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sourbites · 1 month ago

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Cottonmouth

People are starting to catch those early-autumn colds. A sneeze here, a cough there. It makes yours and Kirk's sniffling less conspicuous. It wasn't that long of a walk to your shared hotel: probably a block or three. Neither of you were really paying any attention. The air smelled tartly crisp when you were out, saccharine-sweet from the leaves changing from green to browns and oranges and yellows. Some people were even getting out their carved pumpkins to dress up their doorsteps for the mid-October evenings that always seem to come earlier and earlier each year.

The heavy pack of beer is swooshed on the floor as soon as you make it into the hotel room. Stepping through the threshold, you realise just how bitterly cold it's getting. Your nose is chilled, your fingertips numbing, and your coat is suddenly making things a little too warm. You shake it off, ignoring the rattle of loose coins and other amenities, and hang it up above the radiator, hopefully so the rising heat will dry it, curing the rain-dampened material.

"It's still a good night," Kirk hums to you, interlacing his fingers with yours to hook you into his chest. You glide the heels of your palms under his too-big leather jacket. You bite back a cheesy grin. You can't tell if it's him making your heart flutter — or the few lines of coke making your veins glow with heat.

"Which means what? You want to keep going?" You test, looking up at him through your thick eyelashes. His big hand splays on the small of your back, knuckles prodding against you through your thick turtleneck.

⸻

Bodies are lowered sluggishly into the mattress. The daze of a coke-fuelled evening makes everything slow down and speed up at the same time. Kirk’s knees dig into the bed as he kneels, crouched down over you like you’re a psalm he’s going to take shelter under. His plump lips capture yours, sloppy and wet kisses making your mouth tingle, migrating down your chin, teeth clashing as you swallow each other’s doped-up laughs.

You have to part after a few moments; your throats choked up with sand and cotton. You manage to find salvation in the neck of a beer bottle. It foams up in your mouth, bubbling molasses-soaked promises down your throat. This intermission is easy, and it’s familiar. Wordlessly, you press the cool glass into Kirk’s waiting palm.

He mumbles a low thanks before he polishes the rest of the bottle off. Tenderly, so gingerly that it melts you, Kirk’s hands cup your face, sweeps his thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, and presses a tingling, wetted kiss to the tip of your nose. His brown eyes look like pools of nothingness; his pupils too dilated to let the honey-browns or impish reds shine through. His gaze is piercing through you, and reaching down deep to your soul.

"Comfy for you?" Kirk grins. His hand on your sides, your shirt compressed and bunched up around your fluttering ribs, slow tenderness to soothe you and that cocaine daze of excited restlessness. You're not sure where he learnt it from — being soft.

"Uh-huh," You nod, too busy helping him ease your shirt off to give a more profound answer. He rucks your bra beneath your chest, hot lips and tongue mouthing at your bared skin.

"S' a good fit here." You manage to add, shuffling down against the fort of pillows.

Kirk agrees, "Yeah." His eyes drink you in appreciatively, the way your eyelashes flutter against your browbones when you look up at him, his gaze tracing over the flushness in your skin.

"Good fit." He echoes lowly, latching onto your nipple, wetting it with his tongue, rasping his teeth against it until it pebbles.

Your hands trace over his spine, curling your fingers around the hem of his sweater as you drag up and up — until you break his mouth's union with your chest, guiding his sweater off his warmed, goldenly shining skin. The heels of your palms slide easily along his bare skin. Beneath your touch, Kirk shudders, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Skin sweeps along skin; the pads of your fingertips gingerly trace the plane of muscles along his back and neck.

Kirk's hands take hold of your hips and ease your jeans off your form. You're glad he does so. Everything is warm, too warm, and you can feel your coke-addled blood simmering and foaming in your body, like a neglected pot that threatens to spill over. Sinking further into the mattress, you sigh, your legs rasping against the bedsheets. Above you, Kirk guides your thighs to bracket his head, his flushed cheeks smooshing into your inner thighs. The heat blooms between you.

"What you doing?" You slip a hand into his black curls, sweetly sweeping along his clammy forehead. He tilts his head up for a moment, keening into your touch. His long eyelashes kiss the swells of his cheeks as he dimples, grinning, his eyes closed. This is what trust looks like.

He swoops down and kisses your slit over your panties. "Gonna eat you," He mutters tenderly. You can feel his smirk against you. He mouths at you like he would bite into an apple: hungry. Two index fingers hook onto the sides of your panties and slip them down.

He kisses your pelvis - your hips. Each morsel of you, he savours. Kirk uses the flat of his tongue to gather your growing slick, smearing it between his tongue and your warm, drooling cunt. Cocaine-dazed, you squeal, your socked heels scattering all over his back. He uses the pads of his thumbs to find purchase on both sides of your wetted slit and spreads you open, displaying you all for himself. Your hips cant against his face — you can't sit still for a moment. The moon is tugging at your hair, the cocaine is swaying within you. Kirk nuzzles against the softness of your belly, his burning hot cheek smooshed into your skin.

"Greedy," You laugh breathlessly, tipping your head against the pillows with a barely audible thump. Maybe if your heart wasn't pounding in your chest, you could've heard it better.

Kirk's hot mouth engulfs your cunt, suckling you as if he plans to actually swallow you whole. He relents to talk, making a wet pop once his mouth releases its hold on you. "Only f'you," He raises his brows once, playfully. He noses into the sponginess of your pelvis, right above your mound. He fits his mouth on you, bodies slipping together puzzle perfectly. You're not sure how it works. Maybe you were just made for each other. Maybe you've just got coke-tinted glasses on.

You can't get Kirk out of your system. Your heart stutters, your breath trembles. Your vision blurs, until you simply give up and squeeze your eyes shut. You melt into him. His filthy mouth shapes you as God's hand caresses the clay that was once humanity. Kirk downs your arousal like a shot glass of God’s flood, and he, the Ark. The wispy ends of his curly bangs brush into your skin, all fluttery and soft, practically kissing the promises that hymns bring up the apex of your hipbones. The way his hands cup your hips, sides, thighs — it's greedy, so shamelessly uncouth. He'll bite off more than he can chew at this rate.

All the while, you're rendered boneless, laying on the bed with him nestled comfortably between your legs like your limbs are jelly. He's got you pinned as he slurps noisily on your cunt as if you're the juiciest fruit he'll ever eat. Like you're a fig to fill his mouth. Your abdomen clenches, and the cage of heat that rests between your hips begins to ache. Your back arches off the bed, and you cannot swallow your gasps anymore. You're so full up with coke and terrible booze and heat that there's no room left for anything else.

Ambitiously, you try to encourage him. All you manage, thanks to his brain-melting efforts and the drugs that feel like cotton in your brain, is a whining, "Fuuuck— Kirk, I...I... God, yesyesyes—!"

His amused chuckle vibrates against you, indescribable heat and wetness drooling and bubbling up between his mouth and your sopping wet, puffy sex. Swallowing around you, Kirk swipes the pad of his thumb along your clit. You're bulldozed with rapt tension that scorches through you. He devours you whole, living off you with animal thirst (or maybe only the type of lust that a beast can muster). The lewd noise of your whines and breaths mingle with your cunt being slurped up. You can feel the crude smirk on Kirk's wanton, plump mouth. He licks you open relentlessly, and there's just so much of you, wetting between your thighs, the bedsheets, and thickly dripping down his chin, coating everything in a murky milk-film.

Starting at your neglected hole, Kirk rakes up through your slit and ends at your swollen clit. His splayed tongue rolls against you, pouring out a groan at your taste. You squirm, restless— aching for him, aching so much that your heart beats heavily in your chest, your pelvis taut with tension. Kirk uses his arms to keep you vulnerably open, effectively flattening you into nothing. You bite down on your lip when he sneaks a finger into your cunt. Liquid heat drips from you. He's the spark of fire that's getting dangerously close to your puddle of gasoline.

"Fuck me, Kirk," You plead shakily, combing through his ebony curls gingerly. "Please... I, I can't— I can't live without you."

"That's the coke talking, baby," He hums against you. Impishly, Kirk looks up at you through his lashes. There's no light in his dark eyes. His pupils are so blown out that they swallow the colour beneath. You probably look the same.

You laugh, breathless. Still toying with his hair. "Maybe a little."

Deciding to be merciful tonight, Kirk leaves your slippery-wet cunt with a kiss. "Beautiful." You hear him say through huffy exhales.

You swear you feel yourself clench on nothing as you hear his belt being unbuckled. Anticipation prickles through you. He kisses around the underside of your chin and your jaw as he gingerly breaches you. He pushes, groans, and tries to wrap you up in bubble wrap with his coos and kisses. Your slick, hot cunt swallows him in greedily. You feel his hard cockhead bump into your cervix before he withdraws — before eagerly shoving himself back in, punching straight through you and into the mattress.

You tremble; a hollowed-out moan rattles through you. Squirming, you hook your legs around his hips, drawing him into you. The bluntness of your nails bite into his biceps, finding purchase along his sweat-tacky skin. Kirk falls into a rhythm, his hipbones smack into yours, his hands squeeze tender bruises into the tops of your thighs, swathed around him as if he'll dissipate into smoke at any second.

Kirk's breath is erratic. It sweeps along your feverishly warm cheeks sweetly. Even if he smells of booze. You angle yourself as best you can to meet his thrusts, too eager to wait for his fat cock to slam into you. Long, flowing streamlets of slick squelches as his dick finds purchase within your welcoming, velvety insides, as your pussy puffs around his thick shaft, tingling distantly within your nerves.

His body and yours entirely blur together, hazing the lines on where he ends and you begin. Marvelling at him, your fingers trace along your cunt, feeling exactly where he splits you in half on his excited cock. Kirk's thumb joins you, first dragging the pad of his thumb along the hard button of your clit, groping the raw nerves, before feeling your sloppy, puffy sex stretching around him, feeling himself disappear inside of you. Only to reappear as a little bulge in the middle of your pelvis.

His pace rolls into something messy; it degrades into something frantic. Honey-tongued, Kirk mumbles, "Thassit, pretty girl. Gonna make you come." His voice is shaky under the weight of pleasure, purring and low, syrupy to your ears.

"Uh-huh," Your mouth parts, trying to babble around your moans. They stutter every time he delivers a filling stroke into the bottom of your eagerly waiting pussy. His hands are worshipping you. He splays a clammy palm under your belly button, feeling the thick swell of his cock buried beneath your flesh. It's all so... so Bacchanalian. You feel like you're going mad. With every vicious squeeze of your laving cunt, Kirk is wound-up tighter, pawing at you, kneeling into you, piledriving his hips into you until you're practically hollowed out. And still, his hips piston into you relentlessly.

You stir your hips down onto him, squealing out his name as if he'll come save you. Your hands slip up his shoulders, cupping his head, steering him to nuzzle into the side of your face. Your cheek smooshes into his hair. You mouth at his earlobe. His moustache scrapes up your hairline, where he mouths lazy kisses. You feel as if you're being atomised with every eager cant of his hips. The soft flesh of your thigh is cupped into the crook of his forearm, and the hand connected sweeps down to circle along your raw, perky clit.

The sterile hotel room is filled with the sound of his cock pounding into your wetness. Your limbs are twisted together like some gory amalgamation of bodies like you've been Frankensteined together. A cold shiver shoots down your spine. Kirk presses a kiss to your mouth, swallowing your moan as he fiercely impales you.

Like a bass kick, the tempo picks up. Gets grittier. Your fingers curl into the ringlets at the base of his neck, your nails brand his shoulder blade with crescent moons, watching as the universe blacks out. He makes you shiver and sob with your whole chest as if you're molecules and you're about to fuse together.

"Fuck, baby," Kirk hisses, his teeth glittering like a predator's, bared and sharp as they clash into your own teeth, and nip at your lower lip.

You choke on a cry, dazed and fucked brainless. Your mind was already like Swiss cheese, thanks to the coke. The air you greedily gulp dries out your tongue. Something within you swells, making the already tight fit even more snug. His bulbous cockhead presses into all of you, sloshing your slick out until it dribbles and bubbles out of the seams of your fucked-open hole, painting his balls and sparse curls shiny with you.

