#hat of discipline

[senkusphone]

"What is that, Magma...?"

"The hat of discipline... DO YOU LIVE IN A CAVE?!"

"All is forgiven!"

[egophiliac]

this is basically what happened, right?

(these guys are very lucky that everyone at NRC 1) has the combined intelligence of a sack of bricks, and 2) is easily distracted by shiny things.)

[pinktinselmonstrosity]

today is on track to be the first day since i moved that i haven't spent any money and i really want to achieve that but also. i Really want takeout tonight. and which is more important

[jhsharman]

Classroom antics

Josie is removed. Which is proper -- she attends Midvale. Usually.

Interesting they originally use black chalk. Also Decarlo and Lapick posthumously sign the crude stick figures of Grundy and Weatherbee.

Can someone tell me what Betty's pendant is? The occult?

[orionali]

"When things get personal, the wrong people usually end up dead. That's why I keep it simple."

[georgia-stanway]

Grant ward injury not looking good everybody say goodbye to the gas at anfield pipe dream

[crookedfandomquill]

This is very situational, and sadly may not be realistic for everyone, but I need y’all to understand that a very important part of political activism is fucking talking to your conservative or moderate friends and family.

My dad voted for Trump in 2016. He’s a middle class white evangelical from Arkansas. He raised me with conservative Christian values, just like his parents raised him. When he voted Trump, he was holding his nose, but he didn’t feel too bad about it, and went on to vote red down the ticket in the 2018 midterms, as well.

But I started college in 2017. Higher education and independence changed everything for me, and I went home over holidays and summers with fire in my belly and a thousand arguments ready at the drop of a hat, to my father’s dismay.

I remember crying in my room after emotional, intense arguments with him. I told him over and over that I felt betrayed by his choice to vote for a man who admitted to sexually assaulting women, who built his platform on dehumanizing immigrants and the disabled, who spread overtly-racist rhetoric, who flouted the values of kindness and self-discipline that I’d been raised on. And my dad always had some justification about the “greater good”: fighting against abortion, bolstering the economy, getting other Christian politicians into office.

But over time, as we grew further apart and I lost my will to discuss anything with him at all, he softened. He started asking me why I thought the way I did about the things we disagreed about. He would listen to my answers without interruption, and mull them over afterward instead of expressing his own opinion. And all the while, he watched the Trump presidency become cruel and absurd and devastating.

The first time he openly expressed regret to me, I had come home for a weekend after Kavanaugh was confirmed to SCOTUS. My dad realized he had helped elect a man who preyed on women… and that man had opened the door to more predators. I can’t tell you what it felt like for him to admit that he’d made a mistake, not just in voting for Trump but in defending him for so long. We kept arguing, but it was more debating than fighting. I knew he was capable of seeing my side of things, even if it took a while, and he knew I wasn’t just a sensitive college student with shallow new ideas about the world.

And then 2020 hit. Specifically, George Floyd was murdered, and the events that followed played out on the national stage. My dad was incredibly shaken by it. He asked me if I had any books from college about racial issues. I loaned him The New Jim Crow, one of the required readings for my Race and the Law class. Then I gave him Just Mercy. Then he watched the documentary 13th. Then he joined a racial harmony group he learned about through one of the few Black families at our church and insisted our whole family come. He held up signs at a protest against Confederate monuments in our conservative southern town. In three years, he went from defending Trump’s comments about “Black-on-Black crime” to publicly advocating for racial justice and opposing the death penalty.

We went together to vote in the 2020 primaries. I couldn’t help asking who he’d voted for; I didn’t even know if he’d asked for the Republican or Democratic ticket. He admitted he’d voted for Bernie. fucking. Sanders, then made me promise not to tell my grandma he’d voted liberal. When the election rolled around in November, he voted Biden. I’m sure he held his nose to do it, just like he held his nose voting in 2016. But I know he doesn’t regret it.

I am, of course, unbelievably lucky to have a parent who loved me enough, and was empathetic enough, to choose his relationship with me over his strongly-held opinions. He kept searching for truth because, as much as he’ll deny it, he’s a very smart and curious person. No degree of intelligence or curiosity makes you immune to propaganda, especially if you were raised not to question the party line. It’s easy to dismiss our conservative, conspiracy-pilled loved ones as stupid, hypocritical, and cruel. Sometimes they are. But sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes they will bend to keep their relationships from breaking. Sometimes, if they can be made to understand that their beliefs and actions are harming someone they love, they will make concessions. And sometimes they just need one person in their life to put a foot down, to be vulnerable and assertive and argumentative, to bring the impact of their politics close to home.

As the most important election of our lifetimes approaches, do not put peace over progress. If you have someone like my dad, someone who is good-willed and smart and loves you more than their own opinions, tell them how you feel. Tell them what their choices will mean for you, for your friends, for your community. Tell them what they could lose: your trust, your affection, your respect. Don’t avoid conflict if it could be productive. Because my conflict with my dad didn’t just win him over–it won over my moderate mom and one of my conservative brothers. And it put us in community with other like-minded people and led my parents to a healthier and kinder faith.

All of this to say, there is hope in conflict. There is hope in our relationships with people who think differently from us. There is hope in exposing your fear and anger and pain to people you love. And hope is a form of activism.

[zooophagous]

So why do you hate the advertising industry?

Hokay so.

Let me preface this with some personal history. It's not relevant to the sins of the advertising industry perse but it illustrates how I started to grow to hate it.

I wanted to be a veterinarian growing up, but to be a vet you basically have to be good enough to get into medical school. I do not have the math chops or discipline to make it in medical school. I went into art instead, and in a desperate attempt to find some commercial viability that didn't involve moving to California, I went into graphic design.

I've been a graphic designer for about seven or eight years now and I've worn a lot of hats. One of them was working in a print shop. Now, the print shop had a lot of corporate customers who had various ad campaigns. One of them was Gate City Bank, which had a bigass stack of postcards ordered every couple months to mail to their customers.

Now, paper comes from Dakota Paper, and they make their paper the usual way. Somewhere far, far from our treeless plain there is a forest of tall trees. These trees are cut down and put on big fossil fuel burning trucks and hauled to a paper mill that turns them into pulp while spewing the most fowl odors imaginable over the neighboring town and loads the pulp up with bleach to give it a nice white color.

Then the paper is put on yet another big truck and hauled off to the local paper depot, then put on another big truck and delivered to my print shop, where I turned the paper into postcards telling people to go even deeper into debt to buy a boat because it's almost summer. The inks used are a type of nasty heat sensitive plastic that is melted to the surface of the paper with heat. Then the postcards are put on yet ANOTHER truck and sent to the bank, which puts them on ANOTHER truck and finally into the hands of their customers, who open their mail and take one look at the post card and immediately discard it.

Heaps and heaps and literal hundreds of pounds of literal garbage created at the whim of the marketing team several times a year. And thats just one bank in one city.

I came to realize very quickly that graphic design was the delicate art of turning trees into junk mail.

And wouldn't you know it there are a TON of companies that basically only do junk mail. Many of them operate under the guise of a "charity," sending you pictures of suffering children or animals and begging for handouts and when they get those handouts the executives take a nice fat cut, give some small token amount to whatever cause they pay lip service to, and then put the rest of the cash right back into making more mailers. "Direct mail marketing" they call it.

Oh but maybe it's not so bad, you can advertise online after all. Now that there's decent ad blocker out there and better anti-virus ads usually don't destroy your computer anymore just by existing.

Except now when I search for the exact business I want on Google it's buried under three or four different "promoted search items" tricking me into clicking on them only to shoot themselves in the foot because I searched for the specific result I wanted for a reason and couldn't use those other websites even if I felt like it.

And now we have advertising on YouTube and on every streaming service, forcing more and more eyes onto the ad for the brand new Buick Envision that parks itself because you're too stupid to do it on your own.

Oh thats ok maybe I'll get Spotify premium and go ad free and listen to some podcasts- SIKE we have the hosts of your show doing the song and dance now. Are you depressed and paranoid from listening to my true crime podcast about murdered and mutilated teenagers? That's ok, my sponsor Better Help can keep you sane enough to stay alive and spend more money.

It's gotten so terrible that now you have content farms, huge hubs of shell companies that crank out video after video to get more and more precious clicks. Which if the videos were innocuous maybe that wouldn't be so awful except now you have cooking hacks that can actually burn your house down and craft hacks that can electrocute you being flung into your eyes at the speed of mach fuck so some slimy internet clickbait jockey doesn't need to get a real job.

It of course goes without saying that animals are also relentlessly exploited by clickbait companies that will put them in compromising situations on purpose to create a fake fishing hack video or even just straight up killing them for sport by feeding small animals to a pufferfish that rips them apart for the camera.

And all of this, ALL of this doesn't even touch how adveritising is the death of art in general. Queer topics, any kind of interesting art, any kind of sex or substance use topics are scrubbed clean and hidden at the behest of advertisers.

Sex education, a nude statue, topics such as racism or sexism or bigotry in general have tags purged or hidden from search, even life saving information about SDTs or drug use, because if someone saw that and complained then Verizon might sell fewer tablets and we can't fucking have that.

Conservative talking heads often bitch and moan that they're being censored on social media. The stupid part is, they're right! They are being censored! But it's not by a woke mob, it's by ATT and Coca Cola not wanting their adspace sharing screen time with their stupid fucking opinions.

However, they won't ever figure that out, because the talking heads they get their marching orders from like Tucker and Jones ALSO rely on the sweet milk flowing from the sponsorship teat and they aren't about to turn on their meal ticket so they have to come up with even stupider shit to say for the train to continue rolling.

I managed to rant this far without even getting into the ads I see for the beauty industry. The other day a botox ad described wrinkles as "moderate to severe crows feet" as if wrinkles are a symptom of a fucking serious disease! Like having a flaw in your skin is a medical problem that you need thousands of dollars of literal botulism toxin to fix! I was incandescent with anger.

Advertising is a polluting, censoring, anti educational and anti art industry at it's very core. It destroys human connections, suppresses human thought and makes us hate our own bodies. It ads no value, actively detracts from value, and serves no real purpose and I believe it should be almost if not entirely banned.

[thelaughingmerman]

Also this is a to each their own thing like do what  you want its your life im not mad about it lol but it stresses me out so hard when i see people riding without a helmet. i dont care how good your horse is slips happen sometimes man.

[nhura]

Life is too short.

[ my art ] [ twitter ]

(detail + ratio rambling under the cut >_>)

This is one of those "I need a break between my ten other illustrations, let me do a lil sketchy sketch :D" that got too ambitious etc. etc. I never want to see the color red again" moments. BUT!

I really, really like to explore Ratio's viscerality and what's happening between his brain and his nerves, like... all of this thorough control and discipline and he still has to breathe and react to himself and his surroundings, you know? His accomplishments are insane for "his age"* but he's going to run out of "age" at some point! His ambitions are so far reaching that he's not worried about getting doctorate degree Number Nine! Rather, his efforts are pointed outwards, into the universe, for the universe. As you know.

Speaking of his degrees, I had a half thought a while ago that we've seen him with two types of laurel pins.

One is him in his suuuuuper cute mother goose avatar (three leaves) and the other is the hat he's wearing everywhere else (eight leaves).

The thought was, "Aww, what if they're like commemorative pins counting the number of his degrees or whatever :)". Literally only because there's eight in the current one. This is kind of silly because then you'd HAVE to have an obscene number of degrees even for a normal person for your leaf pin to start looking like a laurel in the first place so scratch that BUT it's cute to think that it's still academic regalia. Something something I work in higher ed myself and it's like... it's like that.

The university goldsmith appreciates the job security.

I REMEMBER WHY I BROUGHT THAT UP. FOLLOWING the fantasy where more leaves = more knowledge!, in summary, even though Ratio seems to be a little beyond trying to get a prize every time he learns something now. But he does want to Keep Going. He can only Keep Going.

So I drew him in a bathtub full of an uncountable amount of gold leaves looking at the camera with an indescribable expression born from a hunger that will never be satiated lol DETAIL SHOT!

*Referenced only vaguely in a comment in the context of astonishment, but it could have easily have been "woah he's accomplished so much for his age (young)" as it could be "woah he looks good for his age (older)". There is no canon age and even then, reconciling standardized system time versus planetary time versus "does his particular breed of lizard human have the same lifespan as tumblr user nhura?" is a losing game for everyone involved! Here's what I think: I think he started going grey in his early twenties, whatever that means in spacefantasygame, and that that's very cute on him.

Do YOU think Ratio would be tempted by immortality???? Or would he MIND HIS BUSINESS

[bitterrfruit]

I am begging on my knees for a part two to cowboy price😭🙏

here she is!!! cowboy price part 2!! I really really hope you enjoy it ♥︎♥︎

18+ mdni - cw: spanking - ~2.8k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You like to trespass. He teaches you a lesson.

Here's part 1! (and there will probably be a part 3 lol i'm having way too much fun)

Staring face down into the bale of prickling hay, sipping the turgid air like warm milk, you scoured your mind for your next apology. There was a long list of transgressions Mr Price could demand an apology for. Would he punish you for every single one?

Did you want him to?

His spread hand hovered over the skin of your rear, a threat – it ghosted over the fine fuzz and triggered ripples of gooseflesh to radiate out from the faint touch.

“I’m sorry for–” you uttered, barely a croak, “for making you chase me.”

The second you spoke it, your entire body tensed itself on instinct – girding itself for the discipline that would inevitably follow. Swift, and purposeful; he raised his arm, reeling it back like the string of a bow.

And he released it just as suddenly, hurling his palm downward rapidly enough to emit a whistle through the air; it collided with your ass in a sharp smack, over the same burning handprint he had already left there.

The force of it thrusted you forward, knocked a helpless squeal from your throat. You whimpered at the grit and dust grinding under your knees as it rocked you, your hands flat on the haybale turned to fists as you desperately squeezed handfuls of straw.

“Mhm,” he grumbled, grave and deep, “and?”

You swallowed air through your open mouth, your heart thundered in your ears – out of breath, but too wary to inhale deeply enough to sate it.

“For…” you hesitated, “for talking bad on your father.”

Keeping your hips still with his restraining forearm, he raised his free arm once again; you held your breath, squeezed shut your eyes in preparation for the blow. Swing. Smack.

Each collision of his vicious hand over the same spot burned worse than the last, as though his palm was adorned with barbs that pierced your fevered skin on impact. Yet a quiet moan slithered from your chest, slipped from your tongue, oozed like honey.

He drew in a grumbling breath, strained as he sucked it deep. Could he hear the pining titillation in your throat, dripping from each yelp? Might he hit you harder for it?

You winced, shivered, as his wide hand rested against the matching print that only grew more raised and more red by the second, the touch by turn warming and punishing. “Keep goin’.”

“I’m–”

Bitten off by a gasp as his fingers pushed in only slightly, burrowing into the pillowy flesh of your ass as though the squeeze was unintentional – the pressure on your near-broken skin inflicted an ache that made you whimper.

“I’m sorry for stealing cherries,” you force out, in a wet mewl.

He bore his dissatisfaction with a cocksure suck of his teeth. “Whose cherries?”

“Yours,” you squeaked.

“Mm,” he nodded, grinded out through a tight jaw. “Mine.”

Followed quickly your chastisement; the swish of his hand hurtling through the air, the ear-splitting crack of his open palm striking beaten flesh, the whine of twisted thrill that squealed out from your lips.

“My cherries–” he spat, unrelenting; again he lifted his palm, letting it hover in the air for a brief moment before he brought it down with a force.

Smack.

“–My orchard–”

Smack.

“–My hat–”

Smack.

“–My horses–”

Smack.

“–My stable–”

Smack.

“–My land.”

Smack.

The final blow threw a saccharine cry from your heaving lungs, dosed with a shameful squeak of desperation, wet and eager; eyes watering, your head collapsed into the haybale, prickly against your bright red cheek.

The skin of your rear stung numb, throbbing like a heartbeat, your knees shook with the adrenaline that riddled you from head to toe.

And as you adjusted your knees to balance yourself after he had knocked you off kilter – you felt the slick that had seeped from you, drenching your cunt in slippery syrup, the cool air biting cold at the saturated patch of your floral pointelle panties.

You could only suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in abashment and guilt, self-flagellation for the burning heat that had pooled between your legs; almost as blindingly consuming as the white-hot sting of his hand-shaped brand.

He leaned back from you, balanced himself with his hand on your ass. Panting like a wolf, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as though he had overexerted himself, broken a sweat in his outburst. Seemed to pause as he looked over his handiwork – had spanked you hard enough that you wouldn’t doubt how crisp the perfect outline of his hand would have been. Perhaps it was purple, speckled with the spots of broken capillaries and blood seeping under the hot skin.

But it mustn’t have been the damage he had inflicted that he was stuck on, as you heard his heavy breathing degrade into hoarse, animalistic chuffing; a broken grunt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

You felt his thumb, slow and probing as though influenced by an unseen force – creep towards the cleft of your ass, running along the elastic lace hem of your panties. Teased the trim like it might slip underneath, but it didn’t. No, instead, he hovered it over the gusset, barely grazing the sodden fabric.

Eyes fluttering shut, you inhaled weakly, a quiet simper as he pushed his thumb into the valley of your cunt; wetting the tip with your fluid that soaked the thin cotton, dipping into you as though the single layer of fabric wasn’t the only barrier preventing him from plunging it deeper.

He must have felt the ring of muscle at your entrance tighten and twitch, an inadvertent reflex to his intrusion – because he abruptly tugged his hand away. You quickly released a sharp and feverish breath, cunt still pulsing around the painful absence of his finger.

