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ode-to-melpomene · 10 days ago

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hi hi mel!!! i love all your works and your writing is so wonderful ^^

was wondering if you could write something where one of the bat boys reaches the reader right before they’re about to get kidnapped by some criminals?? like maybe they’re publicly in a relationship w the batboy’s wayne identity n get targeted for that reason but one of the boys gets there js in the nick of time :)

thank u sm and have a great rest of ur day ^^

Love this prompt! Some of these are pre-kidnapping, some are mid-kidnapping. If anyone wants additional characters added, let me know! Hope you enjoy 💛

Daring Rescues

Pairings: Bruce Wayne x gn!reader, Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Who comes to your aid when you find yourself in need of saving? Word Count: 2466 Warnings: Established relationship! Kidnapping, minor injuries, general mortal peril.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce knew better than to associate you with Batman. He had learned that lesson a hundred times over by now, how dangerous it was to associate the people he cared for with the cowl. But now wasn't the time to dwell on the blunder.

“Oracle, update,” he barked over the communication device. Bruce perched atop a balcony, staring down at the street below.

“Black SUV turning onto Carlton,” Barbera replied, the sound of her fingers furiously working over the keys of the Batcomputer meeting his ears. “The car is registered to a loan shark put away a few years ago. Suspected ties to Falcone.”

Bruce uttered a grunted mm in response, eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. His eyes scanned the road below. He caught the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. “GCPD?”

“I’ve got them cutting off side roads. Headed your way now.”

He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to launch from the balcony, one hand braced on the ledge beneath him and the other on his belt. He cocked his head to the East and narrowed his eyes- yes, there. He watched the SUV turn the corner, skidding as it spun around the sharp turn and narrowly avoided oncoming traffic.

“Sixty-three miles an hour?” he guessed.

“Sixty-six. Sounds like you might be losing your touch.”

“Oracle,” Bruce warned. He scowled. That extra speed would change his entry angle.

“Sorry. Dropping in three-”

Bruce’s hand shot to his belt.

“Two-”

The end of the grappling hook shot out from the device in his hand and buried itself within the construction scaffolding across from him. He gave a single tug, then launched himself from the balcony-

“One-”

- And crashed feet first into the rear passenger window of the interior of the modified SUV, seats removed to provide more space in the back. Panicked shouts rang out as glass shards shattered across the interior. Bruce pulled his cape over the lower half of his face, preventing glass from cutting his skin as he hit the floor.

The vehicle swerved and he used the momentum to bring his elbow into collision with a man’s partially covered face, his jaw making a distressing crack at the impact. His other hand lashed out, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his face against the steering wheel. The driver’s nose crunched and blood sprayed against the vehicle’s dash.

Hands grasped at his suit and he drove his knee into the third assailant’s ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Your muffled shriek filled the interior of the SUV as the vehicle swerved and momentarily rocked into the curb.

The driver’s hands gripped at Bruce’s wrist behind his head, his foot flooring the accelerator. Bruce let out a tsk as he lunged forward and looped his arm around the driver’s neck. The man’s shrill scream was quickly silenced as Bruce squeezed the man’s neck in the juncture of his elbow and bicep.

He pulled the man backwards and used his opposite hand to stabilize the chokehold. His freehand reached for the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle down the road. He just needed a moment-

The driver finally went limp in Bruce’s arms. He tugged, pulling the man from his seat and wedged a batarang against the brake, quickly bleeding off speed.

Muffled screams filled the room, followed by a grunt of pain. Familiar hands raked over Bruce’s belt. He gripped the wheel with one hand and turned his head just in time to see a zap of electricity come to life.

You dove towards the third kidnapper, barreling into him and driving the taser into the side of his neck. The man screamed, spasmed, and went limp.

You panted around the gag in your mouth, your hands chained together in front of you. You held the taser tightly in your hands, glaring down with a fiery expression.

When you turned your gaze on him, that fiery passion was replaced with a soft, mirthful glint in your eye. You gave him your best smile, despite the gag, and a cheesy thumbs up.

Bruce scowled, despite the way his heart skipped a beat.

Dick Grayson:

Why did you always have to rush into things?

Of course it was a set up. That was so obvious now that you had a split lip and blood trickling from your nose. It was a last ditch effort on the part of some petty criminals who wanted a piece of the Wayne wealth in exchange for Dick’s hapless partner.

The masked goons cornered you in your own apartment, toying with you like cats stalking a mouse. One swung a pipe wrench and you skittered backwards, nearly bumping into the end table next to your couch. You really needed to move that when this was all over, and make sure the space was less cluttered so you wouldn’t get tripped up like this again-

A blade came slashing down, glinting in the waning sunlight that filled your apartment as it narrowly missed your face. Your curse was met by vicious laughter. With a snarl, you gripped the end table and hucked it at the figure holding the blade.

Two of the goons jumped away from the end table as it flung towards them. You took the chance to dash to the kitchen, knocking over and tossing random items in your wake. As much as you appreciated the self defense training Dick had put you through, you didn’t trust yourself against their weapons. You took solace in knowing they weren’t here to kill you… but that didn’t mean they weren’t more than willing to rough you up.

You just needed to waste some time. So you threw a plate, a beautiful, arbor rimmed plate that had been a gift to you and Dick from Selina and Bruce (you suspected Selina stole them.) The assailants dodged the ceramic, so you snatched the detachable faucet and sprayed the nearest goon in the face with cold water. Too bad they were smart enough to wear masks.

And then you saw the balcony door slide open. It all happened so fast, a flash of black, blue, and silver darting into the space. Metal clashed with skin, a sickening thunk sounding as an escrima collided with an attacker’s skull. An angered shout tore through the air, only to be quickly silenced by a thud as the outspoken figure hit the floor.

It was over in a matter of moments. Three unconscious bodies on the floor, tucked out of sight behind your kitchen island, and a shadowed figure huffing agitated breaths through gritted teeth. Spots of blood on the escrima, on his face.

You blinked once, twice, clearing the fog from your vision. Nightwing- Dick loomed across from you. He tucked the escrimas behind his back and turned to face you, the scrunch in his brow covered by his mask.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice barely above a tremble.

His expression softened immediately. He heaved a sigh and dashed around the kitchen island, sweeping you into his tight grasp. You wrapped your arms around him just as eagerly, pressing your face to the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Should be asking you that, love.” Dick pulled away slightly, holding you at arms length. Though you couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, you knew he was carefully taking stock of your injuries.

“Just a few scrapes,” you said with a reassuring smile in spite of the way your swollen lip burned. “You should see the other guys.”

Dick barked out a laugh and pulled you flush against him once again, burying you in a tight embrace.

Jason Todd:

You should have called a cab.

Rain poured down on you, drenching you to the skin. Rain hadn’t been on the forecast today–you always made sure to check on days you chose to walk to-and-from work. When you had stepped out of the office building to find a slight drizzle dappling the sidewalk, you had thought nothing of it. Like many other Gothamites, you had assumed it was a passing spring weather.

Now the storm drains gurgled pitifully as water gushed into it. Your clothes were sodden, shoes waterlogged, mood dampened. You squelched down the sidewalk with a sour expression plastered across your features. The torrential downpour quieted your sentences, muffling your ears to the acute sound of footsteps following you from a distance.

You turned onto the next block and huffed, the wind now buffeting you face on. What a dreary, horrible day to be let off late from work. Jason would likely be on patrol by now, leaving you to sit alone in your shared apartment, reheating whatever he had left over from lunch. Maybe you could curl up in your bed and dive into that novel you had both been reading. That could make for a good conversation to wind him down from the emotional high of his patrol-

Foreign hands snatched you from your thoughts and dragged you into a dark alley, your scream muffled by a gloved palm.

You were slammed face first into a brick wall, the rough texture scraping your cheek. You bit back a snarl as the hands turned you around and smacked the back of your head against the hard stone. The chill edge of a blade was pressed to your throat and when your eyes readjusted to the sudden darkness and stinging pain in your head you were met with a masked figure. Great, because what you really needed after a long day was a mugging.

You fought viciously as the figures around you herded you down the back alley like a spitting, snarling animal. You stomped your heel on their feet, bit at their hands, kicked and flailed until you heard muffled requests for rope and chloroform. It wasn’t until you saw the van tucked away beside an industrial grade dumpster that you began caterwauling like an anguished banshee.

You were relieved by the sound of a familiar thump at the edge of the alleyway–you would recognize the sound of those heavy boots dropping anywhere, with how often you heard them on your fire escape. Your attackers slammed you against the van and you barked out a gleeful laugh at the sight. The attackers had a moment to turn their heads before Red Hood was descending on them with ferocity. You turned away, pressing your forehead to the van.

Screams, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. It was over quickly. When you turned to face him, his armored chest was heaving and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. You knew better than to touch him when he was this high strung, so you settled for the safer option.

“Took you look enough,” you teased breathlessly, keeping your gaze one the way the red surface of his helmet snapped to face you instead of on the (you hoped) unconscious kidnappers. “I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to take care of this myself.”

The toe of Jason’s boot nudged an unconscious figure, a red and rapidly welting bite mark blossoming on the individual’s hand and wrist. “I don’t doubt you could’ve, but a little help never hurt.”

You cracked a smile, softening the hard lines of your expression in the hopes it would ease him. His shoulders relaxed at your placating gesture. You extended a hand, fingers spread in a silent offer.

“Walk me home?” you asked, more for his benefit than yours. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but the tightness eased when he interlaced his gloved fingers with yours.

Tim Drake:

Warehouses were such a cliché place to harbor an abductee. What happened to creativity? Tim crawled through an upper window of the dilapidated warehouse, some thirty feet above the ground. He stepped carefully across the rafters as he surveyed the scene.

There you were, a normal college student tied to a chair–well, normal if you ignore the fact that you were rumored to be in a relationship with the Timothy Drake-Wayne. He frowned at the sight of your arms twisted behind you and tied to the back of the chair. They had you situated in the center of the empty room with goons patrolling around you. His eyes sought a singular figure atop a pile of scrap, a rifle in hand. The figure searched the rafters–Tim would have to be careful to avoid him.

Tim stalked across the rafters, keeping to the shadows. He crept across one of the beams that bridged the center of the warehouse, ducking low and staying out of the light. His eyes were fixed on you-

Oh. You perked up, your head lifting and shoulders easing. You knew he was there somewhere, judging by the way your head turned slightly to scan the open room. You tilted your head, a flimsy gesture towards a second figure, patrolling near you with one hand tucked away in her coat. A hidden weapon? He bit back a smile at your clever aid.

Tim took another step, and something clanged. He looked below him, spotting a hook hanging from a long chain, the chain swinging under the beams subtle movements. He turned just in time to see the sniper swing his rifle in the direction of the sound-

You screamed.

The shrill shriek shook each of the assailants and all eyes turned to you. He exhaled a harsh breath of relief as you wailed and the masked figures moved in towards you. The sniper’s weapons whipped towards you and away from Tim.

Tim dropped. His landing was cushioned by the goon you had pointed out, knocking the figure to the ground. He used the momentum to carry himself into a roll, then launched to his feet and barrelled into the next unsuspecting kidnapper. This one was ready, his hands up in fists. Tim gave an opening and ducked as the man’s fist sailed past Tim. He gripped the attacker's arm and yanked, tossing him over Tim’s shoulder. The man landed with a thunk and Tim was quick to follow, extracting a pair of cuffs from his belt and linking the two fallen attackers together.

A shot rang out. It seemed the sniper wasn’t very good, considering Tim remained fully intact. His hands dipped to his belt again and withdrew a few batarangs. A quick volley knocked the sniper's mask askew and sent them stumbling down the rickety pile of scrap they stood upon. He used the opening to launch himself across the room, bo staff extending in hand. He swept the kidnapper’s legs, sending the figure tumbling down the pile.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he knelt to cuff and gag the attacker, kicking the rifle aside in the process.

“It got drafty,” you called back from where you sat tied in the center of the room. “Must’ve left the window open.”

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thoughtsafterdark · 3 months ago

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Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled. Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

#creative writing #stream of consciousness #short story #poetry #liminal aesthetic #greek mythology #darkness #existential nihilism #mental health #meaning of life #thoughts #philosophy #boundaries #hermes #greek gods

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peachdues · 10 months ago

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VIOLENT DELIGHTS — TEASER

Tengen’s Tell Me to Stop

A/N: because the more shitty anons bitch about my teasers, the more I’m gonna post because I don’t give a fuck.

Tengen’s installment of my Tell Me to Stop series. A true enemies-to-lovers fic. Read the spicy teaser here.

CW: blood • description of whipping • some angst • Tengen is confused by his own actions here

Ty always to my biggest enabler @marenalee . This fic is dedicated to you bby.

Tengen paled as he watched the villagers wrench the hood off the person struggling against their restraints.

Rough hands shoved Y/N to her knees, hair mussed, eyes wild and murderous as she glowered at her captors. Rope had been tied around her mouth, forcing her teeth to part around its coarse fibers. If he squinted, he could see the way the rope had rubbed the corners of her mouth bloody and raw.

The assassin thrashed against the hold of her captors as they secured thick, iron shackles around her wrists, each one connected to a separate piece of scaffolding that forced her into an awkward, half-star position on her knees. A sour-faced man stepped out from the shadows behind the stage to glare down at her, his puffy, fish-like lips twisted into a disgusted sneer as he spoke. An audience had gathered at the base of the stage, and Tengen felt his gut twist at the excited buzz which rose over them.

Whatever was to come, it was nothing good.

His suspicions were confirmed when he watched the Magistrate turn his head and bark at one of the grim-faced men standing off to the side of the podium. A moment later, and a grubby hand pressed something long and coiled into the Judge’s outstretched and waiting palm.

Tengen recognized what it was at precisely the same moment as the assassin — his nemesis — though he was certain the dread filling his gut was but a fraction of that which filled hers.

In all the months of tormenting her — of even trying to kill her — Tengen had never seen Y/N look afraid. Surprised, sure, but never frightened.

Yet, as the long, cruel tail of the whip unfurled in the Magistrate’s hands, curling down to the wooden slats of the podium, he saw the fear enter her widened eyes — deep and primal.

She was terrified.

(…)

—

The crack of the whip was capped by an ear piercing scream that made Tengen’s blood curdle.

Spring had always been his favorite season; winter was drab and monotonous and summer was too damn hot to appreciate anything, but spring — spring was resplendent with color and life and all things vibrant and exciting.

This village had been awash in springtime’s splendor. The cherry blossoms had bloomed, coating the sloped roofs of houses and restaurants in a soft blanket of pink and white. The streets had been lined with attractive stalls, offering an assortment of food and jewelry and hand sewn silk garments in every hue imaginable, guaranteed to allow even the pickiest shopper to find something suited to their tastes.

But now, all the sounds and smells and sights and warmth had fallen away; now, all the pastels and greens and effervescence of spring had melted into something dull and gray and muted.

Tengen could only see red.

Red was the color of her blood as it dripped from end of the curled, thin length of rope and soaked into the wooden planks of the post.

Red was the color of her flesh, hanging in torn, bloodied ribbons as each lash flayed her open more and more.

Red was the color of Tengen’s fury, hot and vitriolic, saturating everything in his line of vision until the once reverent sights of the village around him faded to amorphous, crimson blurs as he moved.

Red was the color staining his hands as he threw the whip to the side, having wrenched it free from the magistrate’s cruel hands before he’d thought the better of it; and red was the color that now sprout from the magistrate’s nose as he crashed against the blood-soaked slats of the whipping post, bubbling over his swollen lips as he sputtered at the formidable man standing above him.

“If you would like to avoid taking her place, then I suggest you disperse this crowd,” Tengen said coldly. “And do not try and interfere.”

He held the stammering Magistrate’s petrified stare for a moment longer before he turned his attention to his target. Cautiously, the Sound Pillar approached the half-conscious assassin where she’d been partially stripped and chained to the wooden whipping post. Tengen fought to keep the bile in his throat from rising at the way the wooden slats under his feet squished, so heavily saturated with blood from both his enemy and the poor souls which had been subjected to the brutality of the whip before her.

Her head hung limply between her shoulders, bent toward the floor of the post, and her body slumped against the stage. Her arms, however, remained awkwardly stretched out before her thanks to the iron manacles nailed into the post’s scaffolding. Grimly, the Sound Pillar noted that the gallows were to ensure the penalized would be held up and open even well after their body succumbed to the pain of their lashings; a crude display of utter helplessness and submission to the whip.

He said her name, once, and though she moaned faintly under the pull of her restraints as they stretched the ruined skin of her back, she did not stir.

The full horror of her suffering slammed into him as Tengen ran his eyes over her swaying, whimpering form once more. Before he could think the better of it, before his brain could scream at him to stop, to leave her to a fate that was none of his business, the Sound Pillar unsheathed one of the great blades he kept strapped to his back. With a single, mighty stroke, he cleaved the iron chains of her bonds clean in half, and one by one, her arms fell limply to her side.

No longer held up by her forced prostration, Y/N began to fall forward face-first but Tengen caught her before she could make contact with the floor of the blood-soaked stage beneath her. Mindful of her wounds, he laid her limp form over his shoulder and hauled her up, his arms winding around her legs to keep her locked in place. Her arms dangled over his back. As he began to walk, he realized that the tips of her fingers just barely grazed the middle of his spine.

Small; she was so small in his arms. So helpless.

The crowd of townsfolk who had gathered to watch her flogging parted silently for the Sound Pillar as he descended the stairs of the whipping post, unconscious assassin draped over his shoulder, and departed the village without a word.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #tengen uzui #uzui tengen #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny uzui #kny tengen #tengen x reader #uzui x reader #tengen smut #uzui smut #demon slayer smut #kny smut

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teddybearsandspaceships · 8 months ago

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Again, way too detailed notes about a Cleo stream (15.3.2024) because it was great and I want to remember. (Please Cleo upload your VODs again please.) Featuring an Ancient City, Hermit scariness ratings, a new Emerald Daddy, and Life series reminiscing with the Clockers.

Plan for today: Ancient City raiding!, to get books

She´s definitely going alone because Ancient City raiding on her own is terrifying but you know what else is terrifying? The other people on the server.

The only person on the server Cleo is afraid of is False. Not Gem, Gem´s a kitten. False could take Cleo in a fight and kill her dead, but more importantly False can scare Cleo because she´s quite sinister. 5am Pearl is kinda cute. “can kill you, probably won´t,” if you entertain her. Cub isn´t scary either, the only thing to be scared of with Cub is the grind. Doc is 95% bark.

(In hindsight, finding a Swift Sneak II book so early is a tease knowing that it´ll be the only one.)

Chat is way more scared of the Ancient City than Cleo is. Worst that can happen, you summon a warden, you die, and your gear despawns, so what. Cleo thinks people are trying to freak her out and scare her into making mistakes.

This stream was right after or during Mumbo´s video on Hermits´ weird playing habits came out so there were plenty of questions about Cleo´s set-up. Cleo defends their choices, also they have a desk now.

Hypno drops by to show off his new armor and announce a raid. Cleo calls Cub her Emerald Daddy because he supplies her with emeralds.

Hypno drops off a shulker full of emerald blocks for Cleo, for free. Cleo then tells him he gets free books now. Hypno is astonished and delighted, and asks for a written voucher. Cleo writes him one and calls him Emerald Daddy too. Cleo: “Double Emerald Daddy, I´m good.”

Cleo won´t tell her fellow Hermits that they´re great to their faces because it would ruin her tough guy image.

Fun in chat: Etho sleeps. Bdubs: “sorry dad” Etho: “son I am at your place to give you a scolding” Bdubs: “be right up” – Cleo is sorry she saw that

Cleo discovers Joel´s glow ink shop and the glow squid Joel built from candles and is delighted. Joel is now her absolute favorite person. Armor stand buddies!

Taking advantage of the fact that all words are made up, Cleo makes a few more hoppadingdongs

Bdubs demands quiet because he and Etho are about to record one of their famous Bdubs-and-Etho clips. Cleo says they should get in a group. Etho: “Mum is so bossy, right Bdubs?” Bdubs: “She´s so bossy.” Cleo: […] *hits him* “Don´t talk to me that way.” Bdubs: “I´m sorry.” Cleo: “You will be.” Bdubs: “I´m sorry. That was a no-no, I´m sorry.” Etho: “Never talk back to your mummy.” Bdubs: “No, never.” Cleo: “Yeah, you two role-playing this thing again, it´s weird.” Etho, laughing: “You´re done with it, aren´t you, Cleo.” Cleo, also laughing: “I´m done with it. I was kind of done with it when it started, to be honest.” Bubs: “That shows your level of commitment.” Etho: “I feel like we move on from it and then Scar brings it up once in a while, and then Bdubs…” Cleo: “Me and Etho are kind of over it, so…” Bdubs: “Really? I saw Joel today and I thought, this is my uncle.” Etho: “Baby-sitter, right?” Cleo: “Cousin.”

Cleo offers to mute again but Bdubs asks her not to, having her there is great. Like audience chatter.

Bdubs shows Etho and Cleo his scaffolding challenge as his shop advertisement. Etho: “He´s so clever.” Cleo: “He is, he´s a genius. That´s our special boy.”

Bdubs starts his spiel: “You think you´re so cool…” Etho: “I thought I was…”

Bdubs wins the first game because Etho has trouble ringing the bell. And the second one. Cleo soon realizes that it´s easy to make Bdubs lose by sabotaging the scaffolding. Bdubs swears Etho and Cleo to secrecy about this easily exploitable weakness.

Cleo keeps talking about how wealthy they are. Very profitable shop, after all! (…true but I saw Cub´s stacks of diamond blocks the next day. Fear the grind.) Cleo bankrolled Etho already.

After a conversation about pricing Etho tells Cleo they have to teach Bdubs about peer pressure. Then remembers that “she doesn´t like it when we do that, we gotta stop.” Cleo says it´s fine. (Yay boundaries.)

Cleo asks Bdubs for a horse. Bdubs accuses Keralis of fraud (secretly swapping the horses people bought from him if they don´t buy the extended warranty.) Cleo asks if Keralis is gingering his horses. They talk about the meanings of the word, and why ginger is also used for red-heads. Etho: “Is it ´cause gingers are spicy?” Moment of silence. Cleo: “…sure?” Bdubs: “Yeah…” Etho: “I think we nailed it.”

Some talk abut spelling variations. “You can just say you don´t know how to spell, Etho, it´s fine.” And then talk about British dialects, how they drop the “t” in the middle of words (or phrases). Etho and Bdubs try to imitate it, badly. They don´t seem to understand what “in the middle of a word” means.

Shopping district talk, and some reminiscing about Shade-E-E´s. Cleo steered clear because she didn´t know Etho very well back then. Etho has a different glass prank in mind for this season. Etho and Bdubs also remember an end rod exchange thing they did, they neither remember what started it or how it ended.

Cleo: “I feel like you´re not spiteful enough, Etho.” He lets too much go. Bdubs protests that Etho lets it go with him, because they have a history – Etho: that´s right – but to anybody else Etho is very spiteful. Cleo: He´s never been particularly spiteful to me, “and I deserve it.” Bdubs, dismissive: nah. Etho: “Well, to be fair, Cleo *builds up a dirt wall like he did between them in Third Life* I am kinda scared of you.” Both crack up. “You´re not necessarily who I wanna be poking.”

Cleo clarifies that the reason why False is the only one who scares her is because False is very quick on the insults. Cleo can be fast, but False can be faster. Bdubs: “Now I´m scared.”

Etho tells Bdubs the story of why he´s scared of Cleo: “I always viewed Cleo as, like, sweet, innocent, you know, quiet…” Cleo cracking up. It was because Cleo stole Pizza, for no reason. “She was laughing the whole time, like a crazy psycho.” Cleo: “It´s a llama.” “I just thought it was interesting, I had a complete shift of what I thought of you at that moment.” Bdubs: “Yeah, she can do anything.” Bdubs was also shocked at that moment. They hadn´t talked about it, Bdubs just supported her in her plan to cause trouble. Stealing Pizza was more of a crime of opportunity because Scar didn´t want to talk to her and left Pizza there. “Bold move.” “It´s just Scar.” Etho reminds everyone that the Life series was fresh at that point, they know now that this sort of thing happens but they didn´t then. Cleo didn´t know most of the people in the series very well so she went full-on chaos gremlin. She blames Bdubs.

Etho repeats that that´s when his perspective on Cleo shifted. “And it never shifted back. Like, the more stuff she did, it just got further in that way.” Cleo can understand that: she got worse, as time went on, chaos-gremlin-wise. Etho: now we´re in season ten of Hermitcraft, she´s stealing villagers… Cleo points out that it wasn´t her idea, but admits that she fully embraced it. Etho isn´t sure he would have, Bdubs says he wouldn´t have. Cleo: “What´s Doc going to do to me.” Bdubs: “Uh, have you seen the sand dial?” Cleo: “Have you seen what´s inside it?” Bdubs, clearly grinning: “Oh, yes, yes.”

Scar is online and Bdubs invited him over to find out if he was actually upset about Cleo stealing Pizza. Scar arrives on his horse, but stays away a few blocks. Etho walks up to him: “You may approach, Scar.” Scar ender-pearls up to them. Bdubs asks how mad he was at Cleo over Pizza, Scar claims he was looking up tickets to the UK to seek his revenge. “Pizza meant more than I can express.” Does a whole sad monologue. Cleo and Etho think it was funny, Scar demands they take it back. Worse, and what also really threw Etho, when Scar asked Cleo to her face if she stole Pizza she denied it.

Cleo: “Yeah, but I´ve had my punishment now, ´cause now I´m your mother forever.” Scar just realized: “The family! What a wonderful moment.” Etho: “Out shopping together.”

Scar has to wait for Skizz to enforce rules in the shopping district, but Skizz is off on the high seas. Scar: “What if the boat went down.” “What the hell, Scar!” “That´d be awful!” Scar imagines it as, you float for a while, maybe see a shark, then get rescued in a helicopter. Cleo: you might see someone else die, while you survive ´cause you´re the main character. Scar asks after a Titanic character and is surprised Etho immediately knows her name because Etho is usually bad with movie references.

Cleo: “I would never do anything to you guys, you´re my family.” Bdubs: That´s sweet.” Scar: “That was sinister.” Etho: “Trolls us.” Cleo: “Correct.”

Scar got a tip to keep a horse from wandering off inside a circle of berries from an e-mail. Only the best things come from e-mails.

Bdubs tries to prove scaffolding superiority to Scar. Etho and Cleo support the pitch. Scar is disappointed by mom and dad. Etho and Scar agree to give it a try sometimes. Bdubs says Tango puts redstone on scaffolding sometimes, Etho is horrified. Etho shows them that you can use scaffolding to clutch a fall. Scar tries it because it would also work on leaves – unfortunately Etho forgot to tell him that you need to crouch and he dies. He´s not going to be happy, but ultimately it was clearly his own fault. It´ll take him a while to come back, Bdubs feels like he should go get him but Etho and Cleo need to leave.

#zombiecleo #hermitcraft #hc s10 #hermitcraft streams #...this got a bit out of hand oops

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spider-mancan · 2 years ago

Note

Starker fuck or die

This is insane. The entire day has been one dumpster fire after another. Peter fell asleep on top of a building still in costume with his textbook spread open on his lap to the sound of a phone call. The resulting jolt of unfortunate awareness nearly sent his school books down onto the pavement — instead they just have a stain from the webbing and an extremely damaged spine. Peter answered the phone but was more interested in mourning his rental deposit than whatever threat was causing the Avengers to assemble.

Then he heard the words Sex Demon come out of Captain America’s mouth and it was all downhill from there. Forlorn, Peter agreed to set his studying aside and come help out, because, really, when was he going to have another opportunity to sit in a room while Steve Rogers tried to talk about a Sex Demon in the debrief?

It wasn’t nearly as fun as Peter expected. They’d called him in because he was difficult to hit and had the benefit of both long- and short-range fighting, but some of the others weren’t so lucky. By the time he arrived, Black Widow had already been removed by Hawkeye, leaving Second Hawkeye looking very purple (“nice new uniform, Kate!”) and incredibly perplexed. Steve was mostly alright, but whatever was causing problems was not reacting well to the serum.

Causing problems, of course, meant making people extremely Down to Fuck extremely quickly.

“This is hilarious,” Peter says, swinging around the rafters. The warehouse they’re in has already been trashed, light leaking in through the roof and scaffolding collapsed in heaps on the concrete floor. “There is so much porn about this. At least two. Not that I know for sure.”

Tony comes over the comm. “I did hear Sex Pollen Sluts Go Nuts got excellent reviews.”

No one thinks this is funny at all, but Peter is too busy twisting out of harm’s way to feel bad about laughing.

It’s not a Sex Demon, which Peter finds incredibly disappointing. It’s just a man who believes in the power of the aphrodisiac, or something, and developed yadda yadda whatever he’s trying to get blackmail of the world’s most influential people blah blah super awkward and gross and his sex blaster doesn’t even look cool at all.

None of this is the particularly insane part.

The insane part happens about two seconds after Tony manages to topple Mr. Sex Demon over the railing and onto the ground, where the pressurized canisters on his back give way to the unforgiving asphalt and explode into a green haze so dense Peter can barely see the brilliant blue glow of the arc reactor in Tony’s chest.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter yells into the comm, without a response, and he’s swinging over to assess the damage when Captain barks orders for him to stay out of the way.

The Iron Man suit is already vacuuming up the fumes to remove the contaminant from the air, but Tony hadn’t been wearing one of his space safe suits which means there’s no internal oxygen supply, which means he’s also been contaminated. Regardless, the two men come into view and Tony just waves. “FRIDAY gives the all clear.” His voice sounds strained.

Peter drops down just behind. “Mr. Stark!”

“Spider-Man,” Steve calls, jogging over. “It’s best not to get to close—”

Peter is about to ask what Steve could possibly mean when he feels heavy hands grip his shoulders. The Iron Man gauntlets are heavy — in the armor Tony weighs nearly 400 pounds — and Peter winces. “Mr. Stark?”

He isn’t afraid — Natasha hadn’t been dangerous. She’d stood stock still for a moment, called for assistance, and immediately removed herself. Over the phone, Captain America had run through the symptoms of the spores, but Peter can’t remember all of that now. He vaguely remembers a loss of inhibition, some kind of animalistic behavior, and an increase in body temperature to dangerous levels over time.

“Tony,” Steve says warningly.

Iron Man’s faceplate lifts up and Tony is sweating, gritting his teeth. “I know, Cap.” His hands tighten, shaking, enough that Peter grabs one and flexes his fingers, debating whether to pry it off. “I’m trying.” Deep breath.

“Get away from the kid, Tony.” Steve pulls out his firearm and Peter is about to laugh, it’s insane, Tony would never hurt him. Touching Peter isn’t something Tony isn’t allowed to do. But when Peter goes to laugh Tony still looks so serious, so stony, almost sick. Deranged, even. Just a little.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter frowns and Tony’s eyes flutter closed, tight.

“Don’t call me that, right now, kid.”

Kate hops down from her perch in the rafters, awkwardly adjusting the quiver on her back. “I’m just gonna, uh, go.” She gestures over her shoulder to the door, which Tony blasted off the hinges not half an hour ago. “I’ll find a broom or something. Or just leave.”

Steve nods, mouth tight. His gaze doesn’t leave Tony where he’s hunched over Peter like a bad shadow, but his finger stays still on the trigger. Waiting. Not moving one way or the other.

Peter knows how these sorts of things go; if something can go wrong, it will. He runs through the data he can grapes through the confusion, tapping into Tony’s suit. Tony had been exposed to nearly twenty times the recommended dosage. Peter pulls his vitals through Karen and tries not to balk at Tony’s heart rate or internal temperature. Hot. Tony could fry an egg on his chest soon. “We need to get you out of the suit.” Peter reaches for one of the latches.

“Leave it,” Tony grunts. He’s bitten his lip so hard there’s blood in the corner of his mouth. “Better.” His hands haven’t moved, like he can’t move them, like he’s a statue. Peter is going anywhere without forcing himself free. “Better for you.”

“For me?” Peter demands. His hands are already on the gauntlet, but he freezes, struck silly by the sheer nerve. Tony is overloading and he thinks he should stay in the suit for Peter’s sake?

“I’m calling Fury.” Steve brings one hand up to his ear, gun still level. His eyes don’t leave Tony the entire time, even when he backs away slightly and starts to argue on the private channel.

Peter’s fingers tap a nervous rhythm on Tony’s armor. “Karen says you’re spiking really fast, sir,” he says at a whisper. This isn’t good for Tony’s heart, still weak, or his nervous system, which has been run ragged.

“I’m fine,” Tony chokes out through clenched teeth. His skin looks terribly gray, haggard, even. “I am really reliving some of my old glory days right now, but I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah. Drugs.” Peter laughs nervously. Tony’s eyes are blown, the warm brown consumed by darkness, and his gaze is heavy on Peter. The gauntlet moves now, pulling up the hem of Peter’s mask until Peter feels metal against his pulse point. “Mr. Stark?”

Tony groans.

Peter is a good kid, but he’s not a saint. He’s seen the Tony Stark sex tapes, even the ones that Tony didn’t know were being recorded. He’d been through his own moral beratement when he opened it the first time, but he’d done it several times since because they’re something about Tony that Peter can’t get enough of. And Peter has heard that groan a million times. It’s not like his enemy just punched me into a wall groan, or his this meeting could have been an email groan. It’s the groan he makes when he opens someone up with his cock for the first time. The eyes rolling back, hips stuttering kind of groan.

Peter is suddenly very hard in his jock strap. Terrible. Terrible news.

Karen is a welcome distraction in the form of more terrible news. “Mr. Stark!” The vitals displaying on Peter’s HUD are approaching dangerous levels, especially for an older, unenhanced human. “Your heart rate. It’s crazy!”

Tony is sweating, mouth open in the face of the rising temperatures, and Peter starts to frantically start prying at the mechanisms that hold the armor together. Tony makes no move to assist. “Leave it.”

“You’re in a metal can and you’re already over 100F,” Peter tells him, as if Tony didn’t know. “You’re going to—”

He doesn’t hear Steve barking at him to stop. It doesn't strike him that it’s a bad idea until it’s too late.

Peter manages to get his nails under the ridge of the chest plate and release it, pulling back, and then suddenly he’s falling. Tony has miraculously changed his mind about the suit and decided to abandon it entirely, stepping out and using the momentum of Peter’s scrambling until they both fall prone on the ground. There’s a poof of dust as they clatter onto the warehouse floor, tangled together.

Steve looks over at them sharply and is yelling orders Peter can’t quite hear because he is too busy trying to place the way Tony is smothering him with his body. Even through Peter’s suit he feels the heat radiating off of Tony’s skin, so sweaty he’s almost slick. He smells like hard work and expensive cologne. Peter is bewildered, and he puts his hands on Tony’s chest to push him away only to freeze when he feels Tony pull up mask and lick a thick line from his collar to his ear.

“Mr. Stark, I don’t—” Tony gets a hand between them, pushing the release on Peter’s suit until it’s loose around his body and Peter turns his head to look at Steve. “Captain, I didn’t think it was supposed to be, ah, oh.” He shudders when Tony sucks Peter’s ear into his mouth. “Mr. Stark, please. We need to get you to medical.”

“No time,” Tony mumbles against Peter’s throat. He’s cupping Peter’s groin through the suit while the other hand pulls the mask off completely. “Want you bad. God, I can’t even think. Look at you.”

“Tony.” Steve takes the safety off, conversation over the communicator set aside, and gets closer. He doesn’t want to shoot. That much is obvious — if he was going to, he would have already done it. “I said get off the kid.”

“He’s mine, Capsicle,” Tony growls. He winds his hands around Peter’s back until their chest to chest, and Peter feel the rabbiting heartbeat until it’s hard to separate whose is whose. “Get your own!” There’s the tell-tale fire up of the propulser on Tony’s palm, and then there’s a stare down between Iron Man and Captain America with a shivering Spider-Man sandwiched between.

Steve looks away first.

Peter feels a bit wild, wide-eyed, confused. Flushed and hot and not attractive at all, but Tony is near-tearing the suit off of his body and Peter is so shocked he’s barely fighting it. Cold air hits his sweaty skin where Tony is pulling it down at the neck and it feels like an electric shock. “Mr. Stark, seriously. You need to—oh.” There’s a rough hand on his cock. “Oh, my god.”

Tony has both hands on Peter again, like he’s going to reach into Peter’s chest and start pulling him apart, but the Iron Man suit is in sentry mode now; Peter hears the thunk of the boots on the ground even as he’s writhing, trying to focus past the sound of his own insane breathing. He blinks and then there is red and gold staring down the barrel of Steve’s gun.

“Need you, kid,” Tony growls in his ear, pulling down the length of him through his underwear. This was not on Peter’s bingo card for the day. “Feel like I’ll die without you.”

Maybe you will, Peter thinks hysterically.

Steve could stop this, but the gun is slowly falling lower until it’s pointed at the concrete. “Peter,” he starts, “if you give me the word, I’ll remove him and take him to quarantine until we find a willing partner.”

“Partner?” The puzzle pieces are falling into place but there has to be another picture because the one in Peter’s head isn’t making any sense. “I thought this just made you horny!”

“It sure does,” Tony mutters. He doesn’t spare Peter’s underthings nearly the same respect as the suit, but he tears Peter’s t-shirt off at the neck and spreads it open like a child opening a Christmas present. Hands splay flat over sweaty skin, feeling Peter’s rapid breathing. “I’m going to ruin you, kid.” Like he can’t hear a single thing.

“I’m not—oh, god.” Tony is heavy on top of him and his cock is hard in his sweats, thick where it’s digging into Peter’s hip. Tony readjusts and grinds them together, hard enough that Peter scrambles for purchase against Tony’s back. “Cap, I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

Tony rakes his nails down Peter’s bare chest, catching on Peter’s nipples with a satisfied smirk.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asks slowly.

Tony has such a high fever and his heart rate is dangerous and he looks at Peter and says, “you want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?” and Peter is so fucked. He’s both literally and figuratively fucked.

Like a flash of lightning, Peter remembers the call earlier: if Tony doesn’t come inside someone, he’ll overheat until he’s either cooked inside or dies from a heart attack. It had sounded kind of funny at the time, only half-paying attention.

Despite having a god among men standing not twenty feet away — oh, god, Captain America can totally see Peter’s boner right now — Tony doesn’t look away from Peter for a single moment if he can help it. Years of the revolving door love interests have made Tony extremely good with his hands. He’s often joked about it, about how good he is in bed, but Peter never actually thought he’d feel the way Tony smoothes hands over skin or bites bruises cherry red and it’s just a whole lot more than Peter expected to happen.

“I—I…oh, god.” Tony licks a line from Peter’s navel up to his chest and latches on to one of Peter’s nipples with his teeth. “I’m, I’m willing. I just—”

“Are you sure?” Steve says firmly, like Peter might be able to think straight with Tony all over him like every unfortunate wet dream he’s had since the seventh grade.

“If you don’t leave right now,” Tony says with a growl, “you’re going to get quite the show, Cap.” His eyes look clouded over, and he sits back heavy on Peter’s cock and just looks at the mess he’s made. Peter’s suit is hanging haphazardly around his hips and his shirt is ruined and his skin is bright pink. The cold wind through the holes in the walls brushes past, too cool on the spit-slick on Peter’s chest and he shudders.

“I’m okay,” Peter chants, and he lets himself reach out and touch for the first time. It’s tentative, fingertips across the scarring on Tony’s chest. “Like, what the fuck, but also I’ll be okay.”

If anyone understands that, it’s Steve, who is flushed almost as red as Peter and pivots. “I’ll guard the perimeter.”

With a grin, Tony rolls his hips so fluidly Peter whines high in his throat. “Kind of wanted to put on a show.” His cock is so hard, rutting into the dips of Peter’s stomach. “Bet he’ll watch. He just doesn’t want to admit how good you look. My perfect boy.” He grabs both sides of Peter’s head, fingers tangling in his hair so hard Peter can’t look anywhere but straight ahead.

Peter presses his hands flat. “Mr. Stark, I…” He closes his eyes tight. “What do I do? This is crazy.” Not last week Tony had been helping Peter with relationship advice, how to get a girl’s attention, clapped him on the shoulder and called him champ like he was going to take Peter to the baseball game later. “You’re…”

The first time Tony kisses him, Peter’s brain doesn’t care about the drugged nature of it. It’s everything he wants, everything he thought it would be in his wildest dreams. It’s possessive, almost bruising, like Tony is boiling over and he’s going to fill Peter up with it. Teeth nips at Peter’s bottom lip until he makes the smallest sound, a little desperate. What? That’s Mr. Stark’s tongue in his mouth.

Tony’s hands slip down under the waistband of Peter’s until he touches hair and Peter writhes, knees clanking together, trying to hide himself even though Tony groans again like he’s found nirvana. His nails rake up the sensitive skin near Peter’s groin. “So soft and beautiful.” Tony bites into the meat of Peter’s shoulder, hips still rutting in a sinful rhythm. “Knew you would be.”

“Are you sure about—ah, about this, Mr, Stark?” Peter tries. His tongue is so thick in his mouth. He can hardly process anything. Beyond Tony is the dingy gray walls of the warehouse, the open space, anyone could walk in and they’d see Tony pinning Peter down with his body. Tony has never looked at him this way; not that Peter hasn’t tried. “You’re…you’re going to hate me later.” He covers his face with his hands, feels the heat on his cheeks.

When he turned seventeen he’d pushed his luck. He touched more, took more. Kissed Tony on the cheek goodbye until he was daring enough to slip, catch just the corner of Tony’s mouth. Peter remembers it, it’s was Monday, rainy, because he’ll never forget the way Tony had looked at him after. Terrified. Disgusted, even. Of Peter. Of Peter kissing him.

Right now, Tony needs more than a sidestep kiss and pat on the shoulder. He needs a hole, something to fuck into, something to take apart piece by piece, and he’s already let Peter know he wasn’t interested in that with him. Peter’s brain is spinning, the reality of the situation started to seep in through the cracks of his shock, and he wonders if he’s being an opportunist by taking Tony’s wandering hands in stride.

“Oh, darling.” Tony leans in and presses a wet kiss to Peter’s shoulder. “I could never hate you.”

The sound of the zipper fills up the whole room. The space is public, with the open floor and windows and sun streaming down, but it’s quiet, save the police sirens outside. Tens of people, probably, just a flimsy wall away while Tony Stark gets his cock out with a groan.

It’s thick, uncut, slightly to the left, and nestled in a thick and well-groomed swath of dark hair. Peter knew all that from the videos, the tapes he keeps on his phone for the lonely nights, but that’s just an old image of Tony. Right now, Tony is on his knees above Peter and he grins, circling his cock with his fingers so Peter can watch it twitch. He’s still a bit gray, he looks sick, and his hair is slick against his neck. Peter has always liked that, when it curls there, but Peter can’t look away from the curls around Tony’s cock right now because he’s just a man and his mouth is watering.

“You’re going to be the best thing I’ve ever felt,” Tony says through that wicked grin, eyes dazed — mind far away, probably, since the fight has left him. He leans over, lets his cock drag over Peter’s stomach. Peter feels pre-come in a smooth line and it makes him whimper. “I’ve fucked royalty, the most powerful people in the world, the most beautiful, but I know you’re going to feel the best.”

He kisses Peter then, when Peter opens his mouth and moans at the idea. He brings one thick hand up to Peter’s neck and just holds him, all threat but no pressure, and opens up Peter’s kisses with the flat of his tongue until Peter is weak and loose on the floor. Those fingers pull his mouth down, slip in and feel his tongue slide under the fingertips, and Tony doesn’t have to tell Peter to suck because this has happened in Peter’s head at least twenty five times.

Tony tastes like metal and lotion and salt. He presses on Peter’s tongue until Peter drools around his fingers, grinding his cock into Peter’s hip and rolling his thigh up between Peter’s legs. “Knew you’d melt for me, sugar in the rain, just like that.”

Peter thinks his eyes might roll back in his head. Is he the one that got caught in the sex pollen nightmare? He feels giddy, almost drunk, and he lets more drool come out of his mouth and slick up Tony’s fingers. He knows where they’re going.

Tony is less single-minded than Peter would have thought, because he’s slow to pull his fingers away and he’s slow to lift up Peter’s leg and he spends an awed moment just looking, which borders on being too much. Peter can feel his ass clench when Tony runs a thumb over the pucker, and his legs tighten around Tony’s hips.

“Just, uh…” Peter wipes his mouth and hides his face in his elbow. “You can start, just…whatever you need.”

Tony presses in gently with the pad of his thumb at the same time he tugs Peter’s arm away from his face, just in time to see Peter’s expression slip into something feral. “Need to see you.” Tony bites into the meat of Peter’s shoulder and laves at it with his tongue. His goatee scrapes across Peter’s skin so good, and Peter curls up until his arms are curling over Tony’s head, hovering, unsure whether to bring him closer or pull him away. “My good boy.”

“Mr. Stark.” Peter presses Tony into his shoulders, another bite, and Tony slips a spit-slick finger inside quick and easy. “Oh, god, I didn’t think—I never thought—”

That’s a lie. Peter thought about it a lot, the way Tony might work him open. Tony’s fingers curl smoothly against Peter’s walls, one to two and then three, a little dry but Peter doesn’t mind when it hurts a little because sometimes soft and sweet feels dull. Sometimes he wants someone to rip him open and make him cry and if Tony is going to do it right now, under threat of death—

“Think about you all the time,” Tony croons heavily against Peter’s skin. He pulls away, purposeful, and Peter blinks. He wonders hysterically if the fog melted away, no more sex magic or whatever it is that’s making Tony want to destroy him, but Tony just draws closer until he can slap his cock around Peter’s swollen mouth. “Get me wet. I’ll make you stop thinking for good.”

Peter groans, an open invitation. This is insane. He shouldn’t enjoy this because Mr. Stark is drugged into wanting him and it’s a huge breach of trust and privacy but Peter scrambled up onto his elbows so Tony can feed him his dick, thick and perfect. He grabs Tony’s hip so hard he thinks there might be bruises but Tony fucks a little harder into his mouth, smooth.

There isn’t a lot of time for sex in his line of work, he’s busy, he’s pining over a man who doesn’t want him, not for real, but Peter isn’t too good to get on his knees in the back of a club and swallow someone down. He knows what he’s doing, throat opening up until the head of Tony’s cock hits the back of his throat. He hums. He loves this. He loves sucking people off, makes his head floaty and easy, and he’s got his eyes closed just to revel in it. He lets drool pool in his mouth again, knows it’s going to make his life easier.

Tony’s thumb wipes a tear off Peter’s cheek, and it’s only then that Peter opens his eyes and finds his lashes damp, stuck together, watery. “There’s my boy.” It’s so fond. “Don’t cry. You’re doing so well.”

Peter’s hips fuck up into the air and he pulls off, suckling at the head before letting it rest gently on his bottom lip. “I’m good. I’m good, Mr. Stark.” He feels Tony twitch against his mouth. It’s incredible.

It’s nothing compared to Tony rolling him over on his side, the obscene way Tony hikes up one of Peter’s legs and spits in Peter’s hole and feeds Peter the head of his cock so fast it burns a little, the way Peter kind of likes but won’t admit. It hurts and then his body knows it like this and everything evens out and Tony growls when he thrusts fully into Peter. His skin slaps hard against Peter’s hips, rocking Peter with a surprised cry further across the dusty ground. Tony just smoothes his hand over Peter’s hip, under the knee, and rocks into him. He bites feral at Peter’s neck and shoulders like he’s here to take and claim, like he’s going to want to see the shape of himself on Peter later.

“Oh, Mr. Stark, I’m, ah, oh, please.” Tony brushes up against his prostate and Peter jolts forward, bracing himself with his free hand on the ground to stop from being fucked flat into the floor. “Oh, please. It’s good. It’s good, it’s good.”

Peter isn’t sure Tony can hear anything anymore, but he takes his hand off Peter’s knee and wraps it around Peter’s throat, pulling him back so their bodies are flush and rocking hard and tight into Peter’s body. It’s hard to remember this is just drugs, this is just another day on the job getting fucked by the unrequited love of his life, when Tony watching the way Peter’s eyes roll back so closely. When Tony kisses Peter he tastes like blood but feels like gold, wrapping Peter up tighter. Peter couldn’t leave if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He’ll never want to.

“You take me so good, kid,” Tony says against Peter’s jaw, kisses wetly at the skin there. “Thought about this, about opening you up in the lab.”

“Ngh.” Peter is beyond speech, just like Tony promised, but his hand flies back to dig nails into Tony’s hip. His cock aches, dribbling precome onto the dirty floor and the tangle of his ruined clothes.

“It’s bend you over and slip inside and you’d just—fucking—let me.” He thrusts hard into Peter’s hole, punctuation, and the sound Peter makes is ungodly. “Thought about it when you glued yourself to the wall, just ripping your clothes off—mmm.” A slow roll Peter can feel in his toes. “Find you already open and dripping because I know you fuck yourself sometimes before you come in. FRIDAY can tell.”

Tony isn’t squeezing his throat but Peter can’t breathe.

There are a million and one first hand accounts of Tony Stark’s stroke, but Peter doesn’t think any of them compare to the real thing. On the ground, in the warehouse, while Captain America tries to stop New York’s Finest from throwing open the door and seeing Peter pinned here in the dirt, spread open—

“That’s it,” Tony whispers, gravel. He scratches down Peter’s chest and wraps his hand around Peter’s cock. “You’re so good. Go on. Make a mess. Daddy will clean it up for you.”

It’s deep in Peter’s stomach, rolls up until it burns in his chest and chokes him. His hips cant back, trying to take more of Tony, more more more of something that isn’t here, out here in the open. Everyone knows they’re doing this right now. Fuck. Tony’s suit is still there; FRIDAY is recording all of this, the way Peter shudders and writhes and comes and comes and comes all over Tony’s fist.

He falls flat on his stomach, Tony’s hand still pumping lightly until Peter is pushing back against Tony’s thrusts just trying to get away from the sensitivity.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Kisses all over his neck, his throat, his cheeks. “Let me take care of you. Almost there, so good. So perfect.”

There’s no condom. That’s the last thought Peter has, as Tony comes thick and hot in Peter’s ass and grunts, bites one more time. No condom. Very messy. It’s fine, probably, since Tony said he’d clean it up.

The adrenalin drop hits, empty, and Peter fades away into something deeper than sleep with his cheek pressed into the cold ground and Tony pulling out of his body, wet and sloppy.

#alright so this got away from me #obviously #i'm gonna add a little ending onto this and then post to ao3 because this is just a whole fic #starker #sex pollen #fuck or die #i did my best i've never written anything very exciting smut wise before lmao #asks #tntp #dub con #this is fine #im on fire it's fine

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xxsp3llb0undxx · 4 months ago

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Barely Breathing

Tommy Miller x Reader [726 Words]

Request from the lovely @pancake-lovy so sorry it has taken me this long to post this, I really hope you enjoy :)

Disclaimer: Please do not repost my work to other sites or claim as your own, this is purely written from my imagination and from the help of the series. All rights of the main storyline goes to the writers and producers of The Last Of Us.

Summary: Reader is known to have really bad anxiety, so when Joel and Ellie come knocking on the gates of Jackson looking for Tommy; it kicks off an anxiety attack. Tommy helps guide reader through it, comforting her through the whole thing.

WARNING: DESCRIPTIVE ANXIETY ATTACK // TOMMY BEING WHIPPED FOR READER // FLUFF // SWEARING // TLOU AU // UNEDITED

Jackson, Wyoming 2014 - Their first encounter

Y/n and Tommy had met 8 years ago when she was stumbling around the forest surrounding his settlement. Snowflakes tucked themselves into her hair, like glitter you could never get rid of; her gloved hands holding onto a rifle too big for her to carry. Tommy was shocked that the random woman had made it this close to the settlement without anyone seeing her or at least the dogs barking to let them know someone was near by. Tommy stood there, watching her walk through the snow, slowly nearing his position. When she had finally stumbled upon him, her once carefree demeanour turned into one that could only be described as perturbed - in simpler terms, Y/n was freaking the fuck out.

The young woman preferred the comfort of being alone, sure it got lonely sometimes but it saved her the hassle of her anxiety attacks creeping up on her at any given chance. She stared at the man in front of her, trying to ignore the nagging feeling of her chest tightening. Her breathing had become laboured as she clutched at her chest, the organ encased in her ribs was hammering at an unusual pace. Tears stung Y/n's eyes as she tried to control her breathing the best to her ability, the lack of oxygen had started to get to her; black dots pooled her vision as she fell to her knees. With a thump, the young woman's smaller figure had slumped to the ground, snow blanketing her body. Tommy stood there in shock, he didn't know what to do or how to handle this situation. He slung his rifle over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up the now unconscious woman, she was as light as a feather - no surprise to him though, food was hard to come by and by the looks of her, she hadn't eaten a proper meal in a good while.

He had carefully got on the horse, still holding the stranger close to his chest, as he headed back to Jackson. He knew Maria would definitely question him about picking up another stray this week but he just knew she had to be apart of his community - she was special.

------

Jackson, Wyoming 2023 - The other Miller

Tommy and Y/n have now been together for 5 years, they happily resided in a small house hidden behind the walls of Jackson. Tommy would be on patrol most days and if he wasn't, he could be found fixing up one of the of random buildings in the centre of the community. Today was one of those days. Tommy was on a scaffold as he continued to fix a few loose bricks on the side of one of the buildings, Y/n was hidden away in a small library Tommy had renovated for her; she didn't like being out in the town amongst everyone, just thinking about the crowds made her heart slam against her ribs. She was inside sorting out the kids reading area, making sure it was nice and tidy when they were dropped off by their parents in the afternoon. The sound of hooves hitting the concrete floor drew the attention of the towns people, their heads looking over to the group that had went out a couple hours ago. There were two newcomers, an older man in his mid fifties and a young girl, no older than 15.

The older man had shouted Tommy's name, his head snapped up to look at who was calling him. He looked around before his eyes locked onto his brother, a grin spread across his face as he jogged over to the older Miller. "What the hell are you doing here?" Joel brought his younger brother into a hug, small tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. The pair broke away when the younger girl coughed, making the older Miller turn around and scowl at her slightly. Tommy had led Ellie and Joel to the mess hall, along side Maria, when the group had bumped into Y/n along the way.

The young woman practically slamming into Joel as soon as she exited the big oak doors of the library. Joel's big, calloused hands reaching for her arm to steady her as she stumbled over her feet. "Careful there, darling." Joel chuckled, it was light-hearted but Y/n could already feel the warmth enveloping her skin as embarrassment sunk in. She gently pushed herself away from Joel, trying to create as much distance as possible as she felt that all familiar constricting feeling pull at her chest. Joel tried to reach for her again, only for Tommy to stop him. Telling Maria to take Ellie and Joel to the mess hall while he sorted this little problem out.

Y/n's form was slumped against the side of the library, arms hugging the side of her head as she tried oh so desperately to breathe but it seemed like wishful thinking. Her skin grew clammy, cold sweats causing her body to shiver. Tommy softly pulled her arms down from her head, gently cupping her face in his hands.

"Hey.. Hey.. its okay, just focus on me." His voice was barely above a whisper, it was filled with care as he spoke to her. His thumbs rubbing her cheeks as he stared into her eyes, searching for any sign that she was okay but he knew, he knew she wasn't. Gently picking her up, Tommy carried her back into the library and set her down in the reading corner she had made for the children in the community. Grabbing one of the softest blankets there, he wrapped it around her and pulled her snug against his side.

"You're okay, doll.. We're just gonna sit here until you feel better." Y/n burrowed further into Tommy's side, muffling her panicked cries with the check shirt that clung to the love of her life. The pair were sat in the library for the rest of the day, snuggled up to one another even after Y/n's panic attack calmed down. Tommy stayed with her through every last second of it, holding her close as he ran his finger's through her hair, kissing the crown of her head tenderly as she drifted off to sleep. He continued to stay by her side, only leaving to go grab some food for the pair of them, even going to the extent of begging Maria for her hidden stash of chocolate because he knew it would brighten Y/n's day. His love for her goes beyond anything he has ever felt for another person, beyond his love for life itself.

#the last of us #the last of us series #the last of us hbo #the last of us fic #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou series #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou x reader #tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x y/n #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy the last of us #joel miller #ellie williams

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ot3 · 10 months ago

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i think the biggest area where one piece disappoints for me is that so much of the stuff that happens is such a ridiculously fun setup on paper but the actual execution of these setups isn't really all that compelling at the end of the day. you've got such a beautiful scaffolding here and then a really fun cast of characters but i think that for the most part it misses the mark on having plot beats that meaningfully mesh the two together.

like i love all of the creepy haunted house bullshit theyre doing in thriller bark. a boat so big its its own island? ruled by an evil dude who lures people in to steal their shadows? and make them puppet around zombies that then mimic their behavior and slowly lose any sense of self as they succumb to his control? all great all extremely fun stuff.

there was briefly an interesting character angle to this stuff with chopper originally looking up to dr hognose as a surgeon then his horror upon coming to the realization that he's using his medical knowledge for crimes against humanity. but that's not really what this arc was About that was just kind of a thing that happened.

and this whole thing has also just done a really bad job of being brook's introductory arc? he really hasn't taken center stage for most of it. they did a really good job introducing franky and then trickling in stuff about his character to endear us to him so brooks character writing feels extra lacking coming directly off the back of that

it feels like this arc is maybe vaguely trying to do something about stripping people of their humanity but it just isn't landing.

#oplb

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white-chalk-sapphomet · 3 months ago

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You are no different from those creepy men who buy sex dolls and sleep with them in bed and take them to restaurants. In both cases there is no flesh and blood woman involved, just a construct refracted through male sexuality and shorn of every beautiful and painful and meaningful thing a female human being experiences. The only difference is that you use your own body as the scaffolding instead of a silicone doll.

I could be completely sexless and people would still chase me up a tree to bark at me abt autogynephilia or whatever. If you see a trans woman sat down at a restaurant and the first place your mind goes is that she's trying to be some kind of sex doll meant to cater to male sexuality, you're frankly objectifying her wayy more than some creepy dude, not like she doesn't have to deal with enough of them anyways.

Plus you're really not anybody to be telling me where my experiences set me apart from other women, bc womanhood isn't a monolithic experience. the beautiful, painful, and meaningful moments I have are my own. some cis will have shared experiences with me and some won't. One shared experience I have with cis women is having deranged people in mentions, dms, inbox throwing a fit about if they're "true" women or not. Spend your time better

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maculatas · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1: The Premise

Summary: The exiled princess with a scar across her face.

Ordered to be returned as soon as possible to the castle, Tarhos is sent to capture the girl and lead her back to her imprisonment. What matters is the mission, not to end up enthralled with her.

TAGS: Historical References, Historical Inaccuracy, Medieval Medicine, Eventual Smut, Power Play, No Such thing as Chivalry, Nihilism, Power Imbalance, Action/Adventure, and Canon-Typical Violence

The King’s madness descends upon his people. His cruelty, his benevolence. It is all due to him and his succession to the throne. His singular purpose.

What granted him this position had been by his great grandfather.The Great Usurper, they had called him before his march to the scaffold. He had entered into the kingdom with a hundred man army, a grand coup that fell rightfully into their lap. Swiftly and easily.

And with this his reign had begun.

The King’s great grandson now, Alaric, had married a duchess north of their kingdom. A young lady with manners and a weak constitution. She never once looked him in the eye during the coronation, the grandest wedding that all came to seek out. From peasants to the finest noblemen.

She had been adorned in the finest lace. It had taken the lace-workers three years and one hundred expertise hands to complete.

And she did not once look up. Not to seek him out, nor to wish him anything other than her silence.

Alaric could only scowl.

Wretched woman. They would only be good for one thing.

When it was time for them to consummate their marriage, she had been quiet. He had been over her body, her warm flesh, none of it satiated him.

Fiora was her name. A witch in the flesh. A lamb to all. She could only walk forth to her slaughter.

Fiora had blessed Alaric with twin sons. Strong. Forthcoming. Soon to be heirs. They grew to be strong, until one of them passed in battle. The other had become ill, eventually passing at the youngest age of twenty.

All Alaric had left was her.

The princess. She had been five, all too young for this. Fiora could not speak any longer. She would awaken in the middle of the night howling in pain. In agony. She would rip her hair out in clumps, and scream for hours.

The priest had come the days passing, convincing Alaric his wife had become bewitched.

“She is cursed,” he muttered solemnly. “She is to burn if we do not treat her soon.”

Alaric sneered, despising her all the more for her foolish behavior. “Isolate her,” he decides. “Throw her in my tower. Let her release every demon she has.”

The princess would come day in and day out visiting her mother. She welcomed her mother with old tomes written in another language. She had been entranced by the illustrations. Begging her mama to read her the story, to translate what she could.

Her mother would eventually relent, only allowing her to sit upon her lap. She would run fingers through her hair, and hum a tune that did not sound of this world. Mama never read, she never spoke. The only thing she had was her haunting song.

This is all the princess could remember.

Rage is a light word for the princess. She has decided to become ravenous.

She refuses to listen to the orders of her father, and in her own rebellion has drawn enemies. Since her mothers untimely death, nothing could quell her. Lest she forget her wrath.

The princess, despite all her beauty, has bared her teeth and snarled at every suitor her father has chosen for her.

He throws her into the tower after the umpteenth embarrassment.

“You will never see the light of day, child,” he threatens. She spits in his face. Alaric wipes it with a cloth from his pouch. “Rot here for all I care. Don’t feed her!” He barks out the orders, and leaves the tower to let her seethe.

Forever frozen in some barren place. The princess smiles, unsheathing a blade from her person. If she is stuck here, she will draw some blood to make it good practice.

Time is on her side.

When the princess stabs her dagger through the neck of one of her guards. It is vilifying. Gratifying in the most cathartic sense. He gurgles, clutching onto the final remaining breaths left in him as he collapses forward.

She watches him writhe until he moves no longer. The blood seeped deep into the stone underneath her feet. She wipes her hands on her dress, smearing the blood all over until she can escape from this hell hole. If she has to take down any more she will. Until it’s her dying breath.

Let there be blood to feed.

Alaric receives word during dinner. One of his kingsman comes rounding the corner muttering to another. The knight hastily approaches, lowering his head. “Sire, we have some news from the south tower.”

The King gives one final wave to his company. A few dukes from the north and east, discussing trade matters and preparing for the upcoming winter.

“What,” he hisses.

The knight swallows. “The princess has escaped.”

Alaric’s smile disappears in a matter of seconds. Eyes sharpened like daggers, a snarl curling on his lips. The knight can smell a hint of mead on his breath. “Find her, or I’ll take you to my gallows where you’ll never see the light of day.”

Alaric leaves, the swish of his robes following him in finality. “Come round, come round. Let us toast to a new companionship, men!” His tune changes quickly when he returns to his table of guests.

The knight struggles to breathe, knowing what his majesty has threatened will come true. He calls upon the south tower to quickly pick up haste. She couldn’t have gone far. She couldn’t have, surely.

It had taken the King’s men several days, and there was nothing left to mark where the damned girl had gone.

Alaric smashes his hands on the table of his study. “I want her head,” he promises. “I want her blood to be riddled here. Her cursed blood. Insolent child!” He muttered angrily to himself. His main guardsmen watch his reign of terror, the simple blade he keeps close to himself is stabbed deeply into the center of the wooden table.

“Sire,” the commander whispers cautiously, hoping to end this tirade.

The king looks up, hair thrown around him, eyes blazing. “What?” He replies venomously.

The man swallows, adding in confidently. “People talk in the kingdom. There are a group of mercenaries. They bounty hunt, searching for heads. Of powerful men ruled by a Hungarian man by the name of Tarhos.”

Alaric’s eyes widened in interest. “Bounty hunters?”

The guardsman nods.

Alaric’s smile grows wide like a cats. He licks his teeth. “Bring them to me. I want them to serve me in every way to find my insolent blood.”

He dismisses them, his smile never leaving his face. He slicks his hair back. “The princess will meet her match.”

Tarhos’ claymore slashed down the sides of the remaining accompaniment.

The laughter surrounding him was Alejandro near him continuing the bloodshed.

Tarhos groans, collapsing in on himself. One of those men had cut into his side.

“Quick! We must take the sire to the healer, one not so far from here.”

Tarhos swats them away, gritting his teeth through the pain. The burning coiling deep in himself, something that makes him sweat and see two mirrors of his three closest men.

He shakes it away, rising by using the hilt of his sword dug deep into the carcass of one of the slain.

“I can still continue on. I won’t die here.”

Durkos watches him, a keen eye that doesn’t leave him. “Say it, Durkos,” Tarhos grunts out, removing his helmet from his person. Damn those imperial armies. Their weaponry had much more arsenal than their own; yet still not strong enough for them. They had mutilated all of the ten in a matter of minutes. It’s why they’re known across the kingdoms, Tarhos and his Guardia Compagnia. His faithful three.

They rose in battles, the last standing over mounds of deceased. They were known for their knighthood, loyalty to a certain cause, and their prowess on the battlefield. Men keep themselves close to earthly desires; money, sexual pleasure, or notoriety among bloodshed. Tarhos since as long as he could remember, has been swimming in blood. Born from the mountains of the dead as a child surviving the plague. They had taken him into the convent of monks and priests, raised him well until he set off on his own. He trained under mercenaries, skilled swordsmen, and bounty hunters. None of them followed authority except only their loyalty rode with them for the people who hired them.

His priest had told him peace will come upon him. Tarhos knew better. He was a child of death. Reborn again to live, just like Christ himself. “He walked after three days and three nights, he had risen from his tomb to set out on showing his proof. Perhaps, you are a mirror of him. Like in his image.”

Tarhos was. In many ways was the mirror image of a God.

A demigod they would call him. A monster on the battlefield and his three men beside him, the four horsemen. The righteous. The deathless.

Tarhos sets off somewhere down the tree line, Durkos trailing behind him closely.

Sander grunts, spitting off to the side, unsheathing his weapon as it makes a squelching sound after being removed from a smashed head. The blood smearing on the side of his trousers.

“Where to next, sire? The healer isn’t too far from here,” Alejandro states.

Tarhos grouses something incomprehensible. “None of that, I go where this path will take me. To the nearest village.”

“Aye,” Durkos says. “How should we welcome them, then?”

Tarhos sniffs, his lip curling. “With our blades.”

Tarhos and company await for the massive gates to open forth.

The men surrounding the perimeter eye them with vigilance. Durkus spits off to his side, wiping off the grime from his head. “What do ye think of these people, sir?” His accent is thick and hoarse from previous rampaging. Tarhos’ hands twitch beside him.

“Do they think we are foolish?” Alejandro murmurs, his sword weighted in his palm. He considers thrashing it again over the lifeless body of the last man he maimed. Alejandro does so in dominance. The sickening crunch resounded in the courtyard.

The other guardsmen make no other move, but the man who comes forward looks like the king.

He claps his hands, the strong palms echoing as the rest step away from the carnage. Sander lifts the head of one of his men, holding it up as a mockery of a white flag. Tarhos speaks then. “We come in peace, your majesty.”

The king grins wickedly. His hands open wide with appraisal. “Ah, Tarhos Kovács and the Guardia Compagnia.”

He then walks across the courtyard, not minding the blood beneath his feet. “I am glad you can show your skills to me for a heavy price.”

“What is that you demand of us, King?” Tarhos asks. The weight of his armor burning against him. He has exhausted himself after this brawl, feeling already lightheaded from the loss of some blood and a few aches in his ribs.

They had attacked him and his company ruthlessly, but these men were no match for the awful four and their strength. Tarhos knows pain. He has experienced it since he was a young boy. In his roots, he holds the deepest fascination with blood on his hands. The gritting in his teeth and the ringing of silence, he chases after that familiar sensation. The simple thrum of battle. Tarhos has banded together a strong number of men, willing to fight for his own gain. In this mission, he will be able to ride on horseback and live in a tavern with no other exceptions. Tarhos imagines the gold against his palms, and the joy of his three men once they finish what is made of them.

The King‘s smile is serpentine. “Come, men. Come feast in my kingdom. We welcome you!” He announces, the surrounding men jeer and Tarhos doesn’t relax.

“Do you wish to stay here?” Sander asks by his side.

“As long as we’re needed,” Tarhos responds. It is a simple statement. One his men do not understand. Conquests come and go, but following the orders of a King is not always one they come upon.

They eat alongside the table, gorging on fat duck, beef, and roasted potato slathered with spices and a gulyá dish that makes Tarhos devour it in one sitting.

The King sips his wine. “So, my knight and his company,” he announces. They don’t look up and the King continues regardless if they’re listening or not. “My daughter, my flesh and blood has escaped me.”

Tarhos’ slows his chew. “A retrieval for a person?” This should be interesting. He’s had to bounty hunt previously, offering the heads of many noblemen for a fine price. Some alive and others mostly dead.

For a woman. Now that would be different.

Tarhos grimace does not go unnoticed. The King’s smile is gritty, all yellow teeth and decay. “She has left, only for me to mourn her. Now, make no mistake. She’s dangerous.”

“What are her transgressions, sire?” Tarhos asks, suddenly curious. What kind of creature was she to evade a king and his men? Someone much more conniving than they take credit for. Obviously the king cares less about the girl. It’s not about saving her, it’s about having control over her.

The King swishes his wine, taking a rather large gulp. “She has committed treason against me.”

“Quite a large declaration on her part,” Tarhos responds.

The King only grins, leaning forward. “She is the same blood from her cursed mothers womb. She wishes to kill me, her father? I sent her off to one of the towers and somehow she escaped, killing two of my men.”

Tarhos raises his brow to that. Interesting, he feels a familiar hum in his veins, his mouth watering. The onset of a bloodlust wishing to set him free. He pushes it down, relishing what remains of it yearning to escape him.

“And the girl? If we were to capture her?” His three men cease their movements of enjoying their meal, intent on what their employer is to say next.

The King laughs, a deep belly chortle that echoes in the dimly lit dining hall. “Bring her to me alive,” he says, his face lengthening, dark eyes inflamed by the lamplight. His smile looked wider than normal, teeth sharper. “Death is what she wishes to meet.”

“What an odd woman the King has,” Alejandro says beside Tarhos. “Women should be more susceptible to our charms, no?”

“They’re fearsome things,” responds Durkos. “They’re just as lethal as we are, dangerous beings with just as much charisma.”

Sander nods, rubbing at his chin. “With the girl, if we were to find her–”

“When,” Tarhos interrupts him, teeth gritting. The weight of his claymore against his back is the only grounding sensation he feels. “When we find her, we’ll make her kneel.”

The threat of his promise lingers among his men, he ascends forward to the front of the group.

The princess has become public enemy number one. She travels on horseback, her clothes dingy, hair wrapped into a tight veil, a mask covering her face. No one recognizes her as a nobility. They can’t in any way know.

She had taken the dagger given to her by her mother. Her mother had used it on herself to escape from her frightening, beast of a man who was her husband.

The needle point of it had burned when she sliced it over her features, she had done this to ensure her father would never find her a suitor among awful men. He had been furious, had locked her away with nothing to eat for hours, maybe days.

He had punishments for her disobedience, her insolence. The princess held such a strong anger towards him, feeling an insurmountable rage. It’s what carries her onwards, to get back at him. She lives only out of spite.

He may be on his way to finding her whereabouts, but she knows she is much more elusive than what they give her credit for.

Tarhos sets plans to depart on the fifth day, heading towards the west.

Sander gives a quiet grunt off to his left.

“Do we know where we’re going, sire?” Alejandro asks, leading a horse down the mountainside.

It was very vague directions the King gave them. He had pulled them out in one of his cupboards, a sloppily drawn map of the surrounding areas of the kingdom. “Here, you can look at this. We look beyond the stars and follow this one,” he gestures to a bright one in the sky. “Follow this and it will lead you to the nearby town.”

“What does your perpetrator look like?” Tarhos had inquired.

The King’s grin glinted. “The most undesirable creature you will ever lay your eyes on.”

#tarhos kovacs x reader #tarhos kovács x reader #tarhos x you #dbd imagines #dbd reader

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hirescaffoldingservices · 1 year ago

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#scaffolders dagenham #scaffolding barking #Scaffolding Ilford

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focsle · 2 years ago

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Ranks and Roles Aboard Whaleships

Boatsteerer Philip Gomes of the bark Wanderer. Photographed by William H Tripp in 1922. Via New Bedford Whaling Museum.

GOOD MORNING. I never wrote about this cos I was like ‘well that’s common knowledge isn’t it’ but…I exist in my own little bubble so it probably isn’t. Here you go! The ranks, jobs, and average range of what their share of profits would be (the lay).

Whalers were most commonly ships or barks (there were smaller brigs and schooners but not for those Big Long Voyages, so those were seen more often much earlier in the industry). They were relatively small and stumpy, about 100ft long by 25ft wide, with a tonnage ranging 180-400, but had crews ranging from 20-40 people. Read on under readmore!

Captain Lay: 1/12 - 1/16

Many captains were brought up in the industry, rising through the ranks from a young age. Many also came from whaling families. In addition to managing the voyage, updating the agents, and meting out discipline, the captain would also sometimes join in lowering for whales (as boatheader—see below, under mates). American whaleships were also not required by law to have a doctor on board and very few did (it’s an extreme rarity…I know of like, three). As such, the captain was also the one to manage medical care, ranging from dosing emetics to setting bones. Sometimes he would keep the official logbook himself. He was also permitted to bring his family on board, if he so chose.

Mate Lay: anywhere from 1/18th - 1/65th depending on if they were 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or 4th mates.

Whaleships had 3-4 mates (3 is more common). In addition to carrying out the captain’s order in managing crews they also had domain over their individual whaleboats when lowering for whales. Each mate served as ‘boatheader’. The boatheader would stand at the stern of the whaleboat, steering it and quietly giving direction to the other 5 men rowing. He was the only one who was facing forward to see the whale. Once the boatsteerer (see below) at the bow harpooned the whale and the boat was fast, the mate and boatsteerer would change places. The boatsteerer would take up the steering oar, and the mate would stand at the bow. This switch happened because it was the mate’s job to actually kill the whale with a long lance, when the opportunity presented itself. Mates also tended to be the ones who cut the blanket pieces of blubber (the first and largest strips of that were later cut smaller aboard), either from the whale, or severing the piece when it was lifted up to the deck. The 1st mate also often tended to keep the ship’s log.

Boatsteerers Lay: 1/80th - 1/110th

Essentially functioned as the petty officers on the ship. For general ship’s work, they helped oversee the foremast hands and would also coil the whale line tubs for their respective boats. But the core of their job was harpooning the whale. The name of their role is misleading, as for much of the time in the whaleboat they weren’t steering at all. They were positioned at the bow of the boat, helping to row until the opportunity came to harpoon the whale. Then they’d steer (much as one could at that point) upon switching places with the mate. They also could be the ones out on the scaffold when cutting into a whale, separating the blanket piece and discouraging hungry sharks swarming the carcass. Like the other above ranks, boatsteerers were often veteran whalers who worked their way up to that position.

Ordinary Lay: 1/120th to 1/180th

Foremast hands. They were more experienced seamen than greenhands, who often outnumbered them.

Greenhand Lay: 1/160th - 1/220th

Inexperienced new crewmen. Whaleships had a disproportionate amount of greenhands aboard than other maritime industries. Because they were small ships with large crews and years to learn on the job, agents were kinda like ‘yeah sure we’ll take anyone lol’. Typically, over half of the men living before the mast were brand new to the work and the sea in general. Line Crossing Ceremonies, for instance, didn’t feature as heavily on whalers as they did on merchant ships cos there were just too many new ones! Too many new ones for Neptune & Co. to haze.

Cook Lay: 1/120th - 1/180th

He cooks….often the subject of ire among all foremast hands.

Steward Lay: 1/100th - 1/180th In charge of the cook and managing provisions. He also maintained the cabins of the captain and mates and waited on officers at meal times.

Carpenter Lay: 1/120th - 1/180th

In addition to ship repairs, the carpenter also fixed whaleboats that were stove, so depending on the season and the luck, he could be kept very busy. His workbench was located behind the tryworks. In the case of carpenter and blacksmith, sometimes ordinary sailors doubled up on these jobs and served in this capacity as well, but they were more often a separate occupation.

Blacksmith Lay: 1/20th - 1/180th

In addition to making metal fittings for ship repairs and maintaining the tryworks, he’d craft hoops for barrels, and make and repair whalecraft. He was responsible for straightening out all the twisted irons that were taken from a whale to be used again.

Cooper Lay: 1/30th - 1/65th

Considered a particularly essential hand aboard, hence the pay. The cooper made all the barrels. And if all went well a whaleship would need a lot of barrels.

Cabin boy Lay: 1/220th - 1/350th

Not always present on whaleships, but sometimes they were there. They mostly just assisted the steward. Many of them were young sons from whaling families, sometimes the sons or little brothers of mates or captains aboard that ship, going to sea with the intention to become career whalemen.

—

And just a little bit about the microcosm of rank within a whaleboat as well. There were six men in each.

Boatheader : Mate or Captain, who directs the crew, originally steers the boat, and kills the whale.

Boatsteerer: Petty officer who harpoons the whale, and steers after getting fast.

Bow Oarsman: Usually the most experienced foremast hand, as he managed the line once a whale was fast and led the crew in holding or hauling it when needed.

Midship Oarsman: His oar was often the longest and heaviest to wield, so he had to have a good deal of strength to manage it.

Tub Oarsman: Managed the whale line tubs, mostly making sure they weren’t fouling and dumping water on them to keep them from burning when they were being pulled by a whale.

After Oarsman: Usually the least experienced member. He’d coil the line that was hauled back into the boat.

#awhalin

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trevelyawn · 10 months ago

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Gwendolyn steps into the cold. The sun hangs low, casting shadows over Skyhold. She rests crossed arms on rough stone and admires the people's hard work. Messengers are frantic, hurrying between advisors with concerns and queries; soldiers are patrolling the outer walls, acquainting themselves with the perimeter, committing each loose slab and crumbling parapet to memory; labourers chat amongst themselves as they assemble scaffolding. Those without a specific purpose, but with a desire to be of use, busy about, shuffling supplies between tents and buildings. Gwen feels pride swell in her chest. This is the Inquisition; her Inquisition.

Her attention is drawn by blond curls. The Commander is in the lower courtyard, barking orders at soldiers and messengers alike. He leans against a desk, scrolls pushed to the side as he consults an old map. Using two fingers, he points here and there, ushering workers away with new tasks. Gwen makes her way down the stone steps, unconscious effort pushing her to his side.

She approaches from his left, watches as he sends an idling messenger away. He sees her draw near and straightens, hands coming to rest over the pommel of his sword.

“We set up as best we could at Haven, but we could never prepare for an Archdemon- or whatever it was. With some warning, we might have...” he trails off. Gwen lets the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding out.

“Do you ever sleep?” Cullen's lack of sleep is evident by the purple-grey bags. He avoids the question.

“If Corypheus strikes again, we may not be able to withdraw... and I wouldn't want to. We must be ready. Work on Skyhold is underway. Guard rotations are established. We should have everything on course within the week. We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

She still wasn't used to the title. It sounded wrong. “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she says quietly, sighing. “It sounds odd, don't you think?”

“Not at all.”

She raises a brow, unconvinced. This had to be just as odd for Cullen as it was for her. They had known each other before; before Corypheus, before Kirkwall, before Blight. She attempts humour. “Is that the official response?”

He laughs. Success. “I suppose it is, but it's the truth. We needed a leader, you have proven yourself.” She smiles at that, thinking back to their last words before she had left to face the unknown, willing and expecting to lay down her life. What about you? He had worried.

“Thank you, Cullen.” A pause. “Our escape from Haven... it was close. I am relieved that you- that so many made it out,” she corrects herself. Heat rises beneath pale skin and she knows that her cheeks are already flush.

“As am I.” Gwen is content to leave it at that and she turns to leave. She stops when a hand closes around her wrist, the touch feather-light as though Cullen was unsure of what he was doing, unable to stop himself from reaching out. “You stayed behind.” His voice cracks, hitches. “You could have-”

Trembling hands move to take Cullen's from her wrist and she holds him gently. With slender fingers she traces faded scars stretched across his knuckles and she looks up at him. Blue meets brown. “I found a way.”

#headcanon: my inqy is a circle mage who has known cullen since her early teens #my writing #cullen #cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor trevelyan #dragon age #cullen x mage trevelyan

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fixing-bad-posts · 2 years ago

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Rings of power Thoughts?

thank you for asking!!! hello, i’m back with part two: rings of power as poor writing (here’s part one: rings of power as a bad adaptation). yes, i will be taking cheap shots at the writers.

rings of power exists on a basis of faulty scaffolding, structured using the ‘mystery box’ story device on unsuitable material. the characters are flat, making interpersonal conflicts inconsequential. on top of all of this, the show is tonally confused, and struggles to recreate high-fantasy dialogue to a believable calibre.

so first, the pettiest complaint: dialogue. i’m just getting this out of the way so that you know this is how characters speak throughout the entire series—when they aren’t stealing quotes from the lord of the rings movies, they’re inventing nonsense idioms and phrases (“a dog can bark at the moon but he cannot bring it down,” “the ground had swallowed up the people like flies.”) these are writers who try to emulate tolkien’s style of dialogue without being familiar with any of the sources tolkien was inspired by (arthuriana, shakespeare, etc.). anyway. that’s just something you have to live with as you watch the show.

now for larger problems: season one of rings of power is (for some godforsaken reason) structured around a series of unanswered questions that the viewer is asked to ponder throughout the series: for example, ‘who is sauron?’ or ‘what is the deal with the naked man who fell from the sky?’ unlike lord of the rings, rop is not structured like a fantasy epic, but like a genre-mystery set in middle earth.

the problem arises with the fact that they seem incapable of following through on the structure they’ve chosen. in order to engage the viewers in their posited questions, they need to present compelling clues along the way with which to speculate on the answers. instead, in the case of the naked man who fell from the sky (called “the stranger”), nothing he does from episode to episode impacts his plotline, nor does it connect to anything else. his incidents of magic are isolated, enigmatic, and frightening, and never go beyond that. his identity (as gandalf) is meant to be a reveal, but the one clue we’re given about him before the show has him quote movie-gandalf’s greatest hits (to really hammer-home that he’s gandalf) is: he has powerful magic. that’s it. and their treatment of the sauron question is worse—they provide the same misdirection on sauron over and over again: this guy is sauron, just kidding, he’s not. they introduce the commander of an orc army and have characters declare that he is sauron, only to deny it a couple episodes later. they introduce an ominous, enigmatic sorcerer character who watches characters from afar only to have him declare he only serves sauron. the try and tell us in the finale that gandalf is actually sauron by having a character call him “sauron”—once again, this is trite deception. it’s as if the writers do not trust themselves to seed evidence without tipping their hand to the audience.

meanwhile, the real sauron’s deception relies on the audience playing along with the writer’s inability to adhere to competent character/world building. we meet sauron (secretly going by halbrand) adrift on a raft, among survivors of an undetailed orc raid, and are told very little about his backstory. what we do learn about him is sparse compared to other characters like elrond and galadriel, but is about on-par with original characters like arondir and bronwyn, who themselves are objectively underwritten (more on this later). eventually we find out that he is the king of the southlands—apparently. shrewd viewers will realize near-immediately that his backstory makes very little sense, and his character wants/needs are—as they’re presented—nonsensical. but this is also true of bronwyn and arondir, who are not supposed to be objects of suspicion. savvy viewers are left to conclude that halbrand’s inconsistent backstory is clumsy writing rather than suspicious behaviour—after all, if halbrand is suspicious for having no backstory, then so is arondir. if halbrand is suspicious for claiming to be the nonexistent‘king of the southlands,’ then so is gil-galad for espousing a nonexistent fourth silmaril. if halbrand is suspicious because he’s an unremarkable person who very quickly adopts a great deal of political and social influence on nothing but (dubious) charisma, then so is bronwyn. we cannot suspect halbrand without also suspecting almost every other original character in the show, because the inconsistencies they write on purpose in the case of sauron are done on accident with every other original character. and galadriel—the character whom we are told is 1) very intelligent and 2) the foremost expert in sauron-hunting—has zero suspicions about halbrand and interrogates nothing of him before the finale. we get no validation for picking up on his inconsistencies.

viewers familiar with the book canon will also know that there is no ‘king of the southlands.’ however, as i mentioned in part one: rings of power as a bad adaptation, they also invented an entire fourth silmaril which never existed in book-canon. we are left to conclude that his fictitious title is meant to be taken as fact in the context of the series. later, as the reveal happens, galadriel finally begins to question his backstory, and after some research, comes to the revelation that there is no king of the southlands—but any deception regarding sauron’s identity relies on the audience already expecting the writers to be too incompetent to seed a plot twist. the writing does not respect the intelligence of the characters who are in-universe alleged to be highly intelligent, nor does it respect the intelligence of the audience by refusing to give us the chance to follow along and solve the mysteries they themselves set up. possibly this is because the writers themselves aren’t very smart.

admittedly this is speculation, but it seems that the reason they’ve structured the season around a series of mysteries to be solved is that they’re incapable of pitting characters against each other based on opposing goals, and/or conflicting wants/needs. there are several characters who have personal/emotional stake in the actions of other characters, yet threats are largely external and rarely interpersonal. arguments don’t change the course of the plot and thus feel unnecessary. bronwyn’s son wants to risk his life to gather food for the village—she argues with him not to, and he does it anyway. galadriel doesn’t want to get on a boat—she and elrond argue, she gets on the boat, but then jumps off anyway. isildur wants to pursue a path his father disagrees with—they argue about it, and he sabotages his career anyway. halbrand, set to sail to the mainland, claims he doesn’t want to sail—he and galadriel argue, and then they sail to the mainland anyway. the writers only know how to write one kind of argument: character a wants to do something; character b says, “don’t do it!” character a does it anyway. characters have no ability to impact other characters via words or actions. as a writing tool, argument scenes/confrontation scenes should always change the course of the plot and/or progress a character’s arc. instead, the writers of rop treat confrontation scenes as spectacle to include whenever an episode’s overall volume level is too quiet.

the main reason that interpersonal conflict is so difficult for the writers of rop is that, without the crux of pre-written material, rop cannot/does not present complex characters. galadriel is the first protagonist we’re introduced to, and they assign her the action girl character trope, played straight and never subverted or deconstructed. galadriel is one of the oldest characters in the show, yet she’s played as the youngest and least mature. it’s difficult to root for her or believe that she’s respected in any sense when she possesses no decorum, restraint, and lacks the ability to negotiate without insulting those around her. her skills as a politician are learned from halbrand (sauron), a random man whom she meets by chance, who gives her advice like, ‘you should ally yourself with people in power positions instead of threatening them if you want their resources.’ what we are told about her (she is very old, experienced, and highly respected) is constantly refuted by the way she is actually written (brash, short-tempered/sighted, and inconsiderate).

meanwhile, we have the original characters. bronwyn and arondir are a human woman and an elven man allegedly in taboo-love, but it’s difficult to become invested in them without creating elaborate headcanons because (as i alluded to above, in the sauron section) they are underdeveloped. we know next to nothing about who either of them are as people. what do they want in life? what do they—conversely—need out of life? what about arondir meets a need in bronwyn’s life? what about bronwyn meets a need in arondir’s life? none of these questions are answered in-text. presumably they find each other attractive. nothing about them is contradictory, but then nothing is said at all. arondir is good with bronwyn’s son (she’s a single mother)—sure, but what does this mean for her specifically? what does this mean to her son? the stock setup they’ve crafted isn’t inherently faulty, but in rop, this basis is not the foundation of a story, it’s the entire story.

they try to develop bronwyn as her own character in the second half of the series by making her the leader of her village when a band of orcs threaten their safety. this would be an excellent arc, if only it was written like one, and given challenges to overcome. instead, she faces no opposition to taking a leadership role despite the fact that the first half of the series implied that she was not seen favourably among her neighbours due to her rumoured connection with arondir. this piece of setup is dropped as soon as they need to change her role in the story. once she is a leader, she never makes any mistakes or is given a chance to learn from them (in this way, underfunded series 4 of bbc merlin does a better job developing leadership than overfunded rings of power). it’s frustrating because she’s set up with the potential to be a complex, contemporary-minded leader; however, she never reads as a realistic woman, but rather as an inauthentic facsimile of a woman-character written into a position of power by writers who love the idea of strong female leads, but cannot feasibly imagine what kinds of challenges a semi-pariah’ed single mother would go through to be respected. bronwyn is done a disservice by a narrative which doesn’t allow her to prove herself.

as for the harfoots, their plotline always feels like a genre jump into a show for a much younger audience—nori’s desire to see the world/have adventures despite the dominant world-wary harfoot culture is at best a blatant attempt to rewrite the hobbit, and an immature cliché at worst (her character archetype is most recognizable from disney movies). this isn’t to say that tv series can’t genre-hop from plotline to plotline (i think sense8 does this quite well in season 1), but in the case of rop, the simplicity of nori’s construction only reinforces the quality gulf between canon characters and original characters.

tl;dr—it’s clear that if this show was not affixed to tolkien’s name, it would be an overfunded passion project by writers crafting their very first fantasy. the structure they’ve chosen is wrong for the material, and they struggle to follow through on the seeding it demands. their plot twists thrive not on skill but on the audience taking pity. their characters are underwritten, and their female characters are especially token. besides all of this, to watch the show at all, you have to sit through dialogue that sounds like it was written by the dragon from merlin.

(stay tuned for part three: parting thoughts & the funniest details from rings of power)

#ask fbp #ishouldgetatumbler #fandom posting #rop critical #anti rop #anti amazon lotr #anti rings of power #amazon rings of power #rings of power #rings of power negative #anti trop #rings of power critical #rings of power analysis #rings of power meta

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