Goosebumps crawl up your arms and legs. Your chest quavers with half-drawn breaths, shaking and clattering in your lungs. Kirk coos at you. His hot palms burn your skin as he releases your thigh and slides up your side, pulling shudder after shudder from you with each tentative swipe of your hip and waist.

"Want more?" His voice is honeyed, so smooth you want to gulp it down. Ease that itch in your dry throat, hoarse with moans. The hot, gorgeously sinful drags of his cock up the channel of your pussy quickens, forcing squelch after squelch to bubble up between your mixed huffs of air.

Your heart hurts. You nod, fucked too effectively to even attempt words. Kirk turns his face a little, lining up his mouth to land onto yours again. He kisses you. He kisses you mad — you see scarlet madness behind your eyes. His tongue dips and strokes along yours, mouths parted and breaths tucked into mouths. There's a cocaine tint to his tongue. Like liquid gold, he takes every ounce of you. You can feel the pull of his cock seeping into you, and then his hips withdraw. Gluttonous, you smack your hips down to meet his. His heavy dick makes you dizzy every single time, fucking you up the fort of pillows until the bedframe creaks in pain with every delicious swing of his pelvis.

You come at each other like this; eternity cannot be broken. With shaking breaths, your palms tremble and scrub frantically into Kirk's shoulders, finding something to keep your soul in your body. He curls his fingers into you, a hand at the side, another in your hair, and beats into you hard — until you're winded, and suddenly, you don't have enough breath in your body for that scream cooking deep within your belly. Your shoulders shake with noiseless, breathless cries and squeals. Kirk's mouth is nasty as it gulps you down, biting into your bottom lip, laving his tongue over every tooth-shaped divot in your flesh.

He's handsy. He hooks his arm around your back, lifting you an inch off the bed and into him. Your chests are flush. His heartbeat is so prominent, so deafening, that you mistake it for your own, as each crescendo of ba-dump smooths away any illusion of space that separates you.

In an overwhelming jolt and flash of some sort of higher dimension, your cunt spasms helplessly around Kirk. His hips stutter against your thighs, smacking into you so overzealously and thoroughly that it's almost mean. He spills molten hot, thick cum into you like a river, and you a stone, where every drop and thrust reshapes you into something smooth-edged. You feel stuffed. Your scream is voiceless. You think you have whiplash. He's filling you up with a heavy load that settles somewhere so deep inside you that you're not sure if you could possibly reach it. A drug-powered, carnally raging load that's so boiling hot that you feel your body temperature climb higher.

Reluctantly, Kirk pulls away from you. His eyes are something tender as he scans you over, carefully lowering your limp body back onto the bed. His gaze falls onto your wrecked, split-in-half cunt, that's oozing your mingled orgasms. He watches, fascinated, as it washes out of you with each pulse of your hole. He uses an index finger to trace it— your slit, and gathers it up with two fingers, easing it back into you as if it belonged there. As if he was tidying up, and your sex was its rightful place.

The sweat-twisted blankets are halfway on the floor. Kirk scoops your legs together and guides you to lay on your side. His breaths are still a little laboured as he lazily presses his warm mouth to your damp temple. The haze of sex still clings onto the room (which you don't envy housekeeping in their cleaning this room tomorrow morning), though it is softened with the easy, gentle moment.

You clear your throat to say something. "Shh, beautiful. Rest." Kirk beats you to it, his voice soothing and gently urging. You bite your lower lip. You can still feel his teeth marks there. You want more coke. You want some terrible beer. Mostly, you want this moment. Forever and ever.

#metallica #kirk hammett #metallica x reader #metallica smut #metallica fanfiction #kirk hammett smut #kirk hammett x you #kirk hammett x reader #metal #kirk hammett imagines #metallica imagines

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syoddeye · 7 months ago

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final part of piercer!simon. read the previous bit.

simon x transmasc!reader. ~2.1k words. +18 only. Note: Cunt, cock, and clit are used to describe genitalia of a trans masc reader’s body. Hit the back and/or block buttons as needed. CW: description of piercing procedure, dubcon touching (reader is interested and generally consenting, but a lil scared because simon), packing, minor negative self-talk, needles (mentioned), invasive questions, simon riley’s bad filthy jokes, mild degradation, praise, fingering, frotting, just the tip, italicized dialogue

Want to see what a Duke piercin' would look like on you?

No sooner than you mutter a ‘yes’, Simon helps you to your feet, and orders you to strip from the waist-down. He turns away to rummage through an acrylic cabinet. Hands trembling, you pop your fly and pull the zipper. At the sound, the broad set of shoulders and back in front of you tense. You hesitate, fingers curled around your waistband, and his head swivels a fraction. He’s listening.

Your breath shudders. This is a preview. Not the actual piercing.

Your jeans are barely to your thighs when he faces you again, steel forceps back in hand, two bells pinched in his fingers. Staring through half-lidded, dark eyes, he gestures to your boxer briefs with the instrument.

Those too. All the way off. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

You doubt it. Slow as molasses, you peel the cotton down, carefully taking the modest foam packer with it. Your eyes fix themselves to the crease of Simon’s bent arm, the inky black of his tattoo, but you can’t close your ears to how he inhales deeply through his nose. Not in the way you expect. With interest, like he’s trying to sniff you out.

All the way off. He repeats.

You obey and step out of the pile of clothes. Simon hums. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze and find him staring. His eyes narrow slightly, apparently having waited, then drag down your body. Their weight palpable when they reach your cock.

Pretty.

Simon steps closer and chucks your chin with the forceps. The cold makes you swallow, and his subtle crows' feet crinkle.

Do you trust me?

He knows the answer. You’ve paid him to stab you over a dozen times, but he needs a ‘yes’, and you give it to him. He moves. Both you and him.

Despite the cool, sterile atmosphere of Simon’s studio, you feel like you’re melting. Heat licks up your back, curling around your neck and cheeks, blistering with a mix of humiliation and anticipation. Every nerve ending alight, and Simon hasn’t even touched you, at least, not where you want him to.

Comfy?

Another ‘yes’ ekes out.

Legs spread and hauled over Simon’s thick thighs, you recline between his legs, facing a mirror. One hand guides your hips into a slight angle, putting your cock on display. His arms slip under yours, smoothing the corner of the bandage protecting your fresh navel piercing.

A chuckle rumbles through your back and tightens your chest. The hand on your stomach shifts, and his arm bands around your middle. Tucking his head into your shoulder, paper mask skimming your cheek, he draws the forceps closer to his target, and his breathing quiets in your ear. Beneath the lingering smell of disinfectant, smoke and cardamom wafts off his skin.

Gonna be cold. I’ve got you.

And it is, and he does. You fight your reflexes as he maneuvers the instrument between your thighs, brushing your cock and the sensitive dip of skin and hair. Gently exposing you further, he coos in your ear, a smugness edging his voice when it twitches. Look at you. Perfect candidate.

The chill bites as the blunt jaws hold the skin away from your cock, and your eyes dart between it and your cunt. Your fingertips dig into his thighs at the sheen of arousal threatening to pool and drip. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed.

Hold these. Simon taps the handle. Don’t move or it’ll hurt.

Your hand takes over, and his grip relents. A barbell in each hand, he slowly moves the jewelry into places, his breath deep and even. Rapt, your mouth parts. The symmetry is simple, yet—

Gorgeous. Eyes flicking to him in the reflection, you preen, and his deep, rattling breath makes you shiver. Do you get hard often?

You wilt and think to rise, bail, but then he rubs the steel along the sides of your cock, coaxing it to attention. The move chokes his name out of your throat, and you nearly drop the tool. A huff of laughter filtered by the mask warms your face. He meets your eye in the mirror and continues.You like that, pretty? Can feel how stiff you are.

His thighs open further, taking yours with them, his covered mouth pressing to your neck. His fingers stray from the bells every other arc against your cock, gingerly stroking. At the escape of a whine, he drops the pretense altogether. The jewelry clatters to the ground abandoned, and he reclaims the forceps. He drags the flat, oval tips over your skin as if they were as soft as a feather. His free hand snakes under the hem of your shirt, shoving up until it glides to the base of your neck. A thumb rests in the hollow of your throat. The sight in the mirror renders you speechless, watching his dexterous fingers manipulate the metal to tease and toy, winding you up until you shake.

Normally can’t get you to shut it, now you’re as quiet and as fidgety as a church mouse. Simon ditches the tool next, splitting two thick fingers to take its place. They edge down, slick soaking the latex, and he groans against your head. The digits creep further, slow, one experimentally touching the tender underside of your cock, while the other pets over your hole, clearly telegraphing what’s next.

Simon removes his hand altogether, chuckling at the whine that follows. Yeah, like that. He holds your gaze, licking the tips of his gloves clean before biting a latex tip and tugging the glove off. He hawks the thing to the floor with a wet slap, and pulls his mask under his chin. Pale, old scars decorate his face and knuckles. There’s a story, and you think to ask, but he pushes his fingers past your lips and stuffs them into your mouth. Sweat and hand soap dance over your tongue as he makes use of it, wetting his fingers up to the metacarpal, groaning at the sight of spit collecting on his skin. Wanna hear you, pretty.

You’re dripping by the time his fingers return, and with a single shaky nod in the mirror, he sinks them into your sopping cunt. Electric currents buzz bilaterally in your spine, and sparks ricochet behind your eyelids when you shut them tight and rapidly open again. His naked mouth finds your ear with whispered, unintelligible filth. He grins, self-satisfied, half-hidden by your head. Was thinkin’, he purrs with a slow pump of his fingers, I usually put holes in you. Don’t mind plugging this one.

If he wasn’t knuckles deep, you’d leave. Definitely. Wrench yourself off his—his fingers crook into a devastating angle, petting with the precision his job demands. The wet seal of your hole around his fingers is a sight, walls molding to the intrusion. He stokes a fire in your belly, simmering beneath the bandage, finally cajoling words from your mouth. Your voice, saturated with desperation, begs for more.

Simon’s hand grasps your neck, giving it a squeeze in time with a thrust of his fingers. Greedy boy. You always want more. More jabs. He punctuates with a deep plunge and vulgar squelch. More attention. More me.

His mouth latches over your neck and suckles, groans muffled when you clench around his digits. He breaks the suction with a wet pop, trailing his spit to a lobe. Had a feeling when you started booking me. Didn’t think much of it.

He extracts his fingers at the early pulses of your orgasm, spanking the wet tissue with a few harsh pats. You’re fuckin’ annoying. He chuckles at the ease of his fingers’ reentry into the tight clasp of your cunt. But you’re good like this, aren’t you.

He repeats the process twice. Gets you twitching, squirming in his lap. The blunt shape of his erection digs into your bare skin, the denim chafing. Half-consciously, you ride it, trying to rut back into it as he fucks his fingers in, thumb minding your cock. A hand migrates to the bulge of his forearm through your shirt, and the sweat on the palm leeches into the cotton.

He grunts into your ear between sloppy kisses to your jaw and neck. His thumb presses the flushed tip of your cock once, reminding you of his plans. The metal he wants you to wear. Leagues more intimate than any collar or ring. The thought makes you twitch, makes your hole clench.

Simon’s grip on your neck loosens, climbing to your jaw, holding your face straight to the mirror. His eyelids curtain blown pupils, licking a line on your skin. Let go, pretty. Be a good boy and cum on my fingers. The command triggers detonation, your orgasm obliterating the vestiges of your self-control. Hard, fast, and white-hot, it rips out of you in a pitchy cry, hands scrabbling at his thigh and arm, certain you’ll ascend heavenward too early. He holds fast, fingers secure in the vise of your cunt as it tries to fruitlessly milk honey from their stone.

Mind fuzzy with static at its edges, you hear him mutter. All you get is a moment’s rest before you find yourself upended, dragged bodily off the floor, supported by his arms. You ragdoll a second, jerking when your toes drag, and he settles you back on the lifted cot. Your eyes loll in their sockets, blinking, finding sudden clarity when his hips knock your knees apart. His cock, heavy and leaking, rests on the cradle of his opened zipper and juts into the meat of your leg. You tense. The light glints off the row of barbells adorning his length, and your breath catches. If his girth didn’t intimidate you, the ladder did.

What? Afraid it’ll hurt? He drags a thumb slowly over the raised ridges, the metal lying beneath the surface. His gloved hand grips the crease of your thigh, thumb resting above the crown of your engorged clit, caressing the damp hair. He strokes himself with the other, hissing through the first few pumps. You inhale as he slaps his cock, already slick with your release and his precum, against your sensitive flesh. It catches your tip, then briefly the mouth of your soaked cunt, garnering a whimpering protest out of you. Not today. Promise.

Sweat and cum coat his fingers as he pushes his cock to yours, gradually finding a course and a rhythm. The heat of him is heavy, the smooth ends of his piercings drumming along your cock and skin. It’s embarrassing how quickly Simon wrests a second orgasm out of you, mortifying when he breathlessly comments he wishes you squirted, that he loves a mess. It’s not as all-encompassing as the first and doesn’t threaten to rattle you off the table. You’re lucid when he notches his tip to your fluttering hole. Fuck, need a taste, jus' the tip.

Simon’s thrusts are shallow and controlled—enough to drown out the alarm bells, illustrating the power held back. The blunt head stretches with a slight burn despite his fingers and the mess of your cunt. To your relief, he keeps his word, means it, just the tip. He pulls back a half-step, a choked groan preceding the thick ropes of spend he spills over your inner thighs. He releases his softening length, hand planting on the bed, and leans into your space. His head skims your shoulder, gathered beads of sweat fall from his temple, ragged breaths subsiding into quiet puffs. He withdraws, lips ghosting over your cheek, and turns to the acrylic cubbies.

Simon cleans and tucks himself away first, then you, amused by your squirming. He retrieves your clothes and insists on holding your underwear and jeans for you to step into. You swallow your pride to let him help. Aftershocks ripple through your thighs, the muscles and nerves pulverized into gelatin, malleable from his touch. He adjusts the packer, drags a knuckle over the fly seam, then holds you close with a finger hooked in a belt loop.

After all that, he asks if you want the piercing now that you understand the placement. He can pencil you in a month from now.

You don’t miss how the suggested date falls on a Friday evening. You tell him you need to think about it. It’s quite the commitment, from what you’ve learned.

Simon unlocks the door as you gather your jacket from the waiting area out front. Bars the exit with an arm, an aftercare kit dangling between two fingers. You pluck it from him, meeting his eyes over the fresh surgical mask.

My Johnny loves his Duke. Could show you, might change your mind.

#ghost x reader #ghost x trans!reader #ghost x transmasc!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x trans!reader #simon riley x transmasc!reader #i'll probably clean this up add some connective tissue and post it to ao3

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ameliathornromance · 4 months ago

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The Manor House: A Vampire x Reader: Prologue

Another nick at the steed's ribs made it gallop faster into the blackness.

Dark, looming trees soared past you.

You leaned over, pressing your head into the horse's loose mane, ducking the never-ending onslaught of branches that reached out to you, trying to pull you into their long spindly grasp and hold you tight.

When the villagers find you, the tree would gladly hand you over to them, where you would then be hung - the tree honoured as ‘the witch catching tree.’

They wouldn’t even use the dunking stool on you. That’s used to prove innocence… But only the guilty run.

Of course, you weren’t a witch. But that hardly mattered now.

The shouting of the villagers grew further and further away, their flaming torches and pitchforks glinting in the night, dim and only emitting embers of their location.

Raising your head, you dared to hope that this was the escape from the nightmare. Away from death, illness. The baseless accusations.

“Over there!”

Your stomach dropped. How did they find you? You had no torch, nothing-

No, don’t focus on that, just get to the bridge. They won’t dare go beyond that point. All sorts of monsters lurk beyond that point.

It was dangerous, yes, but what other choice did you have? At least you would live longer beyond the bridge than in the village.

You dug your knees into the horse's ribs again. “Go! Faster!” But the steed stammered, sputtered.

It shrieked as it backed on its hind legs, its hooves tossing dirt up high into the air. You gripped even tighter onto the reins, the hastily packed bags and satchels sinking toward the back end of the animal.

The horse landed on all fours, steadied, exhaled sharply and trotted on its hooves, shaking its mane as if to cast off anxiety.

Squinting through the darkness, the moon light caught the rushing rapids. Where the bridge should have been.

“No…” You whimpered. “No, no, no!”

Your only escape route, gone.

“There you are!”

The glowing embers of torch light drew closer and closer, the angry and contorted faces of the villagers loomed from the darkness, disembodied.

There was no other option. What were you supposed to do? Let them strap you into that wretched chair?

Leaping off the horse, you smacked its rear end.

The sharp slap of skin earned another shriek from the animal, backing onto its hinds once again, taking off into the darkness, your satchels and other items with it.

You narrowed your eyes at the villagers as they closed in. Every other exit, blocked off by spitting red faces and scorching torch light.

Even though you’re surrounded by flames and heated anger, the air is chilled. Icy.

You thought you knew these people.

Backing to the edge of the bridge, your heels hung just over the edge.

The waters below spat at the hem of your dress, eager to claim a life to its never ending churning.

Your actions caused the villagers to spur onward, what choice did you have, other than to go further?

“Don’t let her-“

But it was too late.

Turning your back on them, you leapt into the waters.

The water splashed as you hit it, consuming you in a curtain of freezing foam bubbles.

Water soaked through your clothes, like it broke through your skin and pierced through the heart with a steel dagger. Your arms flailed, desperate to try and gain some kind of control from the rapids.

Skirts weighed heavily around your lower end, dragging you down under the surface.

You gasped, thrashing even harder. You inhaled earthly water, causing you to splutter and cough.

The water tossed you to each side of the banks, taking you further and further away from the villagers like they were playing a game of catch.

The rapids laughed at your attempt to save your life, enjoying their sick little game.

Realising that their ball was sinking, they tossed you one final time to the right side of the bank.

Your head whipped and slammed into the rocky embankment.

With blood trickling down your nose, past your lips, seeping through your teeth, the water retook you and all was black.

A dull throbbing pain awoke you, splitting down your head right down the middle, worse on the left side.

You scrunched your face, squinting your eyes open ever so slightly. A dull, flickering light seeped through your eyelashes. You had no idea that faint candle light could sting so badly. You shut your eyes again.

Where were you just now?

The familiar, plush softness beneath you gave you all the information you needed to know.

Dreams sure are strange, they really can take you anywhere. Nightmares too.

The body needs sleep because it uses that time you’re resting to heal, the travelling physician had told you. He came first, the one who diagnosed the first few people with the plague.

But… if sleeping was really supposed to heal you, then why did it make you dream of such horrible things? Like drowning?

You tried not to think about water unless it was to drink. The other times water was brought up, was when that wretched, horrible chair was brought out and installed by that man. It sent chills down your spine just to think about it.

Surely there must be a more humane way to cleanse the world of Witches. Even if they weren’t innocent, being strapped to a chair and forced to sit underwater is a fate you wouldn’t wish on anyone… not even the one who installed it.

But the icy water and churning rapids were just a nightmare. Some nonsense made up by your brain. The villagers chasing you must have been part of the nightmare too.

It had been a fear of yours for a while now. Thanks to the Witch Hunter, you’d seen one too many accused women die horrid deaths… even if there was no evidence of their ‘wickedness’ as the Witch Hunter called it.

“Oh, you’re finally awake.”

The voice was not one you recognised, but then again, plenty of new people were coming to the village now - Doctors from all over wanted to come to ground zero of the outbreak, witness the illness first hand and study it while it’s in its early development stages.

It didn’t surprise you that the plague had finally caught up to you. You tended to enough sick people for long enough and knew you, too, would become sick soon enough.

You were only responsible for feeding plague victims, cleaning their bedpans and other bodily fluids, rather than administering any kind of first aid. Ironic, that in trying to take care of them, you were exposed to the most amount of danger.

Nightmares were a symptom of the plague. It wasn’t uncommon for patients to have moments of delirium. A high fever would do that to you.

This new voice had to be a Doctor taking care of you.

Not wanting to be rude any longer, you slowly squinted your eyes open even further.

The first thing you noticed were the thick, heavy maroon drapes that hung from the ceiling. Upon your vision clearing, you realised that they came down from the dark four poster bed that you laid in. Its varnished wood gleamed in the flickering candle light.

At the foot of the bed, sat a dressing table hosting a mirror, reflecting back your dishevelled appearance. A thick white bandage had been wrapped around your skull, blood blooming like a poppy on the left side of your head.

Your bedsheets matched the velvet drapes, pressing down on your aching muscles.

The majority of the candle light guided you to the left side of the room, where you finally laid eyes on the owner of the voice.

The figure sat up straight, his shoulders slanted downward. Hair tumbled down to his shoulders, dark, so long it blended into his black blazer. The only indication that his hair had an end, were the two strands that framed his face and curled just below his chin.

Compared to the rest of his figure, his face stuck out like the moon against a black night sky, pasty and pale. His eyes stared, unblinking and glazed with dusky spheres for iris’. Thin lipped, the man spoke again, “how do you feel?”

You furrowed your brows, “where… Am I?”

“My manor.” The man said, simply. “It’s a good thing you’re talking. It means there’s no serious damage. That works out well for me.”

“Works out well?” You asked, stupidly.

Blinking a few more times, your mind cleared further. The memories rush back to you as if the rapids were sweeping you away once again.

You sat up, stomach tensing. Trying to remain strong, you force the words out of you. “Who are you?”

It comes out shaky, weak.

If the man noticed, he didn’t give any indication of it. Instead, he answered, his tone strong and unwavering. “My name is Lord Baal. I am the owner of this Manor and your saviour.”

You snorted, “‘saviour’?” The superiority of his ending statement was so high and mighty. Like that made him some kind of omnipotent being.

“I found you at the river embankment at the back of my garden.” He continued, eyebrows knitting together. “And so I rescued you. How did you even end up there, anyway?”

So, that wasn’t a dream. The others really did chase you out of your home… How did they even know that you were going to try and leave? Ever since… him you’d been packing to leave as soon as possible. You had told no one - not that anyone would have listened anyway - of your plans and left at night.

“Well?”

“I fell off my horse and into the river.” Sure, it was bending the truth. But you wouldn’t give him any ammunition to manipulate you. Lords don’t just take in commoner women. Especially random ones they find washed up on river banks.

“Why did you save me?” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Did you not want to be saved?” The Lord raised an eyebrow at your ludicrous question.

“I never said that,” you defended quickly. “There’s a plague going around. It doesn’t make any sense for you to bring me here.”

At that, the Lord let out an airy laugh. He raised his hand, spidery and pasty pale to cover his thin mouth, like there was a joke you weren’t in on. “Any illness was probably washed away by the river. On top of that, I used medicine to ease the pain and kill off anything else unsavoury. If there were any obvious signs of plague, I wouldn’t have hesitated to have left you to die on the bank of the river.”

“You don’t know me.” You countered. “I could be anyone.”

“Are you anyone?” The Lord’s snickering continued as if you were some kind of circus amusement, a monkey crashing symbols in an attempt to make pleasant music.

Heat pooled just below your eyes. “W-Well, no,” you faltered. “But still-”

“I ask you again then,” the Lord lowered his hand slightly, exposing a grimace, lips stretched across his teeth. “Did you not want to be saved? What’s that expression… ‘don’t question a good thing?’” He asked, to no one in particular.

You glared at him in defiance. What more could you say?

Once his mocking laughter died out, he leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. “Now that we have that out of the way,” he wiped a tear from his lower lashes. “Let’s get down to business: You washed up on my river bank.”

“Your river bank?” You scowled. His airy smugness itched at you like a mosquito bite. “I didn’t know someone could own a river bank.”

“It’s part of my garden, thus my river bank.” He replied, looking down his straight pasty nose at you. “You also used up my medical supplies and have slept in my bed.”

“So?” You asked, shortly.

“My hospitality, does not come for free.” The Lord gestured to you.

“Say what you mean.” Enough of this toying, out with it.

“At the risk of my own person, for bringing you in, letting you sleep in my home, using my own medicine on you to treat your wounds and warm you, you are now obligated to pay me back.”

You stared at him. “Sorry?” You deadpanned. “I didn’t ask you to help me!”

Lord Baal’s face fell, and returned your narrowed glare from earlier. “Oh, so you would have rather died on the bank then?”

“No but-”

“So then, it shouldn’t be too much to ask for something in return, should it?”

One moment, he was stood by the chair and with a blink of an eye, he was inches away from your face.

How did he get there so fast?

Your heart leapt into your throat as the Lord hissed at you.“Remember, there is a plague out there. There’s nothing to stop me from just tossing you out of my front door.”

His breath reeked of familiar iron, it banged on your tender temples.

Your eyes locked with his. Staring each other down, like it was some kind of childish staring contest.

He’s right, there is a plague out there… and you’re already injured. Your susceptibility increases drastically because of that… And he’s still out there.

Sucking in a deep breath, you looked away, conceding. “Fine.” Crossing your arms, you fell back onto the plush pillows behind you. “What do you want in return?”

There wasn’t much you could offer. Before the plague hit, you’d been at home with your parents, helping them around the house. Even before the plague hit, they were fragile people.

Lord Baal returned to his full height. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he looked you up and down, as if he was sizing you up. “I will decide that, when you are well. As of now, you’re no use to me.”

You could have screamed with frustration - he demands that you work in return for his ‘hospitality’ and he doesn’t even have an idea of what you might do?

Hair flying behind him, he turned his back on you. Stalking to the door of the room - dark and varnished, to match the bed frame - the Lord opened the door and looked over his shoulder at you. He stared for a moment. Then, “To start, a name would be helpful. I must know what I should call you when you start to return the favour.”

“I’m (Y/n).”

“(Y/n).” The Lord repeated. He stood for a moment, looking at you.

“I will come by tomorrow to make sure that your injury is healing smoothly.”

Read 4 Chapters ahead on my Patreon!

Masterlist

#monster lover #monster romance #monster x reader #monster x you #monster x female #monster x human #vampire boyfriend #vampire x reader #vampire x human #vampire x you #vampire romance #patreon

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tigergirltail · 7 months ago

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TIGER HRT CHAPTER 3 - MONTH 0 - BIOCHEMISTRY

First - Prev - Next

It finally arrived today!!

I'm shaking with excitement as I arrive home and start opening the large package. My partner is there too, watching closely. They had expressed interest in therian HRT when I brought it up, but were a bit more hesitant about committing to it, at least until I do it first.

Besides, it's a bit of an expensive process. Not just arranging the visit to the clinic in the first place, but also getting the actual meds. Something about import costs for a potentially hazardous substance? Whatever it was, insurance wouldn't cover it, and I had to pay through the nose for it.

Inside the package is a cardboard box marked all over with "FRAGILE" labels. Inside THAT is a solid block of foam. Not like packing peanuts, but the sort of shaped styrofoam that computer monitors come packed in. Lifting out the top half of the foam, I see it. A glass bottle with a black rubber stopper, containing a blurry white fluid. Lifting up the bottle and swirling it around, the liquid inside seems slightly viscous, like maple syrup.

"What kind of RPG-ass potion bottle is this?", I wonder aloud. Noticing some labels on the opposite side, I turn the bottle around…

And immediately get the spook of my life as I recognize the biohazard trefoil.

"What in the…" Did I get sent the wrong package??

I take a look at the second label below it.

PANTHERA TIGRIS

MUTAGENIC HORMONES

TAKE 1 T▮P PER WEEK WITH FOOD

DO NOT EXCEED

There's a bit of a smudge on the dosing information, some spilled ink maybe. I'm pretty sure I can make out what it's supposed to say, though.

My partner leans in and spots the biohazard symbol as well.

"Are you still sure you want to do this, love?"

I lean my head towards them. "Not as sure as I was five minutes ago…" I take a steadying breath. "But yeah… I think I am."

Into the kitchen. Get out a measuring spoon. Eat some snack food so I'm not on an empty stomach. Get some water ready to wash it down.

I turn to look at my partner. I know the meds take months to work, but it feels like this is the last time they'll get to see me as a full human.

They silently walk up to me and pull me into a tight hug. It's enough to give me that final bit of courage.

Carefully, I pour some of the biohazardous liquid into the measuring spoon, and then it's down the hatch.

"How's it taste?", my partner asks.

"It's…" It's weird. It tastes weird. It's like if the smell of dust after rain, petrichor I think is the word, it's like if that was combined with the sound of wind rushing through grass, and the result was a taste.

"…It tastes like running free."

#tiger hrt #therian hrt #animal hrt #furry hrt #trans #transgender #my art

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jasontoddsdarling · 10 months ago

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snow angels

— casts: jason todd x reader, aurora todd (my kid oc)

— words: 1,515

— tags: fluff, winter, family fic, family fluff, kid fic

— summary: It's Aurora Todd first winter and you two decide she should experience the ultimate first time under the snow: building some snowmen and one or two castles. And apparently also snow angels along the way.

Heavy snowfall from yesterday—that kept everyone inside the house all day long—resulted in a thick layer of snow in the backyard. You, Jason, and your fourteen months old daughter, Aurora, included. You two even built her a blanket fortress from the pile of her soft baby blankets. She was very fond of it.

Today, Jason and you decide to bring her outside.

It's her first winter, thus the first time she will experience the snowfall that blanketed the city like icing sugar dusted on a beignet.

Earlier, Jason had shoveled the snow that piled up in front of the front and back door. Thankfully, it wasn't blocking the doors that bad or else you'd feel bad about not helping him—even though he had insisted on doing it himself because she was cranky waking up and you'd have to feed her.

Now, though, your daughter is so awake and definitely not cranky anymore.

Jason has put his shovel back to the garage and changed his clothes to newer one—he had managed to sweat and drenched his sweater, and he's currently sporting a new sweater that matches the ones that you and your daughter wear.

“Papa.”

You put Aurora on her colorful foam puzzle mat. Jason, who is just getting out of your bedroom, smiling when he spots her.

“Who's going to play with snow today?”

Jason sits down on the edge of the mat and he beckons his daughter to his lap.

Aurora enthusiastically walks toward him—with her brand new baby boots that you just put on her, a big smile with her four small teeth showing.

“Nou.”

She perches her little legs on one of his thighs. You gasp and cannot help but grin. Did she just say a new word just now? Nou. Snow.

Jason beams. You can see his eyes shine with proudness.

“Yeah, snow. Snow! You, Mama, and Papa will go outside and we can build some snow castles and snowmen. Now, you need to wear these warm mittens first, okay?”

You observe the two loves of your life while packing a little thermos of jasmine tea to drink outside. These two always without fail put a smile on your face.

And oh, Jason is wearing gloves with the same color theme too because, of course, he would not want to be excluded in the matching outfits shenanigans of you and your daughter. We've to match as a cute little family, Jason had said so almost a year ago—after for the third time you and Aurora had matching outfits and he was being excluded; which in your defense, most husbands don't really care about matching outfits with their baby daughter, but you learnt it wasn't the case with Jason.

Jason tugs Aurora's mittens to make sure it's right before holding her in his arms and standing up, walking towards you who stands beside the dining table.

“Come on, Mama.” He squishes his cheek on Aurora's, whispering to pretend as if it's your daughter who’s saying that.

Aurora giggles. “Mama, mama.”

You bend down a little to kiss her rosy cheeks—and Jason steals a kiss from you when you stand straight after that—and the three of you are ready to mess with snow.

Jason has finished building one snow castle just now. It's a cool snow castle, in your opinion—considering he's only using some plastic snow toys for kids that you got for Aurora.

The kid in question sits on your lap, and is currently playing with the scallop shell plastic mold and making her nth crooked shell shaped snows with so much interest, completely oblivious to what her dad has been doing.

“Rora, look!” You pat her tiny leg gently. “Look. Papa has built you a little snow castle!”

You point your finger at the 1 meter tall snow figure. When Aurora looks up from her stuff, her eyes brighten and she moves her arms and legs excitedly, wiggling and trying to stand up from your lap.

You help her stand on her own little feet, her tiny boots scrunch the snow.

“Papa. Nou.”

Jason—who just put a twig on the center of the castle as a fake flag—grins. He waved his hands, beckoning her to walk towards him and the snow castle.

“Papa, papa.”

Aurora walks giddily.

You walk at a snail's pace to ensure that she steps safely, because you know sometimes babies and toddlers can be quite clumsy, and your daughter is no exception.

Aurora is two meters before landing herself in his dad's arm when, instead, she's landing backwards on a pile of fluffy snow with a very dull thud.

“Rora!”

Jason and you immediately shout at the same time and in less than two seconds both of you are in front of her.

Aurora is silent for a second, that you are almost panicking, but then she bursts into a fit of giggles. She moves her arms and legs in ups and downs motion, unknowingly making herself a snow angel.

“Mama, Papa.”

Aurora waves her mittens clad tiny hands. She wants you two to do what she's doing.

“Well, I guess we're making snow angels too.”

“I know. I am just glad she isn't crying.”

You release your breath you know you were holding.

You lie down beside your daughter on one side and Jason on her other side and you two proceed to make your own snow angels.

After it is quite deep, Jason gets up from where he's lying down and takes some photos of you and Aurora with his phone and instant camera he hides inside his deep coat pockets.

“One, two, three. Smile!”

And so, the next ten minutes, Jason takes a lot of photos of you and Aurora in front of the snow castle.

“These are so cute.”

It's 8:30 pm. You and Jason just put Aurora to sleep in her room, you're lying on bed with your head propped on a pillow and Jason's shoulder.

You scroll on Jason's gallery, currently landing on the selfie of you, Jason, and little Aurora in front of the snow castle and the two snowmen on each side of the castle—snowmen that later the three of you built after snow angels' antics. The snowmen are guards, Jason had said.

Jason's shuffling and looking at the printed photos he (and you) took with the instant camera, while occasionally brushing your raven black hair that fans the pillow.

“Lovely snow angels.” Jason mutters.

You laugh. You immediately scroll towards one picture of the three of you as snow angels. “Yeah, that one was cute too. It's fortunate that you brought your tripod outside so we could take a photo with the three of us as snow angels.”

“I meant this.”

Jason shows you one printed photo from the instant camera.

“Oh.”

It is a photo of you and Aurora as snow angels, the sunlight reflecting on the snow and bouncing a very faint light on your smiling faces.

“That’s…” You almost can't say a thing. “So beautiful.”

“I know.”

“You're very talented, Jason.” You look up and give him a soft smile.

“It's not as much talent as what's the subject of the photography.”

“Hey.” You can't help but chide him.

“It's true.”

“It's not.”

“It is.” Jason says with a finality. He puts all—the photos except the one on your hand—on the nightstand beside him.

“Both of you are just the loveliest snow angels. My literal angels.”

“Oh, Jason…”

“My only angels. You and Aurora.”

That's it.

You drag his face towards you with one of your hands behind his neck. You kiss him deeply and slowly. You can feel his pulse beneath your fingers and run your hand up and down his nape.

Jason shudders and he kisses you deeper, if it's possible, and you let out a small moan.

At last, you separate your faces from each other to inhale some air.

“Jason, I love you so much.” You caress his jawline, looking at his perfect shade of viridian eyes.

“I love you more.” He looks at you as fondly. Sometimes it's hard to breathe everytime he does that.

“I love you more and more.”

“I love you–”

And that's where you two hear a cry from Aurora's room. She's awake.

“I think trying to tell us she's agreed that I love you more.” Jason snickers.

You huff, moving your body to get up from the bed. “She's trying to tell us she wants to co-sleep with us again tonight.”

“That's fair too. Still, I love you more and more and more, though.”

“It’s me, actually, but I will let you win.”

You almost land your feet on the floor when Jason immediately stands up.

“Let me get her or I love you more and more and more.”

You can't believe your husband's antics but you smile ear to ear nonetheless.

“Fair. Go get her, Papabear.”

“On it, Mamabear.”

Jason shouts I love you more and more and more when he's in another room with Aurora's “Papa” accompanying it.

mariea's note: guess who decide to go all in and repost the fic from my ao3 here? anyway here's the og appearance of my jason todd's kid oc aurora "rora" todd 🤍

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #dad jason todd x mom reader #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd's kid oc #kid oc #kid ocs #aurora todd #dad!jason todd #mom!reader #jason todd fluff #mariea's fics #mariea's works #mariea's writing

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msnogood · 7 months ago

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The Making of Strange Flower

Somehow I never showed my process of strange flower's creation. Below are the materials and steps.

Materials I used:

Yellow wool (mine was yellow yarn that I carded myself with a carding brush / pet brush)

Cheaper white core wool (mine was recycled fluffs from poly batting of my pandemic-era grocery delivery packing liners)

Glass pins for eyes

Air dry clay (mine was green paper clay and wood pulp clay but you can color air dry clay with some acrylic paint)

Wood glue (for water resistance), or PVA glue (if you don’t care for water resistence)

A good stick. I got mine from an old messed up artificial flower.

Felting needles

Felting base foam (I used recycled polyurethane packing foam blocks from my online orders)

To make a strange flower:

Start by felting the base of your flower’s face. You can speed up this process by wet-felting with soapy water mid way. It should end up looking like a concave cookie.

Then start to layer some yellow wool on top of your core wool cookie. Cover all the whites.

Then start to add details like cheeks, chin, and lips. You can test-place your flower’s eyes to better figure out the placement of your flower’s cheeks.

Then cut your glass pins short, bend the pin slightly downward (so it’s long enough to hold its position but won’t stick out the back of your flower’s head), and insert the beady eyes.

Start molding the desired flower petal shapes of your choice. I wanted mine to be plump. So I made it plump. Let it dry a bit. Then I added a water-down layer of wood glue and smooth out my clay petal. Poke a hole at the center of the petal about the size of the artificial stem.

Tip: If you’re also using an artificial flower stem, try to mold the base of your flower petal to fit into the stem head’s shape. Mine was a bit flat and ended up having a big gap and I had to use more glue to fill the void and it took ages to dry. Save any artificial petals you can salvage. Incorporate the ones that work with your strange flower. The rest can be materials for another project someday.

Once completely dry, pin your petals onto your artificial flower stem with some wood glue or PVA glue at its base.

Once the clay petal is dried and secured on the artificial flower stem, carefully poke your flower head on top.

And a strange flower is born! 🌷

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mags-writes · 1 year ago

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Sunlight || Part VI

Summary: frank gets his worldview changed

Series Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical swearing, first time writing x reader, no use of y/n, no beta readers we die like ray nadeem

Pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

Authors Note: a bit longer for the girlies. just a heads up as well, you might not hear from me for a while after I finish this series (apart from a oneshot that was requested idk) because I'm technically supposed to be writing an actual legit novel and I got writers block for that and just started doing this to get my creativity out of my head. so thank you to everyone who didn't send me nasty anons and for sticking it out this far. I'm honestly so surprised at the reaction especially considering that this is the first time writing in second perspective. enjoy!!

PROLOGUE/MASTERLIST || PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII

"So," You face Matt who had been looking like he wanted to say something to you since you started spouting Hebrew. "What's your part in all this?"

"If you helped your Daredevil," He took tentative steps to you. "Then I think you know the answer."

You sighed, stepping away from Frank's embrace and instead going into Matt's.

"I'm sorry." You mumbled into his chest, squeezing him tighter when he laid his head on top of yours. "I didn't know for sure until yesterday morning."

"No, don't be." He said, soothing a hand up and down on your back. "Even if you didn't know I should've told you from the start."

"It happened the same way, you know?" He pulled back and frowned at you. "I showed up at his apartment one morning, he was beaten to hell and back, and he tried to tell me he fell down the stairs."

"I'm going to assume you didn't take it well?" He said with a smile.

"I yelled at him so loudly his neighbour three floors up came over to ask us to shut up." You smiled at his chuckle, letting it stay before it fell slightly. "Everything that followed... I don't regret becoming his girl in the chair, helping him every night but... Matt, I was one of six kids." Matt felt his heart shatter. "And I know you heard everything yesterday, that I don't want to go back and I want you to know that, in a heartbeat, I would-"

"I know where you're going with this." Of course he did. Of course he knew. "No. If being part of Daredevil's life put you through god knows how many kidnappings, beatings, crucifixions, and dead brothers, then no. You're not doing it again for me."

"Okay," You shook your head. "Believe it or not, getting crucified was the least traumatic thing to happen that week. So, we're good on that base."

"Stop it." He was being serious and you couldn't help but smile. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" You challenged.

"You're trying to change my mind."

"No, I know what I'm going to do." You shrugged your shoulders. "Whether you like it or not, tonight, I'm the girl in the chair."

"With what setup?" He challenged.

You pointed to where Dinah, Amy, and Frank were still standing, listening in, and where your stuff still was. "What do ya think the suitcase is for?"

You walked over to your suitcase, wheeling it over to the table in the middle of the room, and laying it on the ground. Amy came to stand next to you as you squatted down to unzip the thing and then carefully pry it open.

"Ho-ly shit." Amy laughed, leaning down to get a better look.

The reason you hadn't been able to afford your own place and move out of Matt's was because of this. Three large monitors were carefully packed into one-half of the suitcase, each with their own stands and cables wrapped under them. The other half had a mouse, two keyboards, and a touchscreen tablet sitting in their own black, protective foam. You took all of this out, running a couple of cables to turn everything on with Amy's help, and left it to turn on.

Next, you moved to the backpack. Now that... the contents of that had everyone gaping if they weren't already before. Two handguns with their own holsters, a bowie knife with a sheath and thigh straps, and then lastly, a separate sack that clunked around when it hit the table.

"Uh, do you know how to use those?" Foggy asked concerned, frowning at the handguns.

"Yeah." You said like it was obvious. "Pull the trigger."

Amy's head snapped to Frank with a gaping smile, trying to stop herself from bursting out laughing at his expression. He was shocked, to say the least, and he was trying to stop himself from slowly moving the weapons out of reach of you.

You stood up, opening the sack, and tipping it upside down to reveal a partly disassembled assault rifle. Your hands moved faster than your mind, easily flipping around the parts before twisting or shoving them into place. Frank thought you looked angelic. A small frown of concentration creased in between your eyebrows and your lips pulled into a delicate pout. Time slowed. He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience and was only pulled back in when you slapped the bottom of the mag into place and pulled back the bolt carrier handle.

"I was the only girl out of six kids," You explained, flipping the safety on and putting it down with the rest of the weapons. "My oldest brother liked to wear heels out in public, the next one was chess champion every year he was in school and the one after that was six foot three and seventy pounds wet. If I wasn't out there beating the shit out of their bullies then no one would be. Now my younger brothers," You tilted your head with a smile. "Bless 'em. Their dumbasses got themselves into the military. No offense Frankie."

"None taken, darlin'." He replied, hanging off every word you spoke. You never spoke about your family and figured you had a rough relationship with them. He didn't realise it was this kind of rough.

"They came home and taught me how to handle firearms when I ended up in the hospital after a kidnapping. So, I can defend myself. Let's settle that." You gave every one of them except Frank a pointed look to make sure they understood. "My oldest brother was murdered by Kingpin for writing an exposing story about him for the newspaper, the chess champ was murdered by Bullseye for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the next one went out in a hit-and-run courtesy of Bloody Mary."

"Jesus Christ." Karen mumbled.

"Brother after me, a week into active duty stepped on a landmine and took out three other people." Frank felt his heart break at the shakey breath you took in after saying that. You were clearly trying to come off as indifferent like you'd worked through it and it didn't affect you anymore but he saw your hands start to shake again. "My baby brother... while I was nailed to a cross, John Pilgrim hunted him down into an alleyway and beat him to death with a sledgehammer. Dad hung himself and Mom didn't leave the psych ward alive." You paused, looking out to nothing for a second before taking in another shaky breath. "The type of radio I use specifically for long-distance communications can be hacked and tracked, that's the price I pay for clear and crisp long-distance. When you leave and I'm left here to be the girl in the chair... If that happens... I am using these weapons. And I am not holding back. Do you understand me?"

You finally looked at Frank. Fear, defiance, and grief swirling in your eyes and he realised that while you directed the question to all of them, you were asking him. You were telling him that you were going to kill people tonight.

Other Matt never let you seek justice for your brothers. He held you while you cried and stood next to you during their funerals, every single one of them, but he always held you back when you got angry. Always the one holding back saying that if you crossed that line then there was no going back. Then someone tracked your signal one night, crawling through the window and holding a gun to your head. You don't even remember killing him, going into a blind rage and just letting loose.

Elektra found you. Cleaned you up, got rid of the body but left the mess. When other Matt came back after enough radio silence and saw what was left behind, Elektra took the blame. She had kept a close eye on you since.

Frank was the first to speak up. "Sounds good to me."

You nodded to him then looked directly at Matt.

"I don't like it." He said reluctantly.

"I'll go to church." You bartered.

"I'm fine with it." He folded immediately, giving a little shrug.

"What do we call you?" Amy asks, making everyone to turn her now instead. "They can't very well go through the streets calling you by your name. Or into earpieces that can be hacked. That's stupid. Frank's got Punisher. Murdock's got Daredevil. What about you?"

There's a pause where you smile at her.

"Call me Cypher." You answered, looking at Frank again and slyly winking. "I'll be your best-kept secret."

You soon found yourself in a chair that was bordering uncomfortable and listening in to Matt, John, Frank, and Dinah all communicating with one another as they made their way through New York in a van. Karen, Foggy, Amy, and Curtis, however, were staying with you. Curtis stayed back for extra protection with a gun and Amy was sitting next to you with her eyes glued to your screens.

The one to the left showed detailed city blueprint layouts that you had gathered when you got the setup, and it was synced with the middle screen that showed the most recent satellite images of the city. They moved and adjusted with the four dots that were the earpieces you gave to the group. The one on the right was for hacking security cameras around the city but for the life of you, you couldn't get it to sync up and stay with the other screens. Which is why you had to constantly keep up with it.

After some digging and hacking, you found out that John's sons were being held captive in a warehouse by a local gang. A stupid location but they chose it nonetheless. John told you that there was someone higher up paying them off to do this and that was why Dinah was involved so you know to be prepared in case they hacked your radio signal.

Curtis was sitting in front of you, behind your screens, watching the touchscreen tablet with rapt attention. Karen and Foggy were pacing nervously, like wild animals caught in a cage and you couldn't help but feel bad for them. You were in the middle of showing Amy how to manually keep the surveillance in sync with the other two screens when a notification from one of your programs popped up. You specifically made it to pick up when your earpieces were being tracked.

"What's that for?" Amy asked, pointing to it and turning to you.

"Uh..." You stutter for a second, making everyone look to you.

Quick as you can, you start getting up surveillance for around the building you were all in and you zero in on a van coming to a stop. Curtis stands up, going over to where he put his gun down and triple-checking that it was loaded.

"Cypher?" Amy grabs your arm, a stab of fear going through you both as you see armed men leaving the van.

"You three," You got Amy on her feet and pointed to Karen and Foggy to get their attention. "In the back room now."

When Amy ran off to grab the door you felt around your body for the weapons that Frank was insistent on helping strap to your body. One handgun at your hip, the bowie knife at the other, the other handgun under your arm, and the assault rifle on the table. When they were all behind the door and the lock clicked over, you gave Curtis a look and picked up the rifle, aiming it at the door.

"What's going on?" Frank's gruff voice sounded through your earpiece.

"We've got a problem here." Curtis said into the walkie-talkie you had to give him due to not having enough earpieces.

"We should be fine." You say confidently, turning the safety off. "I looked ahead and there's hardly anyone there. You're good to go in and get the boys."

"There's probably no one there because they sent them here!" Curtis hissed at you.

"What do you mean? How many are there?" Matt asked, sounding like he had stopped moving.

"Get the boys Matt." You ordered. "I'm going off coms, you don't need to hear this."

That was the last thing they heard from your earpiece before there was a beep signaling to all of them that it had been turned off. Frank cast a look at Dinah, allowing his worry to spill out into his expression just as they came up to the warehouse.

"She'll be fine Castle." She reassures him sternly, taking out her gun and turning off the safety. "She sounds like she's looking forward to it."

The whole time they were going through the warehouse to where they were keeping John's sons, Frank couldn't stop worrying. It affected him so much that Dinah saved his ass all of three times when his back was turned, making her huff and silently count each time on her fingers in his face. When they got the boys out and into Madani's van he tried to call you.

Eighteen times.

And you didn't pick up once.

When they made it back Frank put a hand to Matt's chest to stop him from coming with them.

"You should hang back." Frank said calmly like his own heart wasn't racing.

"I'm not too good with kids, Frank." He replied agitated and shifting from one foot to another.

"You're not too good with death either, Red." Frank retorted gruffly. "Hang back."

There was suddenly loud shouting that everyone immediately knew was coming from you, making Frank and Dinah start sprinting to the entrance. You sounded like a wild animal, yelling and growling echoing through the halls. They came up to the room that you and the rest of them were in, dead bodies lying on one another at the door and bullet holes in the walls. You were growling lowly now like you were putting in a tremendous amount of effort into something.

Dinah went around the corner first, going low onto one knee and her gun aimed at anything that moved while Frank stayed standing above her doing the same. Curtis was sitting on the ground panting with blood splatters on his face staring at you.

You were hunched over, straddling the chest of an armoured man and pressing down on his throat with all your might. You were covered in blood, your face streaked so badly it was a miracle that they could see your hard expression with a cut that went from your forehead, across your temple, and into your hairline. You were frowning angrily, teeth bared and breathing heavily, bloody hands shaking with the strength it took to choke the man. When he stopped moving, you pressed down just a little harder before releasing him and letting out a short yell from strain.

You lean back on your hunches, tilting your head back and revealing a traumatised Amy curled up watching with wide eyes. Your hands sit on your thighs, palms facing up and Frank realises that the reason they're so bloody is that they look like they've gone through the garbage disposal.

"Amy," You say, snapping Frank's attention back to your face, which was now looking at Amy. "Sweetie? Look at me."

"He-he-" Amy stuttered, trying to shake herself out of it.

"Look at me, baby, okay? Look at me." You crawl towards her, your own voice starting to crack and it breaks Frank out of his shock. He starts towards Curtis but he waves Frank off before he gets too close. "You're okay, baby, you're okay. He's not getting up. Yeah?" Frank freezes at the comforting words, shocked at how well you're handling Amy. "He's not going to hurt you, okay?"

"Mhm." Amy nods her head vigorously, silent tears streaming down her face. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

No one saw one of the men get up from behind your computers.

"Yeah? Okay." You nod at her like you're agreeing with what she's saying as if you didn't say it first. "Can you do something for me, baby?"

"Yeah! Yeah." Amy nods quickly again, ready and willing to do anything you ask.

"I need you to go and check on Karen and Foggy for me. Can you do that?" You ask, and Frank knows it's so that Karen will see how traumatised Amy is and give her the physical comfort you couldn't give her right now. "You need to make sure that they're okay."

"I can-I can do that." Amy goes to get up when you give her the warmest smile under all the blood.

"Thank you. Can you do something else for me?" You ask again, looking up at her now that she's standing. "Can you help me up?"

"Oh god! Yeah." Amy goes down into a squat, grabbing a hold of your biceps and helping you up onto shakey legs. You made sure to keep your palms facing you to not get any more blood on her.

"Thanks." You said, knocking your head with hers lightly before Amy turned and stumbled to where Karen and Foggy were.

You turned to Frank and Dinah, and both of them put their guns away to watch the interaction. You start to stand up straight, loud cracking through your back going off and you groan as you stretch out slightly at all the popping. You heavily sigh, still slightly panting as you look at Frank.

"Was I right?" You ask. "There was hardly anyone there, right?"

"You need to sit down." Dinah said, watching you carefully as you went to go to your computers again.

"I was right though." Then you round the corner and there was the crouching man. "Shit!"

He jumps out at you, going for a hit to the stomach but you bring your leg up to block. Your fighting stance was impeccable, hands up protecting your face and light on your feet. Frank realises that you've been trained, so, he hangs back, watching you work. When he goes to strike again you grab onto his arm and spin, turning your back to him, and then run him into the table. Dinah had taken out her gun, aiming it at the man and yelling for you to get out of the way so she could get a clear shot. When he hits it with a grunt, you bring your arm above his and start smashing your elbow into his face repeatedly, grunting for each hit. The man pulls out a knife and swipes, slashing at your hip making you get off him but not without grabbing at another bowie knife he had strapped on his back. You both circled one another like predators, him with his boisterous and self-assured steps and you slinking like a wild cat ready to strike.

He strikes out first and you dodge, moving out of the way and kicking him in the gut with a loud yell making him hunch over. A few more blows were landed from both of you before you had him backed up on the table again. This time you were so worked up and ready to finish this that the first chance you got you brought the blade down on his flat palm with another yell. It went straight through his hand and into the table, making him scream out from the pain.

In a split second, you saw him pull back his other hand with the knife in it ready to slash at you again. You sounded wild again, a mix of growling and yelling leaving you as you grabbed the back of the man's head, yanked the knife from the table, and brought him in close. You kicked his knees out, using the leg to hold him in place below you as you sunk the knife into his neck. More growling and yelling leaving you in heaves as the man struggled under you, truly like you were a wild animal holding a kill in her jaws as it died.

"One Mississippi." You grit out, closing your eyes and panting loudly, grunting here and there when the man still twitched. "Two Mississippi." You said just a touch calmer and your pants slowed down, slowly, slowly getting calmer and Frank slowly started to walk over to you. "Three Mississippi."

You brought your leg down and yanked the knife from his throat making a spray of blood hit Frank's boots. You stood there for a second, head craned up as you took in a few more breaths still holding the knife in a tight grip. You bring your head down and look at the knife, shakily bringing it away from you before hastily dropping it like it was searing hot. Frank knew it was from the cuts on the palms of your hands, that holding anything in that grip was bound to make the wounds worse. You sat down heavily, sighing deeply again and laying your palms upright on your thighs as they continued to bleed.

"Medic should be here soon." Dinah said and Frank realised he was so enraptured with you that he didn't even hear her on the phone.

"That's good." You say softly, still panting. "Curtis really needs it."

"Get fucked, Cypher." Curtis laughs, shaking his head.

Frank goes to be beside you, squatting down and putting his hand on your forearm to see the damage.

"You been holdin' out on me, sweetheart." He said.

You let out a breathy chuckle. "Well, you know what some men are like." You say, giving him a half-lidded stare that was half flirty and half tired. "Didn't wanna scare ya off. I'm a screamer."

Frank chuckles and watches as your eyes close softly at the sound.

"Hey, hey," He leans down and kisses your wrist before coming back up and cupping your cheek. "None of that, doll. Eyes open for me, yeah?"

"I bet you say that to all the girls." Your eyes flutter open and you give him the best smile you can muster.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle fic #frank castle fanfic #the punisher x reader #the punisher fic #the punisher fanfic #marvel fic #marvel fanfic

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mattressmachinery · 2 months ago

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Foam Block Compression Machine

Our foam block compression machine, meticulously designed to compress foam/foam blocks, offering a remarkable 95% volume reduction.

Compression: Efficiently compress foam blocks. Heat Seal: Utilize heat sealing technology for a secure seal.

#foam #foam block #foam block press machine #foam block pressing machine #foam block compression machine #foam block compress machine #foam press #foam compression #foam compression machine #foam press machine #foam pressing machine #foam packing machine #foam packaging machine #foam compression packing machine

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weaveandwood · 7 months ago

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Writing prompt - if you have time - You and Gale build a sand castle. - What happens next?

(Your smut has been excellent.)

Anon! You're my favorite! Please keep feeding me, even though this one isn't smut. I'm so sorry but I got this idea in my head and couldn't stop my hands from typing it out. And I really really like it.

Word Count: 811 words No warnings

“What do you mean you’ve never been to the beach?” He asked, incredulously as they walked on the path from the Shadow Cursed Lands to Baldur’s Gate, the sun shining on their faces brightening their moods after so long being in the darkness.

“Well, not for fun! Don’t be mean about it, some of us weren’t brought up on the seaside,” she teased, bumping into him. “The closest I’ve gotten to a leisurely beach trip was when I was unconscious after falling out of the crashing nautiloid.” She sighed, looking up at the sun. “It would be wonderful to stand in the ocean and feel the sun on my face.”

“Well mark my words, as soon as we get to Waterdeep, I will take you to the beach. I promise you,” he said, grabbing her hand. The threat of the Absolute was postponed for now - he had already defied his goddess’s orders, what was the harm in making future plans with the woman he loved, finally?

She smiled. “I will keep you to your promise.”

*****

They arrived in Waterdeep two months after the defeat of the Netherbrain, and Gale was already busy with arrangements to start his professorial career at Blackstaff Academy. Visitors and letters arrived at the tower each day, and with them went Gale - either to his study to respond, to meetings with faculty, speaking engagements, or meeting future bright apprentices who one day dreamed of being the next Wizard of Waterdeep.

She looked out at the ocean from her tower - it was so close it almost felt like the waves were taunting her. It had now been just over six months since they ended their grand adventure. He had promised, but his promises were no longer reliable. Summer had passed and Gale was beginning his academic year. They rarely spoke, hardly touched, and each day she felt herself pulling farther and farther away.

She went to the beach herself, paying the entrance fee. It wasn’t anything like she hoped it would be as she wrapped up in a thin robe to ward off the chill in the air as the wind whipped around her. The ocean was angry today, the waves all white foam. She empathized with them, for she felt the same. That was the day she decided to leave Gale.

*****

“Darling, I have a surprise for you.”

“Is it a block of ice? A cooling spell you can cast on me? It’s so hot today.”

“Even better. An age-old promise that I was a dunce about and didn’t fulfill when I was in my ‘ambitious upstart professor’ period.”

She froze, staring at him from the sofa as he kept talking. Could he be talking about the beach? Could she stand on that shoreline and not feel a sting from the salty water in the scars of their first attempt at happily ever after? She smiled at him. She was no longer interested in the hurts of the past, no longer interested in rehashing things that they had done to each other when they were figuring out who they were after the world didn’t end.

“I already have everything packed, what do you say?” He asked as he held out his hand.

She took it. “Let’s be on our way then.”

Hours later, after finding a small available plot of sand to claim as their own, Auroria finally, finally, got to stand in the water with her face tilted to the sun and feeling its warmth on her, recharging her for the next adventure that was coming all too soon. She looked at Gale, happily watching her from deeper water, never once making fun of the fact that while her mother trained her for most environments, swimming was never something she learned how to do. Gale, on the other hand, was as graceful in the water as any of the shiny fish that liked to swim between the legs of beachgoers. Basically required when you live on the waterfront, he explained. She waved at him and went back to their towels and started playing with the sand.

After some time, Gale came back to land, his long hair dripping rivulets of water down his bare chest. Auroria could confidently say at that point that the beach was her favorite place in the world just for that vision alone. He sat beside her, admiring her work.

“Building a sand castle my dearest wife?”

She looked at her crudely piled sand. She was no artist but he always tried to treat her as if she were one. “Hmm, more like a cabin, don’t you think? Much more comfortable to live in than a castle. Too big. Too many rooms.”

He kissed her cheek, using his illusion magic to transform the sand into a small beige replica of their home. Their new promise to each other.

It was perfect.

#my writing #ask me #i promise if i get another prompt it will be smutty!#gale x auroria #woodweave #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #i will probably regret posting this at 2am but maybe someone will see it

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lemontartca · 3 months ago

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Not very happy with the fit of the clothes, but considering this is my first time ever patterning - or even making! - doll clothes, I'll give myself a pass. Wig has been glued on like I said I would need to.

I hit a small wall with her, because I was planning to make her shoulder pauldrons and boots out of foam clay, but the stuff I ordered was awful when it arrived. It had this weird jelly texture and could not be formed into anything, just a total waste of money. I always hit a mental block when I have to rebuy a broken/useless supply and throw away money. I went five years without a dremel because the first one I bought broke before I could even use it, and now that I have one, I will never not have one again.

While I got over the block, I worked on her gloves. Since I've given up on her going between outfits, I could just paint on her layered white sleeve like her official doll does without worrying about it being anachronistic. She has a long white sleeve on under her usual gloves in both her original & queen looks. For her fingerless gloves, I repainted Toralei's gloves from the Hissfits 3-pack. I left the spikes on them and stuff because I like them that way and I think Glimmer would too, honestly.

It's wild how much adding the gloves feels like it brought her together and "finished" her. Almost like character designers know what they're doing LOL. Anyway, I went to the store today to get new clay and wasn't careful with the labels. I actually got the clay right next to the foam clay, which is still an airdry clay, but it's not foam. At this point I'm just using it for her shoulder pauldrons, but it's not going to work for making boots from. I've made bases formed to the bottom of her feet and once they dry... I guess I'm patterning a boot, now. Kinda scared and a lot out of my depth, ngl.

"Todo"s that aren't actually slated for right now are to make her staff and possibly "finish" her faceup. For her staff, I'm basically waiting for the perfect piece of trash to be generated LOL. At some point I'll get something on a stick that will be perfect for it, so until then I'm not worrying about it and certainly not buying anything. For her faceup, I think it's super cute and love it as is, but she doesn't have any eyelashes. This was on purpose, because I was going to give her 3d lashes, but now I'm on the fence about having any at all because without them she matches the show artstyle. It's something I can easily add later, so I'm basically just seeing how I feel as I continue this series and have more of the dolls all besides each other. So, I may or may not add lashes, drawn or 3d, later down the line. We'll see!

Next steps: Finish and paint pauldrons, pattern and assemble the boots... And then that's it! (I say like that second thing isn't the most intimidating thing I've encountered doll customizing thus far)

#custom: glimmer #my customs #wip #og

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barry-j-blupjeans · 1 year ago

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TAZ NC Day 7: Truth

@taznovembercelebration

No one had ever slept well on the Starblaster and after the Redaction, that issue carried over. She couldn't really remember the last time she slept well— and honestly, at this point? She couldn't stomach the thought of sleeping through the night. She couldn't count the number of times when waking up in the dead of night had been much more beneficial than sleeping all the way through. She had already been a night owl as a child, what were a few more missed hours?

The moonbase at night was… calm. Cool, this evening, with a soft breeze floating through. Lucretia had gotten… three? Four? Hours of sleep and that seemed to be all she was going to get, so it was best to use her time for something else. She could finally do her taxes.

…Or she could go sharpen her skills in the training room.

Even after all this time, Lucretia didn't like being alone all that much. The walk over the quad in silence made the hairs on her neck stand up, gave her a shiver she couldn't quite get rid of once inside. The training room was large, packed with exercise equipment and fake targets. There was a wall lined with practice weapons, like foam halberds and training wands. The floors were padded. Lucretia quietly put her shoes in a locker, discarding her outermost robe so she could move around a little more freely.

The Bulwark Staff trembled in her hands, power building up. Lucretia didn't like to use it. In fact, she quite preferred to go wandless now. Without a physical weapon, she was much less likely to give away what her next move would be. The element of surprise was crucial. Staying alert was crucial. So, just for now, when no one else was around, Lucretia set it down next to the locks. She felt it call out to her as she stepped back but it had been years now. Lucretia would not be tempted by any impulse decisions again.

At the very least, being alone lessened the stress she carried. She stretched, waking her magic back up. It spread through her body with warmth and power. She drew the magic to the tips of her fingers, focusing on a beat-up old punching bag at the far end of the room. She drew her hand back, getting ready to strike—

And the door opened. Lucretia drew the magic back in, turning.

It wasn't a surprise to see Magnus. In the last few years of their journey, they had spent countless nights together on the deck of the ship, talking under unfamiliar skies. Magnus, of course, didn't remember this, but Lucretia couldn't forget it seeing his face.

"Oh, uh," Magnus said. "Hey." He stopped, the door gently closing behind him. Lucretia stood there, a bit awkwardly, until his gaze shifted toward the Bulwark Staff at the lockers. Lucretia padded over to it, picking it up. A sense of calmness settled over her shoulders. This was fine. She'd be fine.

"Magnus," she said.

"That's me!"

They stared at each other again. Lucretia wished she had a good escape from this, but Magnus was blocking the only exit. Magnus hesitantly came further in, kicking his shoes off when he got to the lockers. And then, driven by pure stupidness and yearning, Lucretia asked,

"You wanna spar?"

Magnus's eyes widened. He blinked at her, his lips turned up into a slight smile as if he had misheard her.

"You want— with me?" He looked around, like there might be someone else in the room she had been asking. "No offense, Director, but you're like— an old lady. I don't wanna beat up an old lady."

That had been his excuse on the Starblaster, too. Well, he said "baby" back then, but same— same difference.

"Are you afraid of losing to an old woman, Magnus?"

"No!" Magnus said. "No, I'm not, it's just— y'know what, fuck it. Yeah, sure, let's spar."

He rolled up his sleeves, walking toward the center of the room. Lucretia hesitated, then set the Bulwark Staff down. When he didn't even look at it, she relaxed, following him.

"No staff?" he asked. He cracked his knuckles, shaking out his hands. "Are we gonna do like a physical thing or just like, anything is good—?"

"Whatever you want to throw at me," Lucretia said. "To tell you the truth, Magnus, I haven't sparred in a pretty long time. The last person I sparred with—" Was you. Lucretia cleared her throat. "I haven't seen him in a while."

"Are you sure you don't want me to go easy on you?" Magnus said.

Looking at him hurt. It had been a very, very long time since Lucretia had sparred. If she was any less aware, she could imagine this exact scene on the Starblaster. But they weren't there anymore. And Lucretia was a different woman. Hell, Magnus was a different man. A noticeably more beefy man. But, well…

"I like a challenge," Lucretia said.

#taz november celebration #taz nc #magnus burnsides #lucretia #taz #taz balance #mine #ise cube writing

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omies-odd-writing-spot · 6 months ago

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BFDG prompt 2

[I think I might be posting some of the doom prompts from my discord here now but have the second BFDG prompts]

21: BFDG “The big guy encountering a shrine to himself that a grateful, slightly misguided, employee set up”

He caught the new scent first, a mix of it coming from the air circulation system and sensing a new-to-him soul.

Slayer opened one eye from his spot in the makeshift bed. It was two lengths of almost four feet of foam mats that were attached together to be long enough a long fabric for a dust shield was used as a sheet. It was clearly rigged but also…

It was thousands of times better than the pumice stone of the sarcophagus. Just this side of heaven as far as Slayer was concerned as he shifted again on the foam mats. Just enjoying both that no part of him was forced to grind against stone, and that he was clean. For once he was not smelling a mix of his own blood and the tainted stuff from demons.

Feeling the smaller form against his side grunt and shift himself, Slayer froze, remembering he was not alone. Waking up fully out of his dosing nap, he lifted his head to check on Jackson. The Elite Guard that was Slayer's current ‘guard’ was looking up from using the massive arm pinning him as a work table.

One of those cute squeaky, round drones of his were being cleaned on a cloth set on Slayer's forearm. Jackson had his helmet off and flipped to hold his tools. Had he been a normal human himself, just the weight of the arm resting on him would be enough to completely trap Jackson against the Demigod’s side. Plus the give of the foam…

But Jackson was not a normal human anymore, he was a Guardsman, and one that had willingly had some playful wrestling with the giant a few hours ago. Jackson could lift the big arm, yet seemed as lazy as the Slayer was now. Not that the Slayer minded, he rather liked the Guardsmen now, more so seeing them as willing as his old Sentinels to face hell and fight with him.

Slayer reached across himself with his left hand. Playful but still lazily messing with the short hair with three fingers. Feeling a small hand press into one of his fingertips.

“Awake again big guy?” Jackson asked, tossing the metal ball in the air and watching as Bitty the drone uncurled to catch itself in the air and buzz around. Not quite able to understand the size scale of a twelve foot man.

“Hmm.” Slayer huffed, using the same hand to make the so-so gesture over Jackson's head. Watching the smaller man neatly pack his tools away in the cloth on his arm before subspaceing it. Slayer was just about to either dose, or see if he could get the Guardsman to play again when he caught the faint smell of burning paper and a static like feeling in his gut.

Alarmed, recognizing the feeling of almost forced worship, Slayer sat bolt upright. Catching the startled Jackson around the middle with his right hand. It was a few awkward moments as the Slayer was admittedly not used to laying on something soft but he managed to get upright. Kneeling beside the mats on the ground and looking around. He paused, blinked at the startled Guardsman before slowly setting Jackson on his own feet.

“Something wrong?” Jackson asked as he picked up his helmet. Watching Slayer nod before adding, “Another breach?”

Slayer gave a firm shake of his head as he stood up. Jackson was immensely grateful that the big guy had the improvised shorts on now as he was let go and found himself staring at a fabric colored hip. The big guy was walking to one of the blocked doors of this converted cargo bay. Easily lifting what he stacked here to block it, surprising not making much sound doing so.

Jackson followed after, watching the body language and Slayer's face. He was not showing that hunting focus but just seemed concerned over something. One large hand dropped to his middle for a moment as the door was cleared and Slayer sat on his knees. Undoing what he did to jam the door so easily it hinted he was a lot more experienced with technology then some thought.

The cargo door opened upwards, showing a darkened hall as the smell of burning candles and paper was clear now to unaltered, super predator senses. Several things clattered to the ground and Jackson saw a bench being used as an altar table. He saw the startled person on. The other side lock up as the big guy reached forward. The civilian squeaked as he was just plucked off the ground where they were sitting and pulled over the makeshift altar. Glowing green eyes looking over the mortal before frowning and then looking back at Jackson.

The big guy looked worried, chuffing for attention from the Guardsman. As if asking if this was real, as he held the stiff human with both hands, trying to support their back and head. “Hm?”

“It’s alright,” Jackson said, mostly to the civilian as he came over, helmet hooked to his side as the Guardsman reached out. Hands on a big wrist to guid Slayer to moving and settling on his knees, then setting the human down too. “I think you startled each other. Are you okay there?”

Jackson checked the name tag and recognized one of the patches on the man’s sleeve as being a part of the cleaning staff. Not sure if this person was trying to clean the altar up or was adding to it, the guardsman made a note to get the hall cleaned up as that was a fair few candles.

“...they said I needed to…” a tiny, soft and scared voice squeaked, then almost whimpered as a massive hand came up. Only for a confused sound to come as Slayer was surprisingly lightly petting the comparatively tiny man’s head. Shaking his own head.

Huffing at Jackson, Slayer got up and picked up the mortal under the arms. For a moment holding the human at arm’s length like a stray cat or toddler he did not know how to hold properly. Moving back to his bed, Slayer set the human there and walked into the dark hall, stepping over the half formed altar. Down the hall to grab a trash can he could just see. Methodical and neat, the might as well be giant came back and cleaned up. Huffing out the candles, ash brushed into the can.

He only paused at a thin sheet of metal, turning it back and forth as something caught his attention. It was his glyph painted on there, but not something rushed or smeared with blood. He brought it back into his bay-room to look at the sheet in the better light. Able to see the different colors of hondrends, if not thousands of painted… dots? Someone had taken time to make this, using different colors and types of paint so it looked almost shimmering.

Slayer looked up at hearing a squeak, seeing the normal human finally sitting on the edge of the thick foam mat. Jackson had managed to calm the person down, Slayer had half listened, getting just enough to understand someone had pressured this human into trying to worship…him. Thus the static feeling, but that was thankfully gone now. The human had also noticed what Slayer held and was burning bright red in a blush.

Coming over, the demigod crouched on his heels beside the two, tilting his head before nudging the human’s leg. Smiling at the meeping sound, then pointed to the artwork of his glyph. Did this human make this?

With a look at the Elite Guard, and seeing that Jackson was just so…relaxed and calm, the smaller man took a breath and nodded, “I…made it.”

Slayer purred, leaning over the two to set the painted metal at the ‘head’ of his bed. Having no sense of personal space it seemed, as the demigod shifted to try and be friendly, ruffling the reddish brown hair before getting up again. Slayer dragged the bench inside so it would not be another altar, re-jammed the door and barricaded it again before coming back.

This time he was notably more confident and just picked the human up, even if they made a frightened but cute sound. He braced them against his own right shoulder and started walking to the main door, the one that led to a taller main hall and…

“Ohh, you just want food at the mess hall big guy.” Jackson laughed, trotting after, “Its okay Miller, he’s just going to leave you in the local kitchen. If you want to make him something to eat, he’ll love that more than trying to make a shrine.”

“...food?” Miller asked in a small, confused voice, staring over the bare, scared shoulder at the guardsman, and the ground that was well over ten feet away now. The giant purred under the human at the mention of food.

#omie's writing #doomguy #doom fanfiction #doom slayer #gt #doom 2016 #doomdad #bfdg story #mini giant?#Slayer is biggerER

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film-in-my-soul · 1 year ago

Note

For bingo - first kiss, hangster? 🥹

Okay, not gonna lie, this is a little angstier than intended? But it's not like, sad sad. Promise.

.⋆｡°✩ The night before the rest of Bradley's life he gets pretty drunk and a little lucky. ✩°｡⋆.

Bradley is, perhaps, more drunk than he should be, given he has to report bright and early in- he looks down blurrily at his watch and guesses that the big hand is closer to the two than the one- five hours or so. But he'd made it. Orders in his phone and a room assignment with a couple of guys who'd been chill enough, each of them eager in their own ways for their training block, ready to get their sea legs under them and their wings even more.

But even then, even knowing he's stumbling more than walking, letting his hips guide him around so it doesn't look like he's a strong breeze from tipping over, there are still tightly pressed bodies and music flowing. He doesn't want to stop the feeling of victory, sun-bright and vindicating, from coursing through his veins. So he spins himself further into the crush of bodies, not a lick of them wearing their uniforms or stripes, Navy brats only distinguished by the particular kind of awareness they carry with them and the occasional academy ring that Bradley tries not to linger on too much.

When one lands on his arm, just as he's about to run himself into a cluster of tightly packed bodies he hadn't been entirely aware of, it's easy for his eyes to drift. The hand the rings placed on is tan and broad, and when he follows it up an equally tan arm, corded with well-earned muscles, all the way to a face that's strong-jawed and magazine-worthy, the academy ring floats right out of Bradley's head along with any elegant 'hello's he might have managed.

It's lucky for him the man still holding on to him is as notably drunk as Bradley is, his smile as loose as his shoulders, a wideness to his pupils, and a level of friendliness that's a dead giveaway of being four shots deep.

"Watch yourself," the blonde man says, voice lightly accented and teasing.

Bradley feels his own smile slide onto his mouth, lets himself lean into the sweat-warm body only a foot or so away.

"Watch yourself, cowboy." He's proud; it only comes out a bit slurred. It earns him a straight-toothed beaming grin and a laugh that Bradley thinks he can feel in his own chest, the vibration of the unbidden delight traveling from the man's hand down Bradley's arm.

For a moment, suspending in the drawn-out bass note that has everyone around them throwing up their hands in a cheer that Bradley can't hear past the roar or noise in his ear, they don't move, their eyes locked. Something passes through them in agreement as if through osmosis. Then the moment breaks, Bradley being nudged forward by an elbow in his back, the man still touching him laughing softer, shaking his head and letting his chest catch where Bradley stumbles.

"You wanna dance?" the man asks, and Bradley is pretty sure his sea-foam eyes are dancing already, or maybe that's just the strobing lights overhead or the general way that Bradley can't seem to make his own focus.

Bradley thinks of dragging him the rest of the way in, hand on his hips or maybe the other way around, thighs slotted together and heaving chests as they get hotter, dizzier in the swell of bodies around them. Then he thinks of something else, something better. It's a way to top off what he's considering a perfect night- no forward thought on the hangover he's going to have to pretend doesn't exist come sunrise.

He turns his arm in the blond's grip and catches his hand, liquor-bold and confident in a way that he only feels when wearing a flight suit or walking around with half a bottle in his gut.

"I've got a better idea."

Seeing as it gets him pressed against the outside of the building, arms full of hot, hard muscle, and mouth caught in a whiskey-sweet kiss, it's the best idea. The man, because Bradley still doesn't know his name even though he thinks maybe it's been pressed into the skin of his throat by wicked teeth and lapped over by a talented tongue, is a livewire of sensation. Bradley tries to give back as much as he's getting, nipping at what soft skin he can reach when he comes up for air and twisting his fingers into military-cut fringe, shivering at the hot-cold shivers wracking his nerves.

He doesn't know how long they kiss, doesn't know how he gets home, except for the distant memory of someone pulling up Lyft on his phone and one of the guys letting him into the apartment, blurry-eyed but non-judgemental for his late night.

There's a phantom of touch across his mouth, the thrum of what he hopes are bruises he can cover with his uniform collar, and then nothing else, not until his alarm goes off and he's heaving into the toilet. And when that's done, half-remembered dreams floating out of his brain of an academy ring and the whisper of something important against his ear, it's all a wash of poor choices and semi-regret.

He figures, pulling himself into his khakis, if it mattered, he'd have made more of a point of not forgetting.

Ficlet Bingo!

#hangster #sereshaw #hangster ficlet #top gun maverick ficlet #top gun maverick #ficlet bingo

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sparingiscaring · 1 year ago

Text

"A Ticket To..."

@caperingcryptid @fallenlondonficswap

For my part of the Secret Swap! Hope you enjoy!

"A Ticket To..."

A brief look into a Captain of a Tramp Steamer, ferrying passengers across the Unterzee. Inspired by the (maybe singular?) woman and Steamer that has safely ferried nearly all of us to Polythreme and back, at least once.

General : Zailing, NPC Zee-Captain, Polythreme (Briefly), Elder Continent (Briefly), Unnamed PC Death

(1177 Words)

The Charmed Captain knew her job.

Sell tickets at a stiff price, and ferry those that could afford the tickets (and the occasional stowaway) from London to the exotic land of Polythreme, and back again if they so paid, on the most reliable ship the Unterzee ever knew. Few took travelers this way, and fewer still continued the charter business after the first trip ‘round, if they even survived that first go. The private ships fared better on the whole; Pleasure-Yacht horns rang loud in the skulls of her crew as they zailed back, complimenting the spray of zee-foam soaking every cloak from the Swift Clippers.

Worst of all were the Zubmarines. For how expensive the bloody things were, and how their owner’s bragged, one would think they’d learn to stop dinging into the hull of honest ships at some point, but the Captain knew better than to expect a change. Just grit her teeth, and order the latest stowaway to – and yes, she means you in the back, the Longshanks with a guilty look in his eyes – to make himself useful, and go hammer out the dent, and maybe they’ll be rations enough for him after all.

The Captain knew better than to be jealous, however.

Her Tramp Steamer, simple as it was, was as charmed as she was. Far more than those she shared the zee with, at the very least. Oh, sure, the technician within the Zubmarine could dive beneath the Wax Wind with ease, but she always held back the tug of a smile as they zailed past the floating wreckage, the shattered remains of hull-collapse, the ship lost with all hands. And no jealously lived within her heart as the Steamer roared past the Swift-Zee Clipper, her ship churning up the mirror-smooth water their captain had just slipped into moments before. Her austere almost always failed with the Yacht, though. That paragon of opulence, luxury, and wealth, impaled by a chunk of flint-sharp glim? It was almost too good to be real.

They saw the Fathom King, in the end. The Charmed Captain never had. They’d come and go, and come again, through whatever deal they’d struck with His Complexity, but she needed no deal. No machinery, no finery, no speed. Just luck. Just favor, though she didn’t consider herself plenty faithful. Just a charmed fate, it seemed.

Her Tramp Steamer zailed from London to Polythreme, and little ever changed. No feral crocodiles ever threatened her crew in the relative quiet of Home Waters, unless there was a revered Monster-Hunter coincidentally on board to spear the beast with bone-notched harpoon moments before disaster. The Northern Wind never howled, lest everyone onboard had remembered to pack for false-winter, with Neathproof jackets and gloves and books to don and endure with.

The Wax-Wind of the South only blew on them when the deck was empty, and died out with the first head that popped up from the hull, or out from Captain’s Quarters – and, she’d noticed, it wouldn’t blow at all unless some daft Archaeologist or Baronet had decided to treat her ship a brothel, in which case the wax was more than welcome come one’s turn to sleep, to plug ears and block out the sound. And, luckiest of all, the talking ships of the Sea of Voices had yet to successfully engage her own Steamer in their desperate, lonely conversations, no matter how they moaned and whistled.

Well, aside from the one time, but her Charmed little Steamer hadn’t spoken a word since. A fluke, of course. Nothing to concern herself with. Even if her whistle sounded almost like a song, every time the whistle blew. Even if the whistle had begun to blow by itself, each one crying out in a melody all too familiar to the Captain’s memory.

For unrelated reasons, it wasn’t long after that when the Captain chose to branch out her offerings. Charter somewhere else, perhaps. Apis Meet was becoming a popular destination, after all, or so she heard.

The old girl was getting complacent, traveling the same current, week after week. Seeing the same dark patches of zee, the same floating lifeboats, the same zailing and suken ships drifting by on the dark lapping waves. It would do the Tramp Steamer some good, to try something new. Something to distract such a fine vessel from her whistling and singing and life-becoming. Keep her simple, and charmed, and keep them both safe.

And, for the Captain, the pay was more than worth it. She’d even given up her own cabin, to the poor overpaying sap.

It wasn’t a regular route, but it was often enough to keep the whistling at bay. And it was charmed, just the same. Off to Port was the scattered remnants of some doomed vessel, a hull just like the Steamer’s own, coated in still-hot wax, kept afloat by the very thing that destroyed it. And yet, her passengers pestered one another into improvised games of quoits, while another pair spoke of the Fathomking as if he paid homage to the Presbyterate. There was no recreation of Hyacinthus, no splash of wax or wave of cold zee-water to punish their insolence, not even when boredom gave way to chess and cards, and strings of profanities from the loser that would make the Admiral blush.

No punishment. And no whistling from the Tramp Steamer, either.

Just tall tales, and idle reading, when they docked at Apis Meet.

The Charmed Captain never doubted it for a moment, of course. Hundreds of trips ‘round the Unterzee in her career, by this point, and nothing had ever gone wrong. Why would it start now? It would never start, no matter what route she took. No matter where her charter took her.

She left the Meet as evening came to a close, ferrying her passengers away, back to the London they so knew, fighting the waves with well-traveled experience. She never arrived late, after all. Every leg of the journey always arrived on time, just in time. Sometimes, even early, if a particularly fated passenger happened to be aboard.

All the same. Always the same, no matter how routine this route had become. The screams of Polythreme, and the Light of the Elder Continent, were both just facts of life, now. Nothing to jump at. Nothing to worry over.

Just like the whistling that began overhead. Not melodious – a harsh sound, like a sneeze held in for far too long, finally let loose, finally freed from the light that held the life at bay. For her part, the Captain smiled as she shook her head.

To Hell with it. A Singing Steamer was probably just as charmed as the rusty old thing had been before, after all. She’d likely be just as fine a zeefaring vessel, all things considered. Still safe, reliable, and secure, from London to Polythreme, and back again.

And the occasional charter south, when the Charmed Captain could stand to go a week without a familiar whistling from the most honest ship in the Unterzee.

#fallen london #ficswap #fanfic #dame's writing #saw the zailing on the 'things i enjoy reading' and i had just gotten emery off of the charter ship #and had to go with the idea~#alt jokey description - a cool lady watches your pcs die. then makes fun of them. then her boat gets even cooler cause she's better than yo

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