest.' There's no denying that Dani, Jorge and I became successful with that kind of upbringing and sometimes you probably do need it. As far as I'm concerned Alberto was nowhere near as tough on Dani as my dad was on me or Jorge's dad was on him. That kind of intensity and expectation puts a lot of extra pressure on a father-son relationship that isn't always healthy. We definitely had our moments and there were a few major blow-ups to come. But at the time, rightly or wrongly, it was proving to be a good system for us and I was eager to continue impressing my dad and others with my performances on the track.

(quick reminder, jorge's review of his father's style of parenting was describing him as "a kind of hitler")

but in general the emphasis is very much on how much casey enjoyed racing, on how single-minded casey was when it came to racing. he might have been isolated by his racing (again this is from the autobiography, in the context of discussing being bullied by kids in school until he got 'protection' from his dirt track friends):

School life was a whole lot better after that but I still hated it. All my real friends were from dirt-track; they were the only people I had anything in common with.

and he's talked about how other parents misinterpreted his shyness as him not actually wanting to race, which meant they were judging casey's parents as a result (autobiography):

Mum tells me that the other parents thought she and Dad were awful because I cried as I lined up on the start line. She remembers: 'I was putting his gloves on his hands and pushing his helmet over his head. The thing was, I knew Casey wasn't crying because he didn't want to ride or because he was scared. He just didn't like the attention of being stared at by all these people!'

but like. overall racing for him was still something he portrayed as a very positive aspect of his childhood. something he always clung onto, something that was his choice to pursue

so... let's play compare and contrast with some specific passages of the autobiography and this podcast, you decide for yourself. take this from his autobiography:

After I started winning more times than not, and it was obvious my passion for bikes wasn't wavering, Mum and Dad decided that seeking out sponsors could be a great idea to help offset some of the costs of travelling to meets and keeping the bikes in good order.

and here, in a longer excerpt about what a sickly child casey was, what his mother said (autobiography):

'They tested him for cystic fibrosis and he was on all kinds of medication; you name it, he was on it. But Casey still raced, we couldn't stop him.' I know I was sick but Mum was right, I wasn't going to let that stop me.

versus this from the podcast, when he's responding to a completely open question about how he got into riding:

To be honest, I don't know if I was allowed to have any other attraction to be honest. I think it was, you know, you're going to be a bike rider from when I was a very very young age - and I'm not the only one to think that. I think my parents have stated that enough times to certain people and you know I was sort of pushed in that direction. My elder sister who's six and a half years older than me, she actually raced a little bit of dirt bikes and dirt track before I was born and when I was very young, so it was sort of a natural progression to go and do a little bit more of that and I think because at the time road racing was a lot more similar to dirt track. That was our sort of way in.

this was one of the very first questions in the interview, it basically just consisted of asking casey how he got into biking in the first place - whether it had come through his family or whatever. casey chose to take the response in that direction... it's not an answer that is just about his own internal passion, how he loved riding the second he touched a bike, how he loved it throughout his childhood etc etc (which is how it's framed in the autobiography) - but instead he says he wasn't allowed to do anything else. he says that he was pushed in that direction, that his parents have openly said as much to others. that he feels vindicated in the belief he was never given another choice

let's play another round. here from the autobiography:

Mum and Dad used to stand at the side for hours on end watching me practise at different tracks. They'd sometimes clock laps with a stopwatch as I went round and round. Other parents couldn't see the point in taking it so seriously but they didn't realise it was what I wanted. I was having fun. Working out how to go faster was how I got my kicks and I couldn't stop until I had taken a tenth or two of a second off my best time on any day. If another kid came out onto the track with me I would be all over them, practising passing them in different ways and in different corners, but most of the time they avoided riding with me and I would be out there on my own, racing the clock.

and this (autobiography):

I enjoyed racing so much that even when I was at home riding on my own I would set up different track configurations to challenge myself. I'd find myself a rock here, a tree there, a gatepost over there and maybe move a branch and that would be my track.

versus here, in the podcast:

Q: And did you realise at the time that you were - not groomed, is not the word but well you were being groomed to be a professional motorcycle racer, or obviously that was your only one reference point, that was the norm. Did that just feel the norm or did you think actually this feels a bit intense or how did you feel about it? A: I think it's hard, it's not until I sort of reached my mid teens where I started to have a bit of a reality check on what I was actually doing. Before then, you know I was competitive. I'm not as competitive as people think, I'm a lot more competitive internally rather than externally versus other people. I always challenge myself to things, so all those younger years was just getting the job done that I was expected to do. I enjoyed winning, I loved it, but you know I enjoyed perfect laps, perfect races, as close as I could get to that and you know from a young age I always sort of challenged myself constantly to be better. So I didn't just win races, I tried to win them - you know, if I won races by five seconds in a [...] race I'd try and win, you know I'd try and get to double that by the end of the day if I could. So you know that always kept me sharp and it stopped me from being sort of, you know, complacent in the position I was at. And it wasn't until sort of you know 16, 17, 18 that reality kicked in. I'd had a couple years road racing in the UK and Spain, been rather successful and then you get to world championships and you know maybe an engineer that was sort of - didn't have your best interests at hear. And, you know, I nearly finished my career right there after my first year of world championships just because of the reality of how hard it was in comparison to everything else I'd experienced up to that point. And, you know, it was a real reality check for me and I think it was then that I started to - you know consider everything around me and consider how and why I got to the position that I was in and that's when the mind started to change a little bit and realise that you know I really was being groomed my whole life just to sort of be here and be put on a track and try and win. And, you know, that was my seemingly most of my existence.

in all the excerpts, he stresses how much he enjoys his perfect laps, how much he enjoys riding, how there is genuine passion there, how dedicated he is to this pursuit... but then in the podcast, he's adding something else - how he'd been groomed his whole life into that role of 'professional bike racer'. that it was only in his late teens (when he was in 125cc/250cc) where he had this moment of 'man I never really had a choice in all this'

and another round. here's him talking in the autobiography about how all the money he got through racing went back into racing - but it was fine because it was the only thing he cared about anyway:

I don't remember seeing any of the money I earned because it all went back into my racing, although I guess at the time that's all I really cared about anyway. I didn't know anything else. Mum and Dad always said to me: 'If you put in the effort, we'll put in the effort.'

and here in the autobiography on how he just wanted to ride all day:

I couldn't ride my bike all day, though, as much as I would have liked to.

and him talking in the autobiography about his parents encouraging him and his sister to 'chase their dreams':

Mum and Dad encouraged both Kelly and me to follow our passions and work hard to chase our dreams. That might sound strange when you are talking about a seven-year-old but I don't think you are never too young to know that if you want something you have to earn it.

versus this in the podcast:

Q: And I've never asked you this before, but did you want to? A: Um... I think I'd been convinced of a dream I suppose. You know, yes I loved riding bikes and you know I really did enjoy racing... but there was lots of other things that I - I really enjoyed as well but just never had the opportunity or never was allowed to do anything else, so... You know, motorbikes for our budget everything fortunately dirt track was probably the cheapest way that you could go motorbike racing. You could survive on very very little in dirt track and show your potential in other ways. You know, yes, having good bikes and good tyres and all that sort of thing made a difference but it wasn't the be all end all, you could always make a difference in other ways, so... I think it was, you know - the best thing we could have done, racing through that. Like I said I enjoyed it, it wasn't until late teens, early 20s where I sort of was like, I don't know if I would have been a bike racer had I actually had a choice.

was riding really all he cared about? or were there other things he was interested in, things he just never had the opportunity to pursue? things he wasn't allowed to pursue? from the autobiography, you get the sense that his parents always deliberately portrayed it as casey's dream, something he was expected to work hard for in order to be allowed to fulfil. in the podcast, casey says it was a dream he was 'convinced' of. without wanting to speak too much on the specifics of this parenting relationship we only have limited knowledge of, this kinda does all sound like athlete parent 101: getting it into their kids' heads that this is the dream of the child, not the parent, before holding it over them when they fail to perform when their parents have invested so so much in their child's success. casey's family was financially completely dependent on his racing results when they moved to the uk - he was fourteen at the time. he was painfully conscious of his parents' 'sacrifice' to make 'his dream' possible. can you imagine what kind of pressure that must be for a teenager?

to be clear, this isn't supposed to be a gotcha, I'm not trying to uncover contradictions between what casey said back then and what he's saying now. obviously, this is all very... thorny, complicated stuff, and casey has had to figure out for himself how he feels about it, how he feels about how his parents approached his upbringing. but it is worth pointing out that this isn't necessarily just a question of his feelings changing over time - if the internal timeline he provides in the podcast is correct, he was really having that realisation in his late teens, early 20s, so on the verge of joining the premier class. that is when he says he had the thought "I don't know if I would have been a bike racer had I actually had a choice"... which is a pretty major admission, you have to say, especially given how rough those premier class years often ended up being on him. but then that realisation would have already come years and years before he wrote his autobiography, it would've been something he carried with him for most of his career. given that, you do look at his autobiography and think that he did make the decision to frame things pretty differently back then, that he decided to exclude certain things from his narrative. if this really is already something that's been festering within him for years, if he does feel like he wants to be a bit more open about all of that now than back then... well, hopefully it shows he's been able to work through all of it a bit more in the intervening years

(this is somehow an even thornier topic than his relationship with parents, but relatedly there is a bit of a discrepancy between how bullish he is in his autobiography about how mentally unaffected he was by his results, versus how he's since opened up since then about his anxiety. again, I want to stress, this is not a gotcha, he's under no obligation to share this stuff with the world - especially given the amount of discourse during his career about his supposed 'mental weakness'. it is still important in understanding him, though, how he consciously decided to tell his own story in the autobiography and how he's somewhat changed his approach in the subsequent years)

this is the rest of his answer to that podcast question I relayed above:

But at the same time you know I felt that no matter what I would have done, I sort of have a - my mentality of self-punishment, you know, of never being good enough that always drove me to try and be better and any single thing that I did, I didn't like it when I wasn't not perfect. I don't believe in the word perfect but I really didn't enjoy when I wasn't, you know, in my own terms considered a good enough level at anything I did so I would always sort of try to get up as high as I could regardless of what for.

at which point hodgson says exactly what I was thinking and goes 'god what a line' about the "mentality of self-punishment" thing. it is one hell of a line!

what's really interesting about this podcast is how these two big themes of 'this wasn't my choice' and 'self-punishment' end up kinda being linked together when casey talks about how the motogp world reacted to him... so again I'm gonna quickly toss in a bit from the autobiography (where he's talking about casual motorcycling events he went to as a kid), because it does read similarly in how for him the joy and competitive aspects of riding are closely linked:

It was a competition but it wasn't highly competitive; it was just for fun, really. Of course, I didn't see it that way, though, and I had dirt and stones flying everywhere. I don't think anyone expected the park to be shredded like it was. When I was on my bike, if I wasn't competing to my maximum level then I wasn't having as much fun.

and back to the podcast:

And also because people truly didn't understand me, that I'm not there just to enjoy the racing. As we're explaining, before that, you know it was sort of a road paved for me... And so the results were all important, not the enjoyment of it. And then you cop the flak for everything you do. I'm also very self-punishing, so it was kind of a - just a lose lose lose and it was all very very heavy on myself, so... It, you know, it took me till my later years to realise I could take the pressure off myself a little bit and go look you've done all the work you've done everything you can, you got to be proud of what you've done, so... Not necessarily go out there and enjoy it, because I don't believe you should just be going out in a sport where you're paid as much as we are expect to get results and just - you know - oh I'm just going to go and have fun it's like... yeah, nah, if you're just going to go and have fun then you're not putting in the work. And that's when we see inconsistencies etc. So I was very very harsh on myself and so even when I won races, if I made mistakes or I wasn't happy with the way I rode, well then yeah I'm happy I won but there's work to do. There was more to get out of myself and so that's where I copped a lot of bad... um, let's say bad press because of those kind of things and then they sort of attack you even more because they didn't like the fact that you didn't celebrate these wins like they wanted you to they expect you to I suppose treat every victory like almost a championship and you know it's not that I expected these wins but I expected more of myself and therefore maybe I didn't celebrate them as much as you know other people do.

kind of brings together a lot of different things, doesn't it? this whole profession was a path that was chosen for him... which he links here to how the results were 'all important' for him, how it just couldn't ever be about enjoyment. he always punished himself for his mistakes, he was under constant pressure, which also affected how he communicated with the outside world... he was so committed to self-flagellation that he made it tough for himself to actually celebrate his victories, which in turn wasn't appreciated by the fans or the press. so on the one hand, casey's obviously still not particularly thrilled about how much of a hard time he was given over his particular approach to being a rider. but on the other hand, he's also describing how all of this can be traced back to how becoming a rider was never actually his 'choice'. he's detailed his perfectionism before, including in his autobiography, including in discussing his anxiety disorder more recently - but this is explicitly establishing that link between the pressure he'd felt during his childhood to how he'd been pushed into this direction to how he then had to perform. he couldn't afford to be anything less than perfect, so he wasn't, and at times he made his own life even tougher as a result of his own exacting standards. this just wasn't stuff he's said in such straightforward, explicit terms before... and now he is

my general thing with casey is that his reputation as a straight shooter or whatever means people aren't really paying enough attention to how he's telling his own story. like, I kinda feel the perception is 'oh he used to be more closed off because the media ragged on him but since retirement he's been able to tell it like it really is' or whatever. and I'm not saying that's necessarily wrong, but it's not quite as simple as that. because he's not a natural at dealing with the media, he's put a fair bit of thought into how to communicate better with them (which he does also say in the podcast), and he's explicitly acknowledged this is something he looked to valentino for in order to learn how to better handle. because casey has felt misunderstood for quite a long time, he's quite invested in selling his story in certain ways - and it's interesting how what he's chosen to reveal or emphasise or conceal or downplay has changed over time. which means there will be plenty of slight discrepancies that pop up over time that will be as revealing as anything he explicitly says... and it tells you something, what his own idea of what 'his story' is at any given time. this podcast isn't just interesting as a sort of, y'know, one to one, 'this is casey telling the truth' or whatever - it's reflecting where his mind is at currently, what he wants to share and in what way, and how that compares to his past outlook. the framing of his childhood was really something that popped out about this particular interview... it's not like it's exactly surprising that this is how he feels, but more that he decided to say all of this so openly. some pretty heavy stuff in there! hope the years really have helped him... man, I don't know. figure it all out, for himself. something like that

[acaciapines]

rereading random bits of descendants of olympus (as one does) and. vera <3 still soooo obsessed with how she takes lupa's divinity. like MAN.......there is something to how shes had to scrape and claw her way into every single good thing shes ever had. that she's never just been able to KEEP these things, that she is always always always fighting for them. and so of course she takes divinity. she wants to LIVE. and in this world where the fates themselves are trying to control her, its like--yeah. maybe you do need a gods power to finally get like, at least a year of the life you want. the life you werent supposed to have. forever thinking about vera's one line in her chapter thats like 'of course the fates are losing power. because they'd never let someone like leo into my life.' YELLS. FOREVER.

also have we talked enough about minnie I THINK WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT MINNIE--

[twodiamondhoes]

SLAMS DOOR OPEN hello!!! I hear you're looking for lil ficlet ideas!!

I would love to see your take on jimmy and grians relationship 👀👀👀 I simply wish there was more content of them in the world (shippy or non-shippy!!)

If u would like any additional prompts maybe the aftermath of grian taking jimmy out in wildlife????

No pressure at all if the thought doesnt appeal to you, saluting you so much as a fellow traveller on the writing strugglebus right now. GOOD LUCK!!! <3

Hi Theo!! Welcome in, please have a seat! :D

as for Jimmy & (/) Grian I totally agree, I love their dynamic so much!! Time to be the change we want to see in the world XD

Take my hand, we will get through this rough patch together!! <3333

I haven't actually finished either of their WL POVs (Blasphemous as a self-proclaimed Jimmy Main, I know) so IDK how well I can touch on that one, but I did see that clip of Grian joining their phasmo thing late that's floating around and I lost my mind. Have this modern au?? Phasmo au??? IDK but here you go!

Grian sank deeper into the couch cushions, watching some rerun of an ancient Top Gear episode on the TV in front of him. The sound is so low it might as well be muted in favor of listening to Jimmy off in the kitchen, rummaging around in cupboards as they waited for Joel to arrive.

On the screen, Hammond spun out just in time for Jimmy's voice to peak, some offended crescendo about the story he was telling. Something about someone at work.

For the first time in days, Grian felt his lungs fill, untrapped by the vice of panic or stress. He made some sort of noise in response to Jimmy asking if he could believe all of that. He tried to focus on the words, knowing that Jimmy would be more offended at him not listening than he had been at the lady in his story, but relaxation was stealing over him in waves, pulling the steel and the energy from his limbs the longer he sat there.

Jimmy's voice was much closer when he snorted, placing down a mug on the table in front of Grian. He didn't remember telling him what he wanted in his tea, but the label that spun in front of them was his favorite brew. Warmth steeped through him.

"Budge up," Jimmy said, the words floating down through the syrup of Grian's mind instead of crashing through and jarring him back to consciousness. He shuffled back into a mostly upright position, "are you falling asleep on me?"

“No,”Grian scoffed, leaving Jimmy more than enough time to settle in before he slid sideways again so that he could lean heavily on Jimmy’s shoulder. He hooked a grin up at him. “Now I’m falling asleep on you.”

“You utter-I'm not that boring, am I?” Jimmy groused, reaching for the remote. Grian kicked at the coffee table with his foot, scooting it enough that the remote was out of reach.

“As boring as you always are,” Grian said, if only because he couldn’t seem to untangle the emotions caught in the warm mixture in his chest, at least not in a way where he could pull them apart and explain them to Jimmy. “Maybe I’m just tired,” he said, trying to call up a haughty tone, “maybe it’s got nothing to do with you.”

Jimmy grumbled something more under his breath, but shifted so that Grian was resting comfortably at his side, instead of just smushed against him.

"Go on, then,” Jimmy said, settling back against the armrest so they were both halfway to horizontal. “Joel can wake us up when he gets here.”

Grian hid a smile against Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Glad you see things my way.”

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by my beloved no.1 chappell roan stan @cordiallyfuturedwight thanks my darling <33 i can only apologise for the lack of ms roan here... i swear good luck babe has been on repeat i don't know what happened

tagging the usual suspects, apologies if i've already missed yours: @aprylynn @jiminsproof @thvinyl @cosmicdreamgrl @visionsofgideontheninth @hoseeok @kimchokejin @jihopesjoint @monismochi <333 and you dear reader

oh and see here for more of my self-proclaimed songs of the summer if you're interested in that kind of thing

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[hauntingblue]

NAMI NEEDS TO GO UP THERE AND FIGHT BIG MOM I AM SO SERIOUS!!! THIS IS A BATTLE FOR THE ROMANCE DOWN TRIO!! SANJI DO NOT DARE TAKE HER SPOT!!!

[minecraftwolfpup]

[olde-scratch]

saiki k tokyo ghoul au bc of that one post comparing nishiki and kuniharu by @herdecisions (i havent read tg in years idc if i get anything wrong)

- possibility of kuniharu and nishiki being the same person OR twin brothers

- if theyre the same person kurumi is the gf whatever her name was, if theyre not then theyre not (idc if she died canonically she can be alive if i wantbyer to be)

- kuniharu is a ghoul and kurumi is human but threatening as fuck (kuniharu is either a weak bitch ghoul or hes soft for her)

- kuusuke was born a one eye. saiki was too but that pales in comparison to the fact that hes still psychic (dont ask why hes psychic its saiki ofc hes psychic)

- the govnt baby kusuo destroyed was the ccg, but he mightve given his family a different last name before that as witness protection, or after to avoid the govnt coming after them

- the grandparents are human bc theyre on kurumis side, know but dont care abt kuniharu being a ghoul (well grandpa does but he doesnt like kuniharu anyways)

- kusuo probably ended the stigma around ghouls and developed safe alternatives for them to eat OR he made it so ghouls can just eat normal food

- angstier idea is that he didnt and his familys still in hiding, but tbh anything to make his life easier yk

[unnamed-atlas]

Having brain worms. What if uhhhhhh SOS Mianite au

[axelaxolotll]

hi guys. at the time of writing this i have forty (40) mutuals, and yet, each time im added to a tag game, i tag the same five people. 3 of which do not want to be tagged most likely. guys pls lmk if i can add u to tag games PLS 😭🫶

[multi-lefaiye]

but yeah something something like... i definitely support including content warnings as much as possible, even ones that might be particularly unusual, but it's equally important to consider the impact of listing certain things as warnings.

like that meme of "can you trigger tag lesbians" i've seen before. like... i don't mean this at all in an insulting way, but if any group of people simply existing causes you so much discomfort that you ask people to provide content warnings for their existence, whether in fiction or otherwise.... that's something you really need to unpack and work through. because that very *very* easily steers rapidly into outright bigotry, intentional or otherwise, and working through that discomfort is the first step to unlearning that sort of thing.