“Alright,” he huffed, through teeth, as he rubbed the back of his head in exasperation. “Reckon you learned your lesson.”

You squeaked as you felt his pelvis press against yours, weighing against you from behind; as he leaned over you, reaching past you to pick up the cattleman that he had knocked from your head.

“Huh?” He persisted.

“Yes,” you croaked, realising his demand, you were quick to follow it. You leaned upright, kneeling still, as you tugged down the skirt of your dress to cover yourself; grimacing as the light fabric brushed over the burning welt on your rear.

With a hand on his knee he pushed himself to stand, sniffing in vexation as he dusted off his jeans. Bowed his head to put his hat back in its rightful place, pinching the leather crown with a single hand as he gave it a shimmy to adjust it. “Yes what?”

Through a whimper, you whispered, “Yes sir.”

“’Atta girl,” he gritted, “learned you some manners.”

You feebly swept a lock of your dishevelled hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, too poignantly humiliated to think of anything pert to utter.

“Up y’get.”

It took you a moment to gather the nerve to stand, breathing carefully as you placed your hand on the edge of the haybale. Impatient, evidently, John bent down to you, slipping his broad hands under your arms in an effort to pick you up.

You yipped, wriggling away from his grasping hands as he hoisted you upright, and you landed on your feet with a wobble. “I can walk,” you bit.

“Yeah, right,” he groused, spinning you by the torso before hooking his arm around your waist; you yelped as he tossed you callously over his shoulder like a wet rag. “I ain’t letting you run off again, missy.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” you whinged, but you mustered no resistance as he hauled you towards the stable door, kicking it open with his boot.

He snorted as he adjusted you on his shoulder, carting you out into the evening sun – appeared the sun had begun its approach to the horizon since you had run off from him, you forgot the days were beginning to grow shorter. The hum of the cicadas still blared just as loud as earlier, though, and the air just as warm, despite the fading orange glow of the sunlight.

Trudging through the long grass, no doubt towards his truck, he chided; “D’you expect me to trust you?”

You bit your tongue, scoured your scrambled mind for any retaliation. “I don’t want to get in trouble again,” you mumbled. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he sneered, “I think trouble is the only thing you want.”

The pressure of his thumb lingered against your entrance, a permanent impression that made your heart flutter at the memory. Perhaps he was right.

“That’s not true.”

“No?” He questioned scornfully, grasping hand digging into the side of your waist to keep you steady. “Then why’d you come back here, huh?”

You pouted, staring into the grass, watching the back of his boots rise and fall with each step. Would you tell him it was just to see him? Just to have him find and scold you? Just to toe the line? Long since crossed, wasn’t it.

“I wanted some cherries,” you lied.

“Uh-huh,” he scoffed, as the grass began to shorten, bleeding to the rubble and dust of the old road. You heard the deep click of a handle, the rattling of the truck door, the moaning of its old hinges as it swung open. “Was it worth it?”

You hesitated, gasping as he tossed you into the passenger door of his Chevy – you landed on your back across the worn leather bench seat, bouncing slightly in the fall, head narrowly missing the steering wheel.

“Yes,” you breathed, to answer his question, and he froze like you had caught him in a bear trap.

Stood imperiously between your knees, as your feet dangled out of the open door, skirt having been rucked up by the landing. He glowered down at you, lips in a thin and admonishing line, but his predacious eyes betrayed his stoic righteousness.

Glare clawed down your splayed form from your dewy lips, to the swell of your breasts, to the bare skin where your thighs met your hips. Catching a glimpse of the mound of your pussy from under the hem, hidden from him by the dainty fabric of your underwear.

He breathed raggedly through flared nostrils, put a white-knuckled hand against the top of the doorframe, casting a looming shadow over your body. His gaze was pointed, fiery, burned from lidded eyes - you felt the heat of his stare, it made you sweat, made your cunt ache unbearably for his attention.

Tongue squirming, too bashful to form a plea; you made your entreaty with a meek hand, tracing your fingertips down your stomach, catching in the pleats and folds of your linen dress. With a hook of your fingers under the hem of your skirt, you coaxed it upwards, coyly exposing yourself bit by bit. Watched cautiously as his lour raptly followed your movements, belying his stone-faced expression.

But he stopped you, or himself, with a pat of his hand on your thigh, just above your knee. Left it there. And he ordered, dark and strained;

“Settle down.”

With a moan of petulant defeat, you dropped your arm to your side.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he grumbled, reaching for your skirt – did so with purposeful cruelty, letting his calloused hand graze up your thigh as he grabbed the hem and tugged it downwards to cover your panties.

He took impatient hold of your knees and swivelled them inside the cab, before shutting the passenger door with a creaking swing and a loud slam. You sat yourself upright, wincing at the painful reminder of the lashings on your rear as it pressed into the firm leather seat. He marched around the truck and hopped in behind the steering wheel, you crossed your arms churlishly as you glared out the passenger window.

Peevishly huffing as he started the engine and accelerated off down the deteriorated dirt road, you bounced around in your seat, the vibrations of the rolling vehicle doing little to settle the sore throbbing between your legs.

“I’m telling my dad what you did,” you griped, rich with spite.

“You can tell ‘im whatever you want,” he scoffed, hanging his arm out his open window, wrenching the steering wheel in the tight grip of his closer hand.

“I’ll tell him you hit me.”

“Yeah?” He gibed, “Gonna tell him how worked up you got?”

Scowling, you felt your cheeks glow red as you glowered out the window. “I wasn’t worked up,” you fibbed.

“Mm. Sure seemed like it.” You could hear his smirk without having to look at him.

You fumed. “Sounds like you’re proud of yourself."

He only released a quiet and scornful huff of laughter in response to that. Nothing snide left to say, now that you’d accused him of purposefully arousing you. But he was right. It was all you could think about, writhing and sizzling in your mind and in your stomach; a fire that he had lit, and now he mocked you for being ablaze.

Daddy’s house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a rolling hill of dry grass, surrounded by century-old white oaks that kept it shaded.

You could only sulk, keeping your arms vitriolically crossed and refusing to utter a single word until the truck rolled to a halt over the raw gravel of the turn-around driveway.

Your father was where you’d often find him; leisurely lounging on the wicker veranda bench, reading glasses on his nose and some dull book about the economy in hand. But he perked up at the arrival of Mr Price’s truck, an especially unfamiliar sight, one that would no doubt spike some suspicion.

John left the engine running and hopped out of the truck. You sorely begrudged the dire possibility that you’d be forced to return to your childhood home, stuck in the tedium of your quotidian life, left to only daydream about the events of the afternoon as you washed dishes and folded laundry.

So in the brief seconds you had before he stormed around to the passenger side, you slipped your hands under your dress. Tucked your fingertips into the waistband of your panties, bucked your hips as you shimmied them down your legs and plucked them over your feet. And you nestled them behind you, out of sight as John yanked open your door, beckoning with an impatient and commanding hand for you to step out.

You groaned as you followed his wordless demand, jumping down into the gravel and glaring up at him with a vindictive curl in your lips. You spitefully stayed still, then, not taking a step in any direction of your own volition, wary that he might glance upwards and spot the coquettish little calling card you left in his truck.

“Move it,” he ordered. 

You only pouted. “You’re a dick.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he tugged your shoulder in the direction of your house – then lodged his hand at the back of your neck, under your hair, an authoritative grasp so that he could drive you by it. And he did, nudging you along, you stumbled awkwardly over your bare feet as you were carted towards your veranda.

Daddy pushed himself to stand, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding setting sun as he ambled to the top of the deck stairs.

“Johnathan,” he spat, disgruntled and apathetic – just wanted to get back to his book, no doubt. And when he spotted you, last, of course, he queried; "That you, hun?”

You glared into the gravel, flushed with fervent humiliation, disguising it as malice.

“Found her trespassing,” John yelled, terse and irate. “Again.”

Your father hooked his thumbs in his beltloops, squinting down at him. “Fence is on your property, John. S’your problem if she fits through the gaps.”

“You need to keep a handle on your daughter,” John snarled, thick with derision, fuse running short. He released your neck with a slight shove, then, and you vindictively rolled your shoulder away from his lingering touch.

Your father snorted. “Looks like y’got a better handle on her than I ever will.”

Had enough, you stormed away from the condescending rancher, marching with your arms crossed towards the steps.

“Y’know what happens if I catch you back on my property, don’t you, girl?” John barked after you, a growl in his throat.

Shoving past your bewildered father as you trudged up the creaking stairs, you rolled your eyes. Concealed the coy smirk that curled in the corner of your lips, you answered with a grouse;

“Trouble.”

for the besties who asked to be tagged in part 2, here you go!! @lilliumrorum @stars4sar @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @iamnotfinedaddy @erajoie07 @rafaelacallinybbay

[mostlymihawk]

Getting Sick!

Straw Hat Crew (+ Shanks + Mihawk) x GN reader

Prompt: How they react to you getting sick.

CW: Emetophobia (throwing up)

Luffy:

Completely useless.

The man's made of rubber, he doesn't have a clue what to do.

"Um...it's gonna be okay? It's gonna be okay, right?"

You have to ask him for everything.

Does carry you to bed when asked, and will happily snuggle you.

Then asks if you want something to eat.

Food is the solution, and refuses to understand that food can also be the problem.

Nami:

Holds your hair and runs her fingers through it at the same time.

Also dabbing your face and neck with a cold cloth.

Certified professional make-it-better-er.

She did a lot of throwing up when she was younger.

Childhood trauma combined with lying to your sister and working for your mother's murderer will do that.

Knows exactly what she would have wanted, and gives it all to you.

"It's gonna be okay. I've got you, sweetheart."

Keeps tabs on your temperature to make sure this isn't a symptom of something bigger.

Refuses to let you out of bed until you're 100% better.

Zoro:

Keeps his face carefully blank and gently rubs your back.

Looking away the whole time.

You know him well enough to know he does not want to be doing this.

Handles blood just fine but this is a whole other ballgame and he wants no part of it.

Happily helps you to bed after, because it means the gross part is over.

"Better out than in...I guess."

Then he remembers someone has to take care of the cleanup.

Tries to frame it as discipline training to make it better.

Usopp:

Useless, but tries his best.

"Do you need a cloth? Some water? I can get, uh...fresh pair of clothes?"

Standing outside the door, so you croak out what you need and he runs to get it for you.

Needs to be filling the silence.

If he's not asking you something and you're not answering he's talking about how this reminds him of that one time in the Forest of Doom...

Spends the whole night telling stories to help you get to sleep.

Gets a lot better when he realizes this isn't all that much different than barnacles and bird poop.

Unfortunately, the worst of it has already passed by then.

Confidently assures you he'll be ready for next time, though.

Sanji:

As a gentleman, it's his duty to take care of his significant other when they're sick.

He's damn good at it too.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

His face is pinched as his thumb gently rubs your back, he dabs your face and neck, and offers you sips of water when you can manage it.

"You're alright, sweetheart. A little bit of my tender love and care and you'll be on your feet in no time."

And then he notices the colour, not unlike the blueberry reduction from the dessert you'd asked for after lunch.

Gently helps you to your room, and it's not until the next day that you notice anything is amiss.

In. con. solable.

No one has ever gotten sick from his food before. Ever.

Refuses to serve food.

The Straw Hats have to turn back to Baratie so Zeff can literally beat some sense into him.

Shanks:

Bonus!

This crew loves its alcohol way too much for Shanks to be even the slightest bit bothered by a little vomit.

Sits by your side, dabbing your face, rubbing your back, completely unfazed, cracking jokes the entire time.

"Snuck into the hold and had yourself a little party without me, did you?"

Knows exactly what to do to help you feel better.

Again, the crew loves alcohol too much for anything else to be true.

Cuddles. So many cuddles.

This crew is too experienced to let a sick crew member come back to work early, so despite the unserious approach you're on strict bedrest.

The whole crew makes fun of you...but only once you've recovered.

Mihawk:

This is not a man who routinely deals with people being sick.

Confused.

Why are you sick.

Who caused this.

Who does he need to kill.

(It's whoever cooked your dinner at that restaurant you went to last night, but you don't tell him that.)

Completely repulsed, does not let it show on his face while he tends to you.

Rubs your back very gently, and uses a cool cloth to wipe the sweat off your face.

Helps you to bed, sits up and lets you lean against his chest so you're upright, and encourages a few sips of water.

"Get some rest, my jewel."

The next day there's a doctor at your bedside.

You don't need a doctor, but the look on Mihawk's face says this is non-negotiable.

[fleurie3am15inspo]

Ooh, this looks pretty cool!! Both in premise and execution :0 Would you mind talking about how you picked the colors for the days and setup stuff?? Would totally be down to hear!

It's the first of the month! Another very hot month. 🫠 Looks like the high for today was 100 but I like to check on the following day before I stitch. Hopefully the heat won't last too much longer.

[ncroissant]

I just read your Sub! Frances fic and OHMYGOD??? GORGEOUS. AMAZING. HOLY HELL THIS IS THE FIRST FIC THATS MADE ME FEEL THIS WAY I—A JOB MOST CERTAINLY WELL DONE 😭💕✨🙌

I was wondering if you were up to writing more of it? I had this idea for Sub! Frances where he’s a doppelgänger and reader is part of the DDD cleanup crew…except when Frances’s doppelgänger is sent over to them, they decide to initiate a so-called mandatory ‘procedure’ to ‘discipline him’ if you know what I mean…🤭🤭 maybe even throw in some overstim and mind break~

Buttt feel free to ignore this if you want to, no pressure :)

sub! doppelgänger francis mosses x d.d.d! gn! reader

summary: how the clean-up crew likes to deal with slutty doppelgängers

wc: 1.5k

content warning: nsfw, dub-con, spanking, ball play, mind-break, overstimulation, fingering, anal, cock can be seen as strap, cum play, dirty talk, nipple play

author’s note: hi guys! sorry for the wait, but thank u sm for 150 follows omg, u guys have been blowing up my blog ily all. thanks for the ask anon, i love this concept and i'm so happy u liked my first francis fic :') hope u enjoy this one too !! not proofread, minors please dni !!

the calls to the d.d.d. were slow today.

but when you finally got a call from the nearby apartment's security guard, you were quick to accept the job. what you weren't expecting was to find such a handsome man, awaiting his sentence, upon your arrival.

you soaked in the sight of him. his all too tight uniform and his dopey little hat that was a size too big, slipping over his brunette eyes. his sunken eye bags, long lashes and pleading expression.

the alarm was blaringly loud and the lights were blinding, but you still made your way over to the doppel, your breath fogging up with hazmat suit.

"i'm here for a mr. francis mosses?" you inquired, cautiously stepping closer to him. "is that you? or who you're impersonating, hm?" you tilted your head, driving him against the wall.

his eyebrows furrowed, back pressed flat against the wall in attempts to escape. he stayed silent, but you continued to stalk forward. "can't talk, huh?" you scoffed, shaking your head disappointedly.

your head turned to look at the aluminum sheet covering the security guard's window. you slipped your phone out of your pocket, dialing the security guard. "this might take a while. keep that window closed, yeah?"

you hung up, stuffing your phone away. your head quickly turned to look at francis with a glare. "turn around," you demanded, nodding your chin towards the wall.

"what?" the frown on francis' face deepened. you clicked up tongue, disappointed with his reaction. you gathered his wrists together, spinning him around and pressing his chest against the wall. his pants were so tight that you could see the outline of his balls.

"listen to me, slut," you growled, tightening the grip you had on his wrists. "when i tell you do something, you do it, yeah?" his back arched, rubbing the bulge of your cock against his ass.

"are we clear?" you glared down at him as he looked back at you with widened eyes.

"y-yes..." he shyly nodded with a huff.

you smiled at his obedience, moving back to create space between yourselves. "now, i know you've been a bad boy. messin' with the security guard, knowing you can't enter the building like this," you started, grabbing the fat of his ass.

he gasped, biting down on his lip to suppress the lewd sounds that were so desperately spilling out of his lips. "since you wanna be a brat. let me show you how we deal with bad boys like you." you spanked his ass roughly, kneading it gently afterwards.

"h-HNG!?" he panted when you slipped off his pants, exposing his bare ass. his cock twitched at the feeling of you pressing him against the brick wall, the ridges rubbing against his perky nipples.

"no underwear?" you chuckled, dragging your fingers down to fondle his balls. he squirmed in your gasp, little whimpers escaping his mouth.

he shook his head when he felt your thumb circling around the rim of his hole. "unnghhh...'s dirty down there, ooohh...!" your fingers slipped in so easily from the accumulation of sweat and slick, making him jolt at the thickness of your fingers.

"so deep, mmMNGH! y'keep hittin' that, hngh, s-spot..." he whined, leaning head back in bliss. the room was filled with the sound of francis' moans and the sloppy wet sounds of your fingers ramming into his hole.

you fucked your fingers into him, grazing them against his balls. and every time he got used to the thickness of your finger, you'd add another one to catch him off guard.

as much as he wanted to deny it, he was shamefully enjoyed the way your fingers pressed deep against his prostate. "ooOGHHH! m' g'na c-cum, HNGH! 'm c-cumming, cumming!" he whimpered, cum coating the wall.

his cum dripped onto his white uniform pants and rolled down the inner sides of his legs. he was shaking against you, slumping backwards into your arms.

"you think i'm gonna let you off the hook just 'cause you're cute, huh?" you shoved him deeper against the wall, the bumps flicking his nipples when you pulled him up. "who gave you permission to cum?"

his face paled as he shuddered at the look on your face. "'m sorry! needed t'cum s-so bad," he pleaded, shaking his head when you wrapped an arm around his tummy to arch his back more.

you dropped his wrists for him to ball his hands into fists against the wall to stabilize himself. "okay, be a good and count for me, then." he looked confused at what you meant then yelped when your hand came down on his ass.

"GHK!" he shrieked when you smacked his ass again.

"i'm not hearing any numbers, slut," you tsked, slapping his ass again. it was blooming pink, a stark contrast to the pale white earlier.

you spanked him again, prompting a moan from him. "hNGH! o-one, mnghh..." he huffed, he looked back at you with his cheek smushed against the wall.

you continued to torment his ass until it was bright red, throbbing when you brushed your hand over it. "you learn your lesson yet, or should we do five more, hm?" you cooed, rubbing the fat of his ass soothingly.

"n-no more, hnggh...learned my lesson," he begged, tears filling his eyes.

you laughed under your breath at his desperation, giving him a break. "alright, alright. quit your whining, needy boy." you caressed his cheek, wiping a tear from his eye. "c'mere."

you took him off the wall, leading him over to the aluminum covered window. he stood there in confusion, wondering if his punishment was already over. "are you letting me go now?" he furrowed his brows.

you laughed at his assumption. if only he could see what he looked like right now. his pants and underwear pooled at his ankles, his ass blooming red with cum splattered on his shirt with his nipples poking out.

the way he looked back at you with a flushed expression and tears lining his waterline made your cock throb in your pants. "i'm not letting you go for a long time, slut," you shook your head, unzipping your pants.

francis' heart thumped out of his chest at the sight of your bulge. "i'm not so sure how sound-proof this window is..." you stated, cock springing free from your underwear. "so unless you want the security guard to hear how much of a slut you are. i suggest you keep it down."

"m-mkay, i'll do my best," he nodded with a cute little pout on his lips. he looked so serious, wanting to impress you so badly.

"good boy," you stroked at your cock, inching closer to francis. "spread yourself open for me, yeah?"

francis' hands gripped at his ass cheeks, revealing his throbbing, dripping hole. his cheek was pressed against the glass of the window, looking at you for approval.

you slowly entered him, the tightness of his entrance making you grit your teeth. "hooHNGH! o-oh my god...haah," his mouth hung open, drool dripping down his lips.

he's never felt anything like this, nestled so deeply in his ass. the way you stuffed him so easily, kissing his prostate upon entry, made his cock twitch with pleasure.

"fuck. such a tight little thing, aren'tcha?" you grunted with a chuckle, you cock completely disappearing within him. "took me so well though, hm?"

you quickened your pace, thrusting into him with more ease. "n-nghhh! y-you're hitting that spot a-aghhhNGH, again..! 's too big, mmfph!"

you shoved your fingers into his mouth to silence him, rubbing your fingers against his tongue. "haaaaghnn! feelsh sho g-good, ahhnn..." he muffled out, even with your fingers filling his throat.

"told you to keep quiet," you grit your teeth, feeling him tighten up. "bratty boy isn't listenin' to me again. want me to stop?" you threatened, pulling out.

"n-no! k-keep fuh-ghh...f-fucking me, please! d-don't pull out, mnngh!" he begged, shaking his head furiously.

your tip teased at his entrance before fucking into him furiously. it's not like you could resist indulging him, especially with the expression he was making. eye rolled back, tongue sticking out with tears and drool spilling out.

he looked like a common whore, humping against you like a bitch in heat. "ooGHHK! r-right there! f-fuck, 'm close, hngh!" he nodded mindlessly.

your grip on his waist was bruising, as your free hand rubbed the buds over his shirt. "o-ooh, oh! c-cumming, c-cumming 'gain, h-HNGHHK!"

cum spilled into francis' hole, filling him up generously. his own cock was covering in cum as it had stained the window along with his fingerprints.

your fingers fucked the cum that was spilling out back into his hole as francis twitched in your hold. "feelin' alright, tiger?" you cooed, feigning innocence as if you hadn't just breeded his tight, little hole and filled him with your seed.

"u-uh-huh. wan' more...?" he nodded in a dazed, rutting his ass against your fingers. he cupped his chest, flicking his nipple with his thumb. "'again, ngh?"

the smile on your face was pure evil. he looked so desperate for your cock, your fingers weren't cutting it for him anymore. "fuckin' hell..." you cursed, tugging your cum-covering fingers out.

"again," you smirked, thrusting into him roughly.

[imagine-darksiders]

Bowser x Reader drabble.

Set in the same universe as The Lovelorn King.

A few mentions of blood and injury. Self-image issues. Bowser is touch-starved. Reader has been Bowser's prisoner for a while. You show Bowser the barest thread of compassion and he becomes even more attached to you. Whoops.

-----------------------------------------------------

“What in the world happened to you?”

All the self-discipline in the world couldn’t have kept Bowser from nearly leaping right out of his scales at the sound of an unexpected voice breaching the hushed, placid peace of his castle’s library.

Overwrought muscles bunch and flex as the King heaves his sizeable bulk around and away from the doors he’d just skulked through, crimson eyes flashing open wide and darting to each shadowy corner in search of the voice’s owner.

This is the second time tonight that he’s been caught off guard.

He knows who this voice belongs to, of course. In fact, he knows it quite well. It’s been floating dreamily through his mind like a pleasant nepenthe for some time now. He just… hadn’t expected that you’d still be awake at this repugnant hour, let alone in the one room he thought he could sneak through without being spotted by anyone on the way to his royal chambers.

And yet here you are.

His wild-eyed gaze finds you easily, poised in the seat of an enormous armchair by the freshly-lit hearth with an open book resting daintily in your lap.

The moment he spots you, Bowser takes a clumsy step sideways, knocking his tail into a stack of books and sending them toppling to the floor in a flutter of dust and dog-eared pages. Righting himself, he barely remembers to whip a meaty hand up and slap it across the top of his head, tilting the palm so that his left horn is obscured from view.

“P-Princess!?” he blurts out, immediately wincing as his booming voice reverberates off the high, stone ceilings and echoes out through the library, loud enough to wake a Dry Bones.

Perhaps it says much that you only shut your eyes for a second as if pained by the volume before opening them again and blinking up at the King with an air of mild intrigue.

The embers crackling inside the hearth cast their orange warmth out into the nook, illuminating much of the nearby shelves that have been stacked to the rafters with some of Kamek’s spell books, Junior’s comics and an absolute avalanche of Bowser’s cherished romance novels.

Flickering flames chase shadows across your impassive features as you stare up at him, a lone eyebrow cocked like a weapon about to fire. “Bowser,” you greet him coolly in return, throwing a glance up at his conspicuous hand.

His stomach promptly drops, yet even still, even still, the King’s almighty heart soars on a swell of elation at the simple and unassuming fact that you’ve spoken to him....

He just wishes you hadn’t chosen this exact moment to break your vow of silence that you've been valiantly upholding for the better part of a week.

You’re not supposed to be here! Well, you are supposed to be here, in his Fortress – In fact, he’s taken a great many measures to ensure you have to stay here – but he certainly didn’t expect to find you in his library in the dead of night when you should be sound asleep in the chambers he gifted you. You definitely shouldn’t be awake and, worse still, looking at him.

Mind in a swirl, Bowser wonders if you’d already spotted what he’s hiding beneath his palm.

If he’d have just managed to avoid you until morning, he’d have found something inconspicuous to hide it… One of his top hats, perhaps. Or maybe he’d have combed his mane over in such a way as to hide the unsightly laceration that lances from a place beneath his hairline to the base of his horn, where it turns from an angry, red gouge to a dark, jagged crack, marring the inner curve of his once pristine and gleaming headgear.

He’d even polished them arduously earlier today, conscious to keep up his immaculate appearance whilst such a refined and comely lady stays in his Fortress.

Of course, he hadn’t at all expected that a rogue Treevil would be the one to catch him by surprise. A Treevil. That shuffling, twig-tossing lump of wood had the gall to launch an attack on Bowser when he was bending to wrench a fistful of flowers out of the soil, intent on presenting them to you as a gift in the morning.

The ‘twig’ it used as a club wasn’t so much a tiny piece of wood as it was a very unreasonably-sized log. It caught him squarely on the front of his skull, its hard, brittle edge landing a solid ‘thwack’ to his horn before he could even gather his wits to see what had hit him.

Of course, the Treevil now stands as little more than a smoking pile of charcoal in the centre of Dimble Wood, but it had left a blow in its own right, landed one straight down on the King’s pride as well as his body.

He’d hoped he could stay wholly undetected whilst he made his way back to his royal quarters, certain that a genius strategist like him could come up with some plan to conceal the embarrassing injury from all of his subjects, his guards, and yourself and Junior, first and foremost.

Well. So much for that plan.

“What- Uhh,” he flounders, desperate to direct your attention elsewhere, for a change, “What’re you still doin’ up?” It’s a legitimate concern. You should be in your bed where he left you, where it’s safe, and he knows where to find you. You must be exhausted to be up at this hour.

Unbeknownst to him, your mind is far more awake than he gives it credit for.

“I couldn’t sleep.” The half-lie falls so expertly off your tongue, the smitten King doesn’t have a chance of catching it.

You couldn’t sleep because you were busy making yet another escape attempt, using your time wisely by mapping out the fortress in the twilight hours when the koopa guards are at their drowsiest.

All for naught. Tonight, at least.

Ever since Bowser had ‘so graciously allowed’ you more freedom to roam around his domicile, there have been double the number of guards posted around every corner and in every doorway. This library in the West wing seems to be the only place they haven’t bothered to watch so heavily, perhaps because there are no windows or doors here that might lead to a potential exit.

After it became clear you wouldn’t be finding an escape route tonight, you sought a reprieve instead, bundling yourself away amongst the crowded bookshelves and dusty tomes to find some peace from the sleepy but vigilant guards.

Sod’s law then, that Bowser should turn up.

The King, for his part, has no idea what’s going through your mind nor that he’s done anything particularly wrong. Most of his attention has now shifted to the warm, creeping trickle of liquid he can feel break away from his scalp and ooze gently down past his eye, then on towards the curve of his cheek.

The soft thump of a book being closed wrenches him back into the moment.

Owlishly, he blinks down at you from the other side of the nook, private in his hopes that the firelight hasn’t yet reached him well enough to expose his secret.

You can’t see him like this; Marred. Flawed. He dreads to imagine what you’ll think if you spot his broken horn. You’ll probably think him weak. Unfit to take care of you.

So, when you rise gracefully to your slippered feet and lay the book down on the arm of your chair, he very nearly bolts for the other side of the library. But then the silken nightgown you’d conceded to wear after much, much protest on your part is pooling towards the ground and swishing around your ankles, each fold catching in the fire’s glow like the ripples of a curtain in the morning sun, and suddenly Bowser can’t think of escaping so much as he has to concentrate on not staring.

A padded footstep in his direction has him taking one long stride of his own in retreat, maintaining the distance you’d just tried to erase. Perhaps you recognise how… unusual it is for the King to be widening the gap because in the next second, you come to a temporary standstill, blinking up at the Koopa in surprise.

“Bowser,” you say, quiet but stern, gradually stitching your brows together into a hard line and taking another step in his direction, “You’re bleeding.”

He supposes it was too much to hope for...

The horror of being seen wars valiantly with his delight in seeing you, at having even an iota of your attention, even if it’s scornful or sad or… whatever this is.

So often, a melancholy will take you, and you’ll shut yourself away in your chambers, refusing to say a single word to him. Kamek was the one who had to tell him that you’d come around, if given enough time. You’d just been whisked away to an entirely new life without warning, after all. Far from home, far from the shores of your distant kingdom. Of course there’d be an adjustment period…

Slapping a toothy grin onto his snout, Bowser continues inching backwards whilst you glide towards him, picking up speed with every step, your eyes glued to the hand covering his blemish from sight.

“Bleedin’?” he echoes, shrugging one massive shoulder nonchalantly, “What’re you talkin’ about, I’m… I’m, uhhh…”

It isn’t often the King of all Koopas feels his courage falter. But right then, Bowser’s spiked shell hits the solid library doors, stopping him rather effectively in his tracks. Which leaves you with more than enough time to close in and come to a halt right in front of him, your head tilted all the way back to squint up at the underside of his chin.

Gulping down at steadying breath, Bowser finds himself entranced as one of your hands creeps up towards his raised arm. At once, the behemoth freezes, watching, waiting with his heart wedged in his throat to see what you’ll do next.

And in turn, you seem to hesitate as well, fingers poised just a few inches shy of making contact with his scales. There’s a contemplative frown deepening the lines on your face, as though you’re putting some serious thought into what you’re about to do.

By now, Bowser would wholly expect you to retract your arm and turn from him, skulking back out of the doors.

But instead, to his astonishment – and a Hell of a lot of your own – you knit your expression together resolutely and breach the gap between his arm and your fingertips.

The barest of pressures comes to rest upon the jutting bone of the King’s crooked elbow, hardly there at all.

So why does his body light up like a flare beneath your touch?

Synapses snap and pulse, nerve endings in his arm shoot signals up towards his brain and scurry back down to the elbow your fingers have alighted upon.

A touch… made willingly? And without any air of disgust or fear or ill-intent.

All the moisture dries up in Bowser’s mouth, leaving his tongue sitting thick and heavy as lead against the back of his fangs. His eyes are locked with rigid focus on your fingers, half hidden from view beyond the swell of his bicep.

He can’t even swallow, though he does feel the familiar bob of his gorge that calls for him to gulp.

‘What is she doing?’ is the first question that springs to his mind.

If it weren’t for the steady throb of pain in his skull, Bowser might be inclined to believe that he’s dreaming.

You’re initiating contact…

You’re initiating contact.

You’ve… never initiated contact before, no matter how many times Bowser has tried to encourage as much by nudging your hand with his or pushing his snout eagerly into your space, hoping for something tactile, a moment – just a glimpse – of something that he could mistake for returned affection. Just…

…Anything.

But this…?

This is definitely something.

Rendered speechless, Bowser doesn’t tear his eyes from the point of contact between your skin and his, half afraid that if he looks elsewhere, the moment will be gone, turning to nothing more than another sad, empty delusion he thinks of late at night.

Perhaps you’d disappear.

Perhaps you’re not even here at all, and this is simply a hallucination brought about by the knock that Treevil landed on his head.

“Bowser…”

But then, your voice is drifting up into his ears, soft and quiet and there. And the gentlest of pressures exerts itself on his elbow, pushing it down without force.

“Let me see…”

The King’s fingers instantly slacken their grasp on his mane, and despite his size, despite his indomitable strength and power and authority, he allows you to guide his arm down by the elbow, drawing his hand off the top of his head and exposing the dark, sticky trail of scarlet blood running over the plump of his cheek.

At last, his gaze moves to yours, and he watches, enraptured, whilst you give your tongue a chiding click, and your expression sheds whatever remaining steel it might have held were he not currently bleeding…

He waits...

For disgust, for the recoil, for the dip of your chin and squint of your eyes that signifies repulsion from his ugly new defect.... He waits for almost ten whole seconds - he knows because he counts each one in his head, just waiting to see how long it'll take before the inevitable blow.

“Hmm,” you murmur instead, no hint of a smirk haunting the edges of your mouth. Nothing more and nothing less is said.

Just... 'Hmm.'

Before he can respond, before he can even process your hum, you’ve withdrawn from the elbow of the arm that now flops uselessly at his side and stretch both hands up towards his head.

He’s taller than you. So much taller. Towering like a monolith over a tiny pebble.

And yet, with the breath caught inside his massive lungs, Bowser is helpless except to dip his enormous snout down to you as if riding on some old, unconscious instinct that tells him he should be the one deferring.

As it is, he’s barely stringing a coherent thought together, far too astonished and restless to see what you might do.

Is it still coming? Should he still be bracing himself? He could very easily shrug you off and prevent you from seeing any more than you already have but....

Gentle fingertips find him again, though the sensation of them is dulled this time; they’ve gingerly crested the very tips of his curved horns, wrapping around them and giving a small but effective tug.

When you use the same cautious leverage to tilt his head even further down, bringing his nose parallel with your stomach, Bowser’s tail promptly slumps flat to the carpet with a soft, heavy ‘thwump!’

‘Oh…’ flickers across his brain, and then, when nothing more eloquent comes to mind… ‘Stars.’

Mouth hanging slightly ajar, he lets his eyes travel up the length of your neck to settle on your face.

He hardly dares breathe lest even one tiny inhale proves to be a movement that frightens you away from doing… whatever it is you’re doing to him right now.

Your eyes don’t meet the King’s, though you’re aware that he’s staring. You suppose you can give him that.

“Huh,” you utter through pursed lips, following the trail of blood with your thumb up from his cheek towards his fiery hairline, stopping just short of touching the edge of a fresh, seeping laceration.

Bowser's scales grow noticeably hotter beneath your fingertips, so, quirking one side of your mouth into a wan smile, you finally drop your attention to his wide, bewildered eyes.

“Let me guess. I should see the other guy, right?” you tease, shrugging a shoulder.

Bowser merely stares at you for several seconds too many, until at last, he manages a slow, dopey blink and murmurs, “Huh?"

You’ve had too much experience with concealing your emotions to allow your lips any elasticity. Your smile does not soften at the stunned expression on Bowser’s scaly face.

That said, you can’t deny that he’d almost be endearing… if he wasn’t the very reason you’re trapped in this wretched fortress against your will.

But personal feelings aside, you can’t very well let him stumble around the castle all bloodied and bruised. He might have a concussion! Or God forbid he wakes Junior up, and the poor boy has to witness his own father with a crack in his horn and a cut on his scalp.

Fathers are supposed to be invincible.

Junior is still too young to learn that they’re not.

Heaving a great sigh that carries with it more weariness from the late hour than frustration with your ‘host,’ you let go of his horns and step back, smothering a laugh when he tilts forwards, righting himself with a hurriedly placed foot and a startled look on his face.

“Come on then,” you say, swivelling about on a heel and beckoning for him to follow you towards the library doors, “There’s a sink in your bathroom, I presume?”

Dumbstruck at the sudden turnaround, Bowser gives his head a shake, stepping dutifully into step behind you. “Uh… sink?” he parrots, reaching up with a claw-tipped finger to trace the path your thumb had left over his cheek, his touch rough yet reverent.

“To clean up that mess,” you explain, waving a hand over your shoulder in his vague direction, the first sniff of exasperation clouding your tone.

But Bowser hardly notices it. In fact, he hardly notices anything at all, save for the beguiling human leading him across the library towards the West entrance.

All he can think about, all he can do consider, is the way your hands had felt against his toughened scales, like a balm to whatever ire had been lingering after his run-in with the Treevil.

Tiny callouses on your fingertips rubbed lightly, not harshly. Careful, not cruel. You hadn't balked at his sullied appearance nor shuddered when you touched him. You hadn't even shown any pleasure at his misfortune, though somewhere deep down past the layers of wilful ignorance and optimism, a small part of Bowser knows you don't particularly like him.

In the library, the firelight flickers, forgotten.

The warmth it casts into the room pales in comparison to the roaring flame bursting to life inside the King's almighty chest.

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 19

Kinktober Masterlist aegri somnia - “troubled dreams” TF141 x f!reader Kinks > sex-pollen, gangbang, semipublic, corruption Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

You’re at a costume party on Halloween night on base with your team. The whole gang is there, and they sample something …strange… from the bar. The only cure for their fever? You.

Warning: drugged sex, dubcon, sex-pollen style scene, anal, vaginal, face fucking, some ghoap.

You were a kitty cat. Past tense. Now, you looked like a chimney sweep. This Halloween party had gotten way out of hand. The heating was cranked up to ninth-circle-of-Hell temperatures, and everyone was dancing, sweating, and getting completely fucking sloshed. 

Your whiskers and nose had long been rubbed away, and you’d lost the cat ears somewhere between the upstairs toilet and the sandpit volleyball game that the boys had set up in the basement. Two months of deadtime in the Urzikstani Green Zone had been great for morale but shit for discipline. Price was gonna be so pissed when he saw how Soap had painted the TAC-V like a big pumpkin. 

“You alright, love?” Gaz slurred, stumbling a bit before resting his arm around your shoulder, half-in and half-out of his own Paddington Bear getup. He still had the red hat, but the blue jacket was tied around his waist, and the matching shorts looked like little more than boxer briefs. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Parched. What’s that?” You pointed to his hand, jealous that he had a cold beverage. 

“Mm,” he took a sip and handed you the cup, “I dunno. Soap was passin’ it around. Orange, mysterious, probably lethal.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you laughed, downing the last sip.

“Speak of the devil…” Gaz nodded over to the makeshift bar.

There, on top of two stacks of crates, stood Soap, pouring his orange concoction right into Simon Riley’s open mouth. Soap was dressed in a little red devil outfit, complete with pitchfork, and Ghost was… well, he was just himself. The skeleton mask did the trick, you supposed. 

You shook your head, laughing at them, and Soap looked up to see you there. 

“Oy! C’mere, bonnie. Got somethin’ special for ya.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” you grumbled, walking over to the bar with Gaz in tow.

Soap was crouched over in his tight red onesie, digging through an ice chest. He emerged with a wide, mischievous smile on his face and a bottle of eerie, murky liquid.

“Pinched this from Ale and Rudy when they were in last night. Probably that killer tequila he’s been on about. Didnae wanna try it by meself.”

He started to pour out four cups, and you turned your nose up at it,

“Oh, Jesus, Johnny. This smells like piss.”

“Quit your whingin’, lass. You’ve had worse things in your mouth,” he winked, downing his shot and wearing a twisted face of immediate regret.

“Suppose that’s right,” you shrugged, drinking down your own. 

It rushed through you like burning fire, and it made you feel like you’d been punched right in the jaw. 

“Holy fuck,” Simon coughed, “The hell is this, Johnny? Fuckin’ petrol?”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Gaz complained, trying to breathe slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

“Ach! C’mon, it’s not that bad,” Johnny protested, going back for a second dose.

Suddenly, a husky voice came out of the darkness behind the crates, 

“What’s all this then?”

“Oh, hey, Cap’n,” Johnny tried to look normal. He failed, but at least he tried.

Price rolled his eyes, but he held out his cup and held it out to the sergeant,

“Go on, then. Give us a taste.”

You watched as Price took two big gulps, your own stomach turning from the memory, and gaped in amazement as he mostly controlled his expression. Show off.

You were already sweaty, but this tequila made you feel like you were going to burn right up. You wanted to move. The music was deafening, and even though you didn’t know this song, you begged Gaz for a dance. 

“C’mon! Just one.”

“Alright, love. But, you know I can never have just one,” he twirled you around, making you feel even drunker than you were, and led you out into the warehouse where Ghost had rigged his huge boombox to make a dance floor.

Everyone was dancing. Time was moving at an insane rate. Fast and slow, dilating in and out, and you were like a shadow, letting it pass right through you, drunk and high and everything in between. 

Soap and Ghost joined you, and Price watched on from the edge, smoking and looking a little red around his eyes. 

Suddenly, Gaz’s hands were on your hips, pulling you back into him, grinding you against his crotch.

“Hey,” you turned over your shoulder, “What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’, babes. Just dancin’. That alright?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, 

“Yeah, I guess so. Feels like this tequila went right to my head.”

“This fat arse is goin’ right to mine,” he said, staring down at your butt, squeezing it roughly.

You felt his cock through his shorts as he danced with you, rubbing himself against your leotard and fishnet combination, chasing his own high. 

Soap joined you, dancing in front of you, lacing his legs between yours, dancing even closer to you than Gaz. He looped one arm around your neck, and he threaded the other around your waist, moving his hips in time with the beat, drinking another cupful of tequila when he got the chance. 

Ghost was behind him, and he began peeling off the lycra onesie, revealing Soap’s broad chest to you, rubbing him down with his hands, playing with his nipples in front of the entire base.

Had you been in your right mind, you would’ve balked at such behavior. But, for some reason, it felt right. You wanted to touch him, too. So, you did. 

You reached out in front of you and ran your hands down his belly, lowering the zipper even further, feeling his heated skin.

“Mmf-fuck,” Ghost moaned, “Tha’s hot.”

Soap seemed to agree, his arching erection obvious through the thin, red outfit. 

Gaz’s hands moved from your ass to your tits, squeezing them as he pulled your body against him, thrusting himself against you to the rhythm of the drum and bass, letting you feel his incredible length across your backside. 

“Look at these, mate,” Gaz cooed in your ear, talking to the other boys, massaging your breasts and pulling at the fabric of your leotard until it almost let your heavy tits fall out. 

“Gaz… what’s…” You tried to clear your mind, “What’s gotten into you lads?”

Your lieutenant leaned forward across Soap’s shoulder and kissed you through his balaclava, moving his mouth into yours, letting you feel the outline of his full lips. You tried to kiss him back, using your hands to flip up the edge of his mask, finding his chin and cheek, moving over so you could taste him properly. 

He was full of that dark tequila, and a hint of his menthols, musky and manly in the most enticing way. When he pulled away, he went immediately to Soap’s neck, sucking on his flesh and making him moan aloud in the middle of the dance floor. 

Suddenly, a large, strong hand gripped your face and turned you towards him, kissing you full on the mouth. His beard and mustache were the only giveaways that it was your captain, feeding you his tongue and choking you with it greedily. 

What was happening? This was insane. Something was wrong. What was in that drink?

“Cap,” you whispered when he allowed you space for a breath, “What’s happening?”

“Need you, love. Need you right fuckin’ now.”

Gaz’s hands reached into your leotard, around your cotton cat tail, and tugged at the gusset. The button snaps popped, revealing your ass, covered only in fishnets. He dug his fingers into the large holes of the fishnet leggings and pulled, ripping them apart, making room for his fingers to sink themselves into your dripping hole. 

You fell forward, grabbing onto Johnny’s shoulders, loving the way Gaz’s hand felt as he moved it inside of you, each finger was like its own challenge, delving into you and reaching for your soft spots.

“Fuck, she’s wet,” Gaz revealed, and you felt your cheeks warm with shame.

Soap smiled down at you, reaching between your legs on his own accord,

“Oh? Is that so, bonnie girl?”

He touched you right beside Gaz, both of their hands vying for position, sometimes shoving their fingers into you at the same time As Gaz would pull away, Soap would bully his knuckles forward, swiping up into you like a greedy thief, reaching for more of your silky wetness. Then, Gaz would return, playing at your clit and then feeding two of his fingers inside of you again, stretching you to make room for both his and Johnny’s eager hands, not caring who was there first or whether or not you were enjoying yourself. 

You were enjoying yourself. But, that was beside the point. Weren’t you at a party? What were you doing before this? There were other people around, right?

But, they suddenly didn’t matter. Price tugged down your shoulder strap to reveal your breast. He marveled at the puffy nipple, pebbled and waiting for his mouth. He bent and began to suckle from you, feeding his other hand across your chest, groping you under the fabric of your outfit as he pulled you into his mouth.

Johnny’s ragged moan cut through the fog of your pleasure, and you looked up at him. He was nearly naked, his devil horns the only thing left from the waist up, and Ghost was kneeling behind him, his mask pushed up, eating his sergeant’s asshole and spreading his cheeks apart cruelly. 

You reached down to feel Soap’s cock, and it was leaking through the fabric, barely concealed anymore by the costume. You pulled him free, jerking him off, smearing his glossy precome all over his pulsing, pink head. 

Price grew tired of your clothing, and he began to rip your costume away from you. Gaz helped him, pulling and tugging and tearing at the fabric. You were left in your fishnets and heels, stumbling between the men surrounding you, feeling the tequila worm its way into your core, stirring your body and making you yearn to be fucked by their heavy pricks. 

Gaz was the first to press himself into you. You were shoved forward, your face smashed into Johnny’s furry belly, his sweat painting your cheek, and Gaz held you in place. He gripped your hips with a painful clutch of his hands, and he swiped his dick through your lips, back and forth, coating himself in your wet warmth. Then, that familiar, aching stretch, and he was inside of you, humping his cock into you deeper and deeper, filling the empty space within your core. 

“Holy fuck,” Price purred, grabbing you by your hair at the nape of your neck.

He pulled you toward him, his fat prick in his hands, and fed himself into your mouth, shoving your head down onto his shaft, choking you with his girth. 

Soap pulled you from him, giving you the same treatment, and you could taste the salty precome that he was leaking with, using the momentum of Gaz fucking you to find a rhythm with your mouth. 

They took turns using you, moving you back and forth, fucking your throat until it burned, pushing you further and further down until your nose was buried in their dense curls, tickling you with the matted fur at the root of their cocks. All you could do was swallow and try to breathe, but it was little use. You were drooling all over them, unable to control your body and its desperate attempt to prepare you for their huge pricks. 

Gaz had ripped an orgasm from you twice, making you scream around the base of Price’s cock, shoving his thumb into your twitching, tight asshole as his cock ruined your pussy. He was well and truly gone, at this point. His grunting was like that of a beast, and you could feel the sweat dripping off of him and onto your back. 

Ghost grew tired of tasting Johnny’s asshole, and now he was fucking him in shallow, huffing thrusts. Every time he would push himself further into his hole, Johnny would leak a little more, his come running down his shaft like sap from a huge trunk, sticky and sweet and endless. 

You were in the middle of tasting Johnny’s dripping head when you felt Gaz bottom out inside of you. Then, he shouted out a long, whining, rumble as he pumped you full of his come. You felt it spilling out of him, pouring into your cunt, spraying rope after rope of his seed into your walls, soaking your hole, desperate to seep into your womb.

Price all but shouldered Gaz out of the way, manhandling your body until you were wrapped in his arms, your legs slung over each giant bicep, and you were being lowered onto his impossible phallus. 

“I… I can’t…” You protested, unsure of whether or not you would survive whatever your captain had to give you.

“You will,” he purred darkly, his voice demonic in its timbre, “Oh, baby, you will.”

He slipped his head into your hole, but that was all that slipped. Everything else was an uphill battle. You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to take some of the weight off of your core, but it was no use, he was using his heavy hands to pull you down onto him, squeezing himself inside inch by agonizing inch. You said a prayer of thanks to whatever sick gods were watching your debasement that he was not as long as Kyle.

You hissed in a breath when he reached a new level of thickness that your body had never experienced before.

“Shh, shh,” he cooed in your ear, “Be a good girl, love. Relax for me.”

His hands readjusted, moving lower to pull your cheeks apart, and he used his middle finger to dip into your asshole, playing in Gaz’s dripping come, swirling it around the puckered rim, teasing you by prodding you with shallow thrusts of his finger.

It was enough to distract you from what he was doing to your poor pussy, and he shoved himself in to the base, shocking you enough that your blood ran cold. You held your breath, unable to even cry out. It was as if you were a machine that had been unplugged. You were gone. Your captain had fucked your mind right out of your head. 

“That’s it. There she is,” he smiled sinisterly, pumping himself in and out, using your own weight to fuck you on his heavy rod. 

Two, greedy hands reached around to grope your breasts, grabbing them roughly, pinching your nipples until you whimpered and squirmed. Johnny was behind you, being fucked hard by Ghost, teasing your heavy breasts and rubbing his cock against your ass. 

Price’s hands were in the way, but when he felt Johnny’s cock, he positioned you so that his sergeant could reach. Then, you felt Johnny’s slick cockhead writhe its way inside the very brink of your asshole. He was so close to coming, it didn’t take much depth to take him there. As Simon fucked him, he thrust himself up into you, stretching your hole, unable to fit inside as deep as he would’ve liked with Price in the way. There was just no room. 

Johnny came in you messily and with total abandon. He bit down on your shoulder, keening and groaning, spending himself inside your asshole and letting it drool out of you as he left you there, warring with Price and his weapon.

Ghost let Johnny sink to the floor, and he took his place behind you. He was as tall as the captain, and his cock was almost as large, but there was no gentle rubbing like what Johnny had given you. Simon spread you wide, making you cry out from the way you were being spread apart, your cunt desperately clenching around Price, trying to find a way to hold onto something, anything. Then, he fed his cock inside your asshole, wet already from Johnny’s greedy core, shoving and pushing and squeezing his way beside Price, not taking any sort of laws of physics too seriously.

He began to kiss your neck, staying perfectly still and buried in you to the hilt, letting Price do all the work. The captain kissed you on the other side, biting you and leaving huge red marks where his teeth were too mean on your tender flesh. 

“Too fuckin’ tight,” Ghost complained, moaning into your skin.

“Knew she could take it,” Price smiled, kissing your slack mouth.

“Needy slag,” your lieutenant growled, leaving marks of his own all across your throat. 

He was playing with your tits, pinching your nipples between his forefinger and thumb, holding them up and out, making you feel like you were trapped in his hands. Then, he would knead them, feeling the weighty softness, enjoying your vulnerability, revelling in your corruption. 

Price’s thick cock was moving you both, shoving and bullying Simon’s dick through the thin flesh between your holes, making his masked officer harden like a stone inside of you. 

“M’gonna come in you,” Ghost promised, whispering against your earlobe, sucking it into his mouth. 

You could only cry out, your brain too fuck-drunk to make any words. Sluts didn’t need words. They just needed to come hard and clench their tight little holes around these two, huge cocks. You were nothing more than a hole to be filled. 

Simon thrust in opposite motions from Price, moving himself through your asshole at an absurd speed, fucking you into a shuddering orgasm, and blowing his load deep inside your belly. You could feel its creamy warmth, and as he pulled out of you, you felt it drip from your gaping hole, mixing with Johnny’s fallen seed on the floor. 

Price was still pounding away, brute that he was. Now that he was alone, he lay you on the crate beside him and held your knees open wide, splaying your thighs apart and staring at his cock as it thrust through your folds. 

You were moaning like a paid whore, coming in waves, your whole body feeling the effects of your pleasure, full of come and hungry for more. 

Suddenly, the music kicked off with a thud and you heard laughter coming from across the room.

“Déjame adivinar…” Alejandro’s rude tone came through loud and clear, “You filthy perritos got into my Damiana, verdad?”

Rudy reached behind the crates that Gaz and Soap were leaning against, panting, sweating, and covered in come. Then, he pulled out the bottle, half-empty. He let out a low, pitying whistle, watching as Price buried himself in you with loud, wet slapping noises filling the room, 

“No mames, güey,” he shook his head, showing Alejandro the bottle, “Mira. They’ll be hard until next week.”

“Mierda!” Alejandro cursed your group, all worn out in your pitiful states, “This was expensive stuff. I had it made by a bruja! Extra strong. You owe me, pendejos.”

Their crackling laughter made your head spin, and as you listened to the pounding of flesh on flesh, you knew you were in for a long fucking night.

Hope you enjoyed this year's Kinktober adventure! Thanks for sticking around. Happy Halloween, everyone!

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving me a like or a comment to let me know. As always, reblogs are deeply appreciated. Want more from me? Check my AO3 profile. I have over 100 COD fics! (I know, crazy.) Discord: @californicationist