#i am slowly adjusting my life to work less

[gar-a-ash]

I go on about how clingy Tassie is but since I've been home with my second round of Covid Reese's attitude has drastically improved, he's more relaxed, and he's been glued to my side. Going to suck when I have to go back to work again. :/

[submalevolentgrace]

Hi! I'm very interested in attempting to write a disabled character (not for this blog, I assure, for an book I'm writing) in which the story doesn't fetishize/objectify her prosthetic limb. I'm in many writing circles and have been for a long while, but I've never seen this issue brought to light which I realise is a very important one. I have much to change in my thought process, and thank you for bringing this issue to attention.

I'm curious, and I apologise if this has been asked before, but what sort of design could you see for a functional prosthetic that doesn't go for a plainly aesthetic appearance, or is soully to please others? I do note that you said prosthetics are generally... not that helpful. So is there a way that it could be? Or do you think it would always generally be better to not use a prosthetic, as its mostly for aesthetic purposes, as you said?

I apologise if this ask is too outright or anything, and I don't mean to intrude. Thank you for your time and have a beautiful day!

okay, i want to answer this as in depth as possible, because whenever i talk about having a prosthesis, someone will always tag some variation of "#writing reference" and i do wonder what message they're taking away, and i want to get as much of my experience out as possible to maybe help shape how this is all portrayed in the future. and yeah… this is gonna be one of those rambly smg posts that the expand feature was invented for, so i'll start with the very abridged TL;DR:

if you're writing a character with an upper limb prosthesis; don't. arm amputees are unicorn level rare even compared to leg amputees, and i've never interacted with or even heard of an upper limb amputee that regularly uses a prosthesis, let alone relies on one. fiction has lied to you for the sake of cool aesthetics, don't repeat the cycle. more in depth writing advice including nuance and "but i waaaant to" will follow.

that said, grab your donning parachute and let's get started...

context for everyone involved: i am an upper limb amputee that rants a lot about how prostheses suck, i lost my right hand roughly five years ago at roughly the age of 30 after a very rough decline in health… it was pretty rough. this question is being asked in the context of a previous rant post of mine, and i checked that the ask is about an upper limb prosthesis in particular.

the situation regarding the usefulness of lower limb prostheses is totally different; i am definitely no expert, but by all accounts, prosthetic legs are incredibly useful for many people. getting a good leg can be absolutely life changing and more or less necessary for day to day life for some; mostly because infrastructure and society is just so fucking hostile to wheelchair users. being able to walk - at the cost of pressure sores and rashes and increased residual limb pain - is a preferable option to many people than being unable to fit through a doorway or in a bathroom stall or find out that the key to unlock the only elevator is in the admin office up three flights of stairs (true story).

but upper limb prostheses… see, the thing is, hands are incredibly complex organs that rely on a lot of immediate haptic feedback to work at all. hand dexterity is all about control, you need fine granular movements of the digits yes, but you also need the subtle sensations of pressure and proprioception in order to adjust your movements on the fly. i speak from experience, in the years leading up to the full loss of my hand, i was slowly losing function of it, usually swinging between numbness that made it clumsy at best, or screaming overstimulation from moving it at all resulting in unpredictable spasms… and let me tell you, a half working hand is infuriating to try and deal with. you can never know if you have a good grip on something or if it's slipping because of the wrong amount of pressure, and there's only so many smashed bottles of pickles on the floor before you give up using it all together… so amputation wasn't a great loss there, i had time to adapt.

a prosthetic hand of any kind has all of those issues and more. they're heavy and bulky, the cosmetic faux fingers or gripping claw have crude movement at best, and there's zero feedback (put a pin in this). 100% of the time you're using a prosthetic hand you have to keep your eyes on the grip and visually guesstimate whether or not the thing you're carrying is held tight enough but not too tight, that is if your "heavy duty" prosthesis can even support the weight without the servos disengaging or the wrist attachment socket just busting loose. i dropped a whippersnipper on my foot last week when my socket couldn't take the weight and i think that was the final straw in me desperately trying to prove to myself that there is a single task my prosthesis actually helps with.

this is usually where fully two handed people start talking about bleeding edge DARPA tech, and how we just need to invest more,research more, develop more. better tech, more tech, neural integration, more more more. okay i promise the writing advice is coming! for starters on tech, my experience is already with a mid-to-high end ottobock terminal device: i've got a myoelectric nerve-signal operated proportional control heavy duty greifer; about the only upgrade left for me to get would be a rotating wrist joint if i could coflex. it's not military, it's not "rockclimber that owns a prosthetic company", but it's quality tech. it still fucking sucks. secondly, that high level military tech exists primary for PR purposes so they can say they treat their discarded casualties well, "we can rebuild him, we have the technology" style. every war vet i've read about or heard from that's been gifted that high level tech also abandons it for the same reasons; it's imprecise, there's no feedback (or the haptic interface has to be fully recalibrated every time they put it on), but mostly they're more capable without one.

okay, the transhumanist ableds say (i should know, i used to be one), what if we did more ~research and development~ and got that neural feedback working? then we could have fireproof superhumanly strong robot arms to fix up everyone! here's where i take out that pin we put up before and i tell you that a class of prosthetic arms/hands already exists that has perfect proportional control, fine motor control, and physics perfect pressure feedback piped directly into the patients' existing sensory systems! they're called body-powered prostheses, and they were invented in like the 1600s. you strap a whole bunch of stuff to your arm and shoulders shoulders, and control the operation of the terminal device and elbow through cable tension by flexing your shoulders. they do take a considerable amount of training to operate - though hell i spent 18 months training to use my myo - but based on everything i've read, body-powered prostheses are the best option if you're an upper limb amputee and absolutely need a second hand for some reason.

but they don't look cool and futuristic, and according to my prosthetist, most people give up on using them too. we all give up on our prostheses, no matter the type. my rehab OT was impressed i lasted the 18 months of my training. towards the end, they even asked if the clinic director could drop in to one of my sessions to see my progress; he expressed genuine amazement at me casually using my bulky robot claw to use a brush and dustpan, and made an offhanded (hah) comment about what someone can achieve "if they stick it out to the end", implying it was somewhat of a rarity for me to have done so. several years on, and yesterday i wedged the dustpan between my ankles to sweep up into it, awkward but exponentially less effort than putting my dusty robot arm on. which, by the way, is a whole thing. look up some videos, they're all awful to don. i don't actually know the official technical name of what my clinic calls a "parachute" but it's a bitch to use! have you ever tried to pull back with your arm whilst also pushing it forwards at the same time, and simultaneously lean in to and away from an external force pulling on you? that's how you get a myo socket on.

bare with me, i promise writing advice is coming, and i promise it's more than the tl;dr. but. remember when i said a half working hand is infuriating to deal with? any prosthesis, from fancy myo tech to pirate-era body powered, will only ever be half as good as a working hand, and being juuuust within capability to do something but not quite able to is maddening! but you know what works way better than a half working hand? no hand at all. using whatever residual/vestigial limb you have - whatever "stump" you have, i hate that word - is pretty much always better than trying to use a prosthesis. i can use the inside of my elbow to grip and carry things, i can use the nub of my arm to apply pressure to hold things, open doors, use a computer mouse, turn on taps and lights, if i put a glove over it i can use it to prep for cooking. i have full proprioception and pressure feedback with skin contact, i don't think i've ever dropped and broken anything from my elbow, unlike countless things slipped from my greifer - which, by the way, absolutely will start clenching as tight as it can if i get even slightly too sweaty around the electrodes, which has both broken things i'm holding and also injured me, because surprise surprise but servo operated robot claws have pinch points on them right near the "emergency disengage" lever for some reason!

but i am exponentially more capable without it on than with it. no, i'm not fully independent, i rely on housemates and loved ones to help me out with some tasks that simply just need two handed dexterity, but none of those tasks are things a prosthesis makes me able to do anyway. i used to imagine my prosthesis would be like a bra; a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but i'd wear it throughout the day because it's helpful and take it off in the evening to decompress. in reality it's actually exactly like a bra: an absolute bitch to put on one handed, unbearably uncomfortable because it never sits right, ugly af unless you're a millionaire, and absolutely useless except for the fact that i get gawked at and judged by strangers if i leave the house without it on.

and if you really want to discover how far "no hand is better than a half working hand" goes, brace yourself, and look up the patient's stories (not medical system stories) of people that have had hand transplants. the first man to receive one hated it, he was promised a return to normal function, and what he got was a nightmare worse than being one handed; he wanted it removed again but the doctors refused because it would undermine their grand achievement of the first hand transplant. the doctors and society wanted him to be fixed, they wanted him to be normal, they wanted him to be abled. they failed. they made him less able to do things, denied his autonomy, and left him with someone else's hand slowly rotting on him, prioritising the idea of "scientific progress" and "two hands good" over the physical health, mental health, and ability to function of this man.

he's not alone; every story from the patients' perspective about hand transplants that i've read goes this way, including a woman who was born quad limb different and was promised hands would improve her life, pressured into a double hand transplant, only to find herself after the surgery essentially experiencing disability for the first time ever, because she had lived her whole life getting by just fine with her 'underdeveloped' limbs, but half working hands are worse than useless. you can try to find these stories yourself, but i'm not going looking for sources on any of these cases, because if you look back through enough of my posts you'll get a glimpse of the horrors and abuses that i too was put through by doctors who prioritised trying to "fix" me at any cost, rather than providing me the best quality of life, and in turn traumatised me and left me more broken than any loss of limb on its own could. dear goddess, i promise the writing advice is coming.

so. why do upper limb prostheses exist at all? if they're so terrible and useless, what is their function? i want to borrow something someone else left in the tags of a previous rant here, from someone who i believe works in prosthetics and/or rehab, cleaned up and anonymised at their request:

"upper limb functions are wildly more complex than: 1) bear weight static, and 2) bear weight moving. but every single upper limb amputee i know has a fancy expensive prosthetic just gathering dust in the closet because there is literally nothing it can do like a few years of adjustment and if needed non-dominant hand retraining can't do. the existence of forquarter prosthetics to begin with is just kind of silly and useless and entirely to make OTHER people feel comfortable, especially considering they universally are UNcomfortable for the amputee. i hate the notion that as soon as you get the amputation the prosthetic is The Thing That Will Fix You And Make You Feel Normal again because it universally isn't! but every forequarter person i know had like this ideal of Being Fixed By Magic Prosthetic that they were then obviously wildly disappointed by and had to do yet another grieving process with, versus if the dominant narrative were just one of: yeah. it'll take time, there is no magic fix."

and i think that really nails down what the actual purpose of upper limb prostheses is: they're not for the user, they're for the sake of other people. and not just their comfort when looking at our bodies, although based on the pressure for both amputees and people born limb different to get functionless cosmetic plastic hands, there is a lot of that. but it's not just that.

i fully believe that the reason prosthetic hands exists is to comfort the fears of the two handed. "don't worry", they say, "we can fix you again. you don't have to fear becoming Disabled, you don't have to worry about adapting or your life changing. we can make you Normal™ again."

you would not believe the number of people that have approached me to shower me with pity, to tell me how horrific my life is, how they can't imagine it. people have told me, apropos of nothing, that they'd kill themselves if they lost a hand. indirectly, that my life isn't worth living. unless, of course, i happen to be wearing my cool as fuck looking robot prosthesis! then they tell me how wonderful it is, how lucky i am, how glad they are that we have the technology to fix me. that's what a prosthetic hand says, what all the happy fishing photos on limbs4life posters at the rehab clinic say: don't worry, we can fix you. that's what the bleeding edge DARPA flexi-whatever fully articulated neuro-feedback hands say: don't worry if you get IED'd while hunting civilians for us to drone bomb, if you get hurt, we will fix you, we will fix the fuck out of you, we will motherfucking adam jensen you into a cool as fuck cyborg that your son will idolise; come on boys, don't you wanna enlist just for the chance at being as cool as this? join the bomb squad for a ticket to the upgrade lottery.

and so we arrive at fiction. as much as his dialogue options protest, adam jensen loves his robot arms, they punch through walls, turn into fucking swords! they make him the most special man in the world. what would he do without them? learn to cope? grieve? practice acceptance? take up poetry? just, be disabled? there's no power fantasy for ableds in that.

in fact, can you think of a single fictional character that's an upper limb amputee that's, well, just an amputee? they all have robot arms. not realistic prostheses, not medical devices; robot arms. sleek or bulky, top of the line or broken down self built, steampunk or nanomachines or magitech automail; they're never without them. never just an amputee. never born limb different either! there's always that element of tragedy to overcome, always suffering and misery porn, always focus on the pain and the helplessness without the absolutely vital robot arm that makes them Normal and Whole. the closest amputee example i can think of is furiosa from mad max, who iirc fucking punches max in the face with her residual limb like a motherfucking badass! i can barely lean on mine wrong and she punches a guy! but she still apparently needs a dieselpunk robot hand to drive a truck, something you can do one handed so easily most drivers don't even notice they're doing it! please don't, by the way

and so many disabled fans love to point to robot armed characters as disability representation; the winter soldier, luke skywalker, edward elric, misty knight, that genderswapped furry girl from ratchet and clank, jet cowboybebop, finn the human, and yes, adam jensen…. these are all characters that someone disabled i know has told me they love because they "represent disabled bodies"…. and i know nobody wants to hear this, because i've been screamed at for saying it before, but… they do not. they are not disabled, functionally or within fiction. they are either perfectly able bodied Normal people with chrome paint on an arm, or tortured misery porn we are supposed to pity and feel lucky we're not them. sometimes both!

also you ever notice how it's basically always arms? lower limb amputations are orders of magnitude more common than upper, my prosthetist said i was probably only the 4th or 5th upper limb she'd worked with in her career, with literally hundreds of lower limb fits. but fiction doesn't seem to reflect that, huh? or any other part of the reality of disability. it's always cool as fuck robot arms, never cool as fuck wheelchairs or crutches or dialysis machines or colostomy bags. a fair few "i was blind but now i can see with Robot Eyes and also infrared and xray" around, which again, plays into that "we can fix you and make you cooler" propaganda.

by the way, up above when i was describing body powered arms, if you wondered to yourself why i went with a myoelectric one instead when i clearly believe body powered is better… yeah. i am not immune to propaganda! i too wanted to be cool as fuck. i spent years with deteriorating function in my hand for reasons that are still unknown, was misdiagnosed and medically neglected to the point that removing my hand seemed to be the only option left to offer some relief, and even that was a clusterfuck that left me worse than ever… of course i wanted to believe in the power and prestige of a cool robot arm that fiction promised me.

but fiction promises fantastical lies. and so.

we get to the writing advice portion of the novella that is this post. you asked for advice on how to write a disabled character with an upper limb prosthesis. you've read the tl;dr, you've read everything above i assume, you know i don't want you to do it. the obvious twist is that it's been writing advice all along, me trying to share my perspective on what it's like being an amp with a robot arm and how shitty it is, implying how almost any fully realised and realistic character that's missing an upper limb would give up on a prosthesis at all. you can already tell that every value judgement in me says "don't give her a prosthesis, no matter how functional or cool you make it. don't try to make the tech better to justify it, just let her be one armed, one handed. just let her be disabled, but not helpless. let her show off her elbow or underarm carry strength. let her love interest appreciate how soft and squishy her residual limb is in a moment of tenderness. let her natural disabled body be respected and valued."

but that's a personal value judgement from me, and you are the author of your own work. i know it's trite to say, but you are! even the act of deferring to someone with lived experience in the hope of doing a better job at representation is a value judgement, a good choice in my opinion, but one you needn't necessarily take. maybe you do want to write a character that has a cool as fuck unrealistic robot arm as a power fantasy, or a comfort blanket… i did.

i've been slowly writing my own probably terrible scifi epic for over a decade now, and when my arm was giving me hell back then, i'd take great comfort in this fantasy of my protagonist with her chunky robot arm, the terrible traumatic suffering of her loss, overcoming, the power and ability her advanced prosthesis gives her over others, that she alone has access to, because others are not willing to make the sacrifices required. inspiration porn. awful stuff to me now, but empowering to me then. as i grew and gained direct experience, i slowly reimagined her, rewrote her, ship of theseus'd her into an entirely new character; a reflection of me now, bitter at the whole thing, spiteful that her natural flesh arm evokes fear and distrust, but unwilling to suffer the pain and frustration of her unnatural prosthesis just to make others comfortable and respect her as "whole", however artificial that whole is. and as with the ship of theseus being two ships, once i realised the transformation, i re-added the old protagonist back in whole cloth as a separate character; proud of her robot arm and its power, but in new context, as a foil and antagonist, an in-universe military prosthesis propaganda figure to reflect how i now feel characters like her exist to us, the readers.

i'm not just sharing that as egotistical self promotion, but to highlight that, even if i sit here begging you all up and down not to write characters with robot arms for how bad and unrealistic they are; there's still something genuine and true that their inclusion can say. the great thing about the story that you're writing is that only you can write it, as they say. but i whole heartedly believe that to write to your best, you have to be aware of what you're writing and why. as tempting as it is to feel these characters form naturally in us and therefore we're averse to changing traits about them that feel organic and self evident; as authors we have omnipotent control over the text, every trait and detail is a reflection on us, so we'd sure as hell better understand why we're choosing to write a character with this trait. because anything you write without being aware of intent will take on its own meaning in the space between.

and on that note, if i don't say this, i'm leaving it to be inferred: i definitely don't want to appear to come down on the side of saying "you cannot write an amputee unless you are one", because we are rarer than single young bisexual unicorns! and it would be a tragedy if anyone read through all this and then turned away in fear, deciding to never write an amputee character (with or without robot arm) because they feel they can't do it justice… believe me, no matter what anyone says, some hack writer somewhere is going to keep writing adam jensens and winter soldiers. don't let them be the only voices in fiction! just try to do your best.

so my ultimate advice on the topic of writing a character with a prosthetic limb is to ask yourself one question in two different frameworks, and meditate on what you feel the answer is:

why does she have a prosthesis?

from a doylelist perspective as the kids say, as an author with omnipotent control, why are you choosing to write about this topic? why are you choosing to give this trait to this character? what does it say about how you view ability and disability, what makes a person normal, and what our society values? will you let her be in her natural body? or will you give her a prosthesis, force her to wear it by authorial fiat, or author her a meaningful reason to choose to? if yes, be sure you know; why did you give her a prosthesis?

and from a wastonian perspective, diegetically, inside the story, why does she choose to wear a prosthesis? what does it say about her inner character, and how she interacts with the world? how does she feel about doing it, is she prideful and loves the attention she gets, or does she resent whatever necessitates its use? how do people in this world view ability and disability, what does this society value? and above all, whatever the answer to these questions, whether or not she uses a prosthesis or is badass without one, how does she deal with the eternal freezing cold that every amputee ever feels constantly in their residual limb and why does nobody make a heat pack that fits over a nub without drafty gaps???

i can't outright tell you how to write a good upper limb amputee, but if you at least know why you're writing one and for what purpose, you're on track to write the best character that you can. that's the best advice i can give… other than, like, this whole rambly mess.

and, as a reward for reading this far, please have a very blurry cryptid photo of my cat doing his old man sit:

[clandestineloki]

Cold Flower (NSFW)

A/N: My public apology for going dormant on Tumblr for nearly 5 months.

tw: jotun!loki dom!loki, sub!cottagegirl!reader, loki’s cock is big but his size kink is bigger, corruption kink, praise kink, manhandling but very cutely if i may say!!, unrealistically fast paced because loki is horny ) >:D

read it on ao3!!

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The grass tickles your ankles as you step through the bushes, careful not to step on any pretty flowers in your path.

Sunset is nearing, and you've only gotten so much as a few ferns. But you don't mind. The forest will bloom when it wants to, and even if you haven't collected any flowers for your work you're having a wonderful time looking around at all the birds and the deer and the butterflies and nature; just getting away from the busy life in the village is enough of a treat.

Stepping through a clear patch, you look around for any deer traps. What deer traps? The ones that have hidden nets that burst out from the ground like flytraps and scoop up any poor being that just happened to be there, leaving them trapped up in the air by a rope tied to a tree.

Now that you think of it, a clear patch in the middle of the forest means one thing: a deer trap has been set off already.

Right above where you stand.

Realizing the danger of being anywhere near a threatened or harmed deer, you’re ready to bolt out of the woods when you look up, and see a net that’s filled with leaves, branches, and stray grass reeds.

And dangling out of the net is a leg— a leg that looks less like a deer’s… and more of a person’s.

You gasp in horror. Someone’s caught in it!

Running around the tree, you find the rope suspending the trap buried in the ground. You rummage for your shears and hastily cut it, grabbing the rope to pull it down with your weight and let the trap sink to the ground slowly.

When it does, you run over, cutting away as much of the net as you can, digging through the leaves until you reach someone covered in an enormous fur cape.

You gingerly pull it back, and stare in awe.

It’s a man, with dark hair and sharp features, no doubt very handsome despite the scratches and cuts he’s sustained. The linen top he’s wearing is littered with twigs.

Softly, you brush away the twigs when you touch his wrist and freeze.

And quite literally, because his skin is as cold as ice.

Almost as if he were a corpse.

“Sir! Sir! Please wake up!”

When Prince Loki’s eyes open and adjust to the glare of the sun— and the silhouette blocking it out— his breath hitches.

Is this Valhalla? Am I… dead?

Surely, he must be. For above him kneels the most beautiful girl, almost shimmering in the golden light, it’s definite that you’re an angel.

“Hello? Sir? Can you hear me?”

An even lovelier voice for a radiant woman. He nods, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness!” You lean forward, brushing away twigs from his face and cloak. “I thought you had died! I hate those deer traps, they’re dangerous and they're so hard to see! It almost killed you! Are you alright?”

“Yes- Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

It’s as if he spoke without thinking, eager to hear more from your pretty lips. You catch your breath, kneeling back down, and he sits up to get a better look at the captivating face of his savior.

“How long have you been up there?”

Loki brushes his hand against his cheek. “I'm not quite sure- ah-”

He hisses when his fingers graze a wound on his temple, and he retracts his hand to find a few specks of scarlet.

“Probably not long, I'm still bleeding,” he shows you his hand, and you gasp.

“Oh, no,” you take a closer look at his face. “My house isn't far from here, I can help you clean up and get some rest. You must be exhausted. Are you alright with some porridge and biscuits? They're all I have the ingredients for and the farmers’ market is a bit far so I'm sorry if...”

Loki honestly can’t concentrate on what you're saying. He nods along, but he's rather focused on you.

As he tags along behind you as you retrace your steps to your home, Loki whispers a thanks to whatever Gods led him to be graced by your beauty in this moment, regardless of the circumstance. He had just been hunting for sport, unaware of the trap that had pulled him up into the tree so suddenly and rendered him unconscious.

Now, he's found something— no, someone— better; a much more rewarding, delicious little prey.

“I just realized I haven't introduced myself."

Loki looks up just as you say your name, timidly holding out your hand. He takes it after a moment.

“Loki,” he replies, once he finds it in himself to speak.

“Like the prince?"

He recoils a bit in surprise. “Yes- Yes, like the prince. Uh-"

“How are you feeling?" you ask, dabbing the cloth lightly against his wrist.

“They don't hurt if I don't move."

“Okay. Let me know if it does.”

Loki nods, watching you silently tend to his wounds, before he hisses softly.

You flinch, pulling away. “Oh, I'm sorry-"

“You really don't know who I am?” Loki asks.

A second passes as you look down at him, brows furrowing as you sit down next to him on your bed.

“I can't recall. Sorry, have you ordered flowers from me before?"

“You run a flower shop?”

“Yes, that's why I was in the woods. I was looking for fresh flowers and came across you up in that trap.” You tilt your head. “What were you doing in the forest, anyway?"

“I was... hunting for deer, and the last thing I remember is hearing something above me snap.”

“Hunting… Is that what you do for a living?”

“Well, no. My brother and I do it for sport."

“Oh."

Loki stares at you blankly. “My brother, Prince Thor."

You nod.

Loki chuckles. Your pretty little head hasn't registered it.

He leans in close, brushing his lips against your ear, and whispers very slowly:

“I'm Prince Loki."

And the reaction he gets is the cutest. Your lips part as your eyes widen, to which he grins.

But he doesn't expect you to fling yourself off the side of the bed and onto the ground, bowing down to him.

“Your Highness!” you squeak. “I'm so sorry, I didn't know!! I-”

“Darling, please," he chuckles, shaking his head. “That isn't necessary-"

“I'm so sorry, I'll get some tea, do you want anything from the market? Please, allow me-”

Loki bends down, lifting you off the floor in a princess carry and sets you down on the bed.

“Please, don’t stress yourself. You saved my life.”

He takes your hand, kissing it softly as he smiles up at you.

“Thank you, pretty angel.”

Your eyes widen as you stutter out tiny breaths. Norns, aren’t you the most adorable?

“I don’t think you believe me.” He stands up, pretending to be offended by your silence.

“No!” you cry . “I mean- I do believe you! It’s just- I was surprised, I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think what? A prince would just be out in the woods for no reason?” He laughs, leaning down to you. Before you can respond, he chuckles again. “That’s alright,” he steps back, “you just need a little… evidence.”

Loki closes his eyes, and lets himself shift into his true form: blue skin, dark green patterns across his biceps. He hears the tiniest gasp of amazement from you as the magic also heals his wounds and cuts (and hopes that he’ll hear more of those cute noises very soon).

When he’s done transforming, he opens his eyes and stares down at you.

Dear Norns.

He knew he was already taller than you in human form, but this was just delightful. You’re much tinier than him, staring up at his stature with those wide doe eyes of yours.

“You are-” you blink a few times in shock. “You are the Jotun prince.”

He smiles even wider. “That’s right.”

“And… I… just saved the Jotun prince.”

He starts laughing, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Clever girl.” He knows he’s downright cruel, teasing you just because you’re so cute. “And do you want anything in return for ‘saving the Jotun prince’?”

“Well, I don’t know-”

Loki walks closer to you, and stands between your legs as he drops his cloak to the floor and leans down, drawling his next words very slowly.

“You deserve something… special. Something downright… pleasurable as a reward for saving my life. Something that you’ll remember for the rest of yours.”

He chuckles darkly when your breath hitches in realization.

He wants to make love to you.

“What?”

He pushes you down on the bed, trapping you in with his large body as he takes your wrists in one of his hands.

“You’ll feel undeniable bliss. I’ll take you over and over and over again until I’m sure you’re truly satisfied, because you’re such a sweet little angel saving my life and cleaning me up and looking so fuckable.”

You mewl, no doubt keening from his dirty words. He cups your chin.

“All you have to do is say yes. You don’t even have to do anything~”

His thumb brushes over your quivering lips, and push into your mouth. Loki grins as you look up at him, nodding slowly.

“Use your words, angel,” he teases, pulling his thumb away from your mouth.

It takes you a few moments to catch your breath. “Okay…”

He wanted to make you beg. He wanted you to say please, please fuck me so he could flip you over like you weighed nothing and take you over and over again like you’d asked but the way you whimpered withered away the last of his patience.

He had to make you his.

Loki captured you into a passionate kiss, muffling every last sound your pretty lips made so that only he could hear. He pulled away only to push you down on the sheets again, forcing his tongue into your mouth as you twitch in his hold, unable to comprehend how dizzy you are from just a kiss.

The two of you pull away for air as his dark green irises watches your eyes glaze over with submission. He grins, unbuttoning his white button-up and tosses it elsewhere.

He grins as you stare at his chest. Your tiny hands reach for him, tracing over the markings and patterns.

Loki hisses, taking your hands in one of his. You whimper as he stares down at you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “Did that hurt?”

“No, no.” His voice softens as he leans in, kissing your nose gently, his other hand pushing your dress up your thighs. He kisses your cheek, then presses his lips against your ear. You shiver at his ice-cold breath.

“It doesn’t, angel. It’s just that if you keep doing that, I won’t be able to resist flipping you over and pounding you into the sheets until you’re dripping with my cum and you can’t think.”

He pushes his knee against your crotch, making you squeak like a pathetic little mouse. Loki grins.

“I will be doing that, mind you,” he teases. “But I simply have to get a taste of your pretty juices first~”

Your skirt bunches up against your twitching hips as Loki stares down at your dripping cunt.

“Oh," Loki chuckles. “You're already wet for me, angel, isn't that adorable~?"

You mewl, bashfully covering your face as he grins at your embarrassment.

“Stop teasing..."

Loki shakes his head, pouting in mockery. “Only if you stop being so cute when you're flustered. But until then…”

He places his hands on your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he lowers his face to your mound.

“... I'll enjoy fucking you until you submit to me.”

Your eyes widen as he licks your folds very slowly, and you whine shakily.

“Prince Loki..."

Loki grins, kissing your pretty cunt wetly and pushing his tongue into your dripping hole. And your helpless whimper of pleasure as he devours your pretty pussy whole is the cutest and most captivating noise he's ever heard.

He draws it out of you again, and again, and again, drinking every bit of your slick, even if poor little you are just getting wetter and wetter.

You're panting now, and Loki is equally as short of breath, only ever breaking away from you to watch your pretty face scrunch up so cutely. Loki licks his lips, nibbling on your thighs and making you squeak and tremble in his icy grip.

“You're such an adorable little angel," Loki grumbles. "Makes me want to eat you up like a little mouse, hmm?”

He holds you down firmly as your moans tickle his ears. The way your little hole squeezes around nothing is just so cute, he just has to stuff you full after he makes you come far too many times than you can handle.

“Aww,” Loki chuckles as you whimper breathily, thighs thumping helplessly against the bed. “Little angel can’t take it anymore?”

He brushes a blue finger against your dripping folds, sinking into your hole for the millionth time making you squeak and sob in sensitivity.

“P-Please…” you mumble, glazed eyes pleading for a moment of rest.

He sighs, forgetting you’re just a pure little thing having her first time, and gently scoops you into his arms to press a few kisses to your cheek and whispering your name.

“Have I thanked you enough already~?” He teases, and you nod, nuzzling into his hold though you shiver lightly.

Loki’s heart skips a beat. He feels you cling to him tighter and he feels your little ass grinding against his cock.

“Well,” he muses, “I believe my kingdom will be overjoyed to find that an angel like yourself saved their prince, hmm?”

“Huh?” you ask, still pleasure-drunk as you settle into his lap, as if you perfectly fit in his hold.

“I said,” Loki chuckles his icy breath tickling your face, “My kingdom would be overjoyed to find a pretty thing like you saved the royal prince, wouldn't they?"

“Mhm..."

“And they'll throw a week-long celebration...” he continues, trailing kisses from your cheek to your shoulder. “All for you~”

“R-Really?” you gasp as he begins sucking on your skin, sure to leave marks after. “A whole week? That's too much-!”

Loki laughs against your shoulder, holding your hips down so he can feel your hips grind against his cock. “Nothing is too much for a perfect little angel like you~"

Loki licks the bite mark he's so carefully placed on your skin, then looks up at your glazed eyes and twitching pout.

“Would you like to come back with me to the palace?"

The look of confusion and bashfulness across your face makes his cock twitch against your bare folds.

“Me?! With you?!"

“Do you abhor the idea of that?”

He knows he's being mean and he knows you don't hate the idea, but Loki just can't resist seeing you so embarrassed and stuttering to apologize.

“No! I didn't mean that! I was just surprised-"

Loki shakes his head with a little chuckle, and brings you closer to his face to kiss the crease between your eyebrows.

“I know, I know. I was just teasing."

“Don't be mean like that!”

Loki laughs darkly when you cross your arms.

In a flash, he’s got you on your hands and knees before your pretty head can even figure out what’s going on.

“And if I do, what are you going to do about it?”

You shiver at the dark growl in his voice.

You're so far deep in this haze all you can see is blue.

“Your highness-!”

Loki presses your chest against the bed, leaving your pretty ass on display, purely his for the taking.

“You’re just a little mouse that can’t hurt anything, hmm? Just so innocent, and weak, and ready to be ravished.”

A cold, thick finger traces your wet folds, and you whimper, burying your face in the sheets as he tickles your hole until you’re shaking with need.

“Maybe I’ll take you back home with me… and make you my wife.”

Loki shoves his finger all the way in, knocking the wind out of you because you swear you can feel him in your tummy.

“Your- Your wife?” You ask, voice higher and breathier.

“Yes~” he mocks your airy voice. “My pretty wife, who won’t have to get her pretty hands dirty ever again, who I’ll take care of, and protect, and fuck every single night.”

Loki curls his finger, reaching that sensitive little part in your cunt that effectively leaves you a mumbling, drooling mess on him.

When he’s gotten you wet enough, he draws his finger back (to his cute little angel’s momentary dismay) and forces your thighs apart with his body, the head of his cock twitching against your folds.

Loki will forever remember the gasp you let out when you feel just how big he is.

“Do you want to be fully mine? Do you want me to fuck this little hole of yours with my cock until you’re screaming for me?”

You whine at his dirty words, slurring something that sounds like a yeah, and he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

“Really?” he chuckles, fingering your little hole one more time to slicken your folds. “Do you think I’ll fit~?”

And with the dirty wet noises that tickle his ears as he sinks all the way in he gets his reply.

“Oh?” Amused, he runs an icy finger up and down your bare back. “She can take it, after all. What a good girl~”

Loki barely gets the praise out before the prettiest whimpers fall out of your mouth like sweet honey, your poor cunt clenching down on him as your voice gets higher and breathier by the minute.

“Please-” you hiccup, turning to look at him with those pretty teary eyes.

His vermillion eyes stare you down cruelly as he grinds his hips down into your ass, making your head fall onto the sheets as you slur out a moan.

His cock feels so heavy inside you and by the way he laughs quietly you know he knows just how big he is compared to you.

And the way he pins you down harder lets you know he loves it.

“Oh, you just feel so good around my cock,” Loki groans, pulling back and thrusting into your leaking little pussy.

Poor you, already sensitive beyond imagination as this handsome blue prince ruins any other man for you with the way his cock stretches you out better than anyone ever will.

Not that anyone else will get the chance to. Loki’s decided it: he will take you home to the palace and make you his wife, and everyone will bow before their new princess.

Loki can't resist you any longer. He beats your poor cunt like the beast he is until you're whimpering and bucking against him helplessly.

“Feels... weird..." you shudder and gasp, tears leaking from your eyes as he sinks deeper into you, his huge cock hitting all the good spots inside you as your pleasure takes over your senses.

“Oh, is she close? Is this perfect little cunt going to come all over me?”

Loki's dirty words make you whimper and nod dumbly.

“Yeah," you sob.

Loki laughs at how blissed out his little saviour is and stops,pulling out slowly and groaning when he hears the sinful squelching as your juices drip onto the sheets. He turns you on your back, pinning your wrists to your sides, and captures your lips in his as he sinks into you once more.

“I missed these pretty lips," he smirks into the kiss, taking you for himself.

“Y-You just kissed me a few minutes ago..." You sigh dazedly, though you love the attention he's giving you.

“Still can't get enough of you. You're just so sweet~" Loki licks your lips, thrusting harder and making you squeak and link your fingers through his.

“Say my name."

“Loki...”

“Gods," he throws his head back, almost moaning at how submissive you sound. “Surrender to me, darling."

His hands snake down to the back of your thighs, lifting them and pressing them to your chest, quickening his pace.

Your eyes scrunch up as you nearly scream in pleasure, wriggling away as if you could escape from him.

“Surrender to me, angel~" he grins, kissing your neck and marking you up. “A pretty angel like you deserves to be pampered like this every day. Imagine that? You'll never have to lift a finger, I'll do all the work, I'll do all the fucking.”

Loki accentuates that last word with a hard thrust into your hole, making your eyes blur over with tears as you mewl helplessly in the Jotun prince’s tight grip.

“Awh, don't cry," he teases, kissing your nose when he gets a sinfully great idea.

He stops his movements, making sure he's buried all the way inside you before he flattens his tongue against your soaked cheek and licks your tears away.

You gasp, stunned for a moment before you keen and twitch helplessly, whining loudly as he does the same to your other cheek.

And your poor little cunt just clenches down again.

Loki growls, his primal instincts taking over because you're his ideal mate and you're nothing like he's ever seen. The sounds in the room get filthier and filthier as he loses control and rams into your poor hole.

“What do you say, angel?" Loki asks, letting go of your wrist before his hand makes its way down to your clit, rubbing the little bud and making you scream and tremble in his arms. “Be my- fuck- be my bride? Be my pretty little princess?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chest heaving as your eyes flutter shut.

“Are you close?"

“Mhm..."

“Cute little mouse," he chuckles, pressing open mouth kisses to your neck as he rubs your clit. “Let go for me now, angel."

It’s a sight from heaven as you orgasm all over him, soaking his cock with your juices and helplessly thumping your thighs against the bed because Loki won't stop thrusting in and out of you.

Loki growls, pinning you to the bed. He stills, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm, thick cum filling you up. It makes you feel even more full than you already do and it makes you dizzy with even more pleasure.

It becomes too much for your melting brain to handle when he pushes deeper into you and you gasp, attempting to kick him away.

A firm, cold hand grabs your ankle and spreads you wider, and you whine shyly when he grins at you with a cruel glint in his eyes.

“Stay with me, darling," Loki teases, gripping your hips possessively and holding you still on his cock so he can finish filling you up.

It feels like hours before he breathes again, but it's only been seconds for him, already wanting another round with you.

But the prince resists, setting your sore legs down slowly and carefully sliding out of your cunt.

You sigh in exhaustion, but your breaths falters in embarrassment when you feel just how much he pumped into you, dripping out of your twitching folds and onto the bed.

A tiny drop even lands on your ass and Loki chuckles at your wide eyes, leaning down to kiss your lips and whisper a dirty promise that he'll fuck you down there too next time.

“Next time?” you ask, lips parting.

“Yes," he teases. " I've decided it, you're never leaving my side, my guardian angel~”

And he scoops you into his side, letting you rest before he has a few more rounds with your pretty hole— then he'll take you back home to the palace and convince you to stay. He'll show you the library. He'll let you lose yourself in the royal gardens all day if you wish! As long as you return to his chambers each night and let him please you the way you deserve to be.

But he's fallen for you already and the whole kingdom will burn in a blaze of sapphire dust if anything or anyone ever keeps him away from you.

[dizzyjaden]

❝ WHY ARE YOU SO COLD? ❞

Scaramouche x Gn! Reader

♤ Summary: You get injured on a fatui mission in Inazuma with Scaramouche <3

♤ Warnings: Head injury from blunt force (not severe) that makes you woozy

♤ A/N: Thanks for the attention on the genshin men hcs post! So many new bunnies here. Sorry if this is a little rushed </3

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A sharp ring pierces through your ears as you slowly rise from the sudden slumber that had been forced upon you, confusion settling in when you open your eyes to see a blurry hand repeatedly snapping its fingers in front of your face.

"Oh. They aren't dead after all. Go on and thank your luck, boys." A familiar voice speaks. Your vision of blurred shapes and colors slowly adjusts back to normal and finally manages to delineate the image of Scaramouche kneeling down in front of you. Taking in your surroundings, you realize you're on the ground, propped up against a tree, barely sheltered from the downpour of rain, and entirely drenched.

You begin to recall the events that led you here. You can remember that you and the four men that accompanied you were approached by a rather threatening lawachurl that you ended up stuck fighting as they retreated. These men now stood closely together, quivering behind the harbinger examining you. You can't seem to pinpoint the injury you took that caused you to go unconscious, but the dull throbbing in your head wasn't much comfort.

You open your mouth to speak.

"I-"

Scaramouche holds up his index finger directly in front of your face. "Follow my finger please..." He directs your gaze while he carefully moves his hand to the right, and then the left.

"Hm... You might have gotten off easy..." Scaramouche says. "But had I arrived at the scene of your little ruckus a moment later... You have me to thank for your life now, that's for sure."

Your embarrassment visualizes itself by staining your cheeks a bright shade of red. This is your first fatui assignment in Inazuma enacted alongside an actual harbinger, and here you are against a tree with a throb in your head that has certainly become a less-than-admirable sight at this point. On that thought, you brush your hand against your head, it is tender to the touch, but not excruciating.

"Hm... What exactly happened?" Scaramouche asks while standing up straight. "The five of you were supposed to defend the camping grounds."

You are barely acquainted with the four men you were assigned to work with, they do not seem keen on explaining the details of how they abandoned the campground entirely and left you to fight alone. You can not really blame them.

Scaramouche fixates on you instead, awaiting your own explanation rather than hearing it collectively from all of you.

You sigh.

"I recall my four comrades retreating a short while after the battle with the beast began."

Your comrades seem unsure of what to do as Scaramouche turns to face them.

"Is this true? As much as I hate to admit it I wouldn't even be surprised. Fairly new recruits, the lot of you. None of you have been... Broken in just yet." He murmured, a whisk of malice floating in his tone.

Finally, one of your colleagues steps forward and clears his throat.

"It's truly a miracle you arrived when you did, my lord. We retreated because we saw the fight fruitless. There was no way even the five of us could've taken it on."

Scaramouche scoffs at his explanation.

"What a sorry excuse. We are discussing a lawachurl... Yes? There are five of you."

The indigo-haired male sighs heavily and shakes his head. "It only makes sense that the most useless quartet of whiners in Snezhnaya gets thrown at me." He mutters. "I would be less angry, as I am perfectly aware of how unnecessary your company on this mission is. However, your combined incompetence has left someone of potential value injured. That is rather irritating."

The silence is heavy aside from the thundering rain that slaps violently against the terrain. With each moment of quiet that passes, Scaramouche seems to grow more irritable.

"You have nothing more to say?"

The soldiers do not respond. Scaramouche sighs, then lightly claps his hands together and smiles at the group.

"Since you four are clearly out of practice and in desperate need of a little exposure therapy, find me a lawachurl, defeat it, bring me back its horn. Don't come back until you do. You should be thanking me for this opportunity to grow." He orders. "If that doesn't suit your tastes, we can do this... Another way. But it won't be nearly as amusing to you."

"Y-Yes lord harbinger!" The one who spoke before bows swiftly, and practically drags his fearful team off.

Scaramouche glances at you from over his shoulder as you were left alone with him.

"Can you stand?"

Coming from him, any questions feel more akin to orders. Therefore, you begin to shift your weight entirely on the tree behind you, grabbing the trunk with a hand before Scaramouche rushes forward to support you instead. This comes as a surprise to you, but you are in no position to deny his assistance.

"I sincerely apologize... I feel lightheaded, still." You utter, as he pulls you up and allows you to put your weight on his side. His hat instantly protects you from the rain, causing you to breathe a sigh of relief. "This normally would not happen... I'm not used to defending others in battle."

"Well... If those bumbling idiots made the cut into the Fatui, I advise you to get used to it, quickly." Scaramouche said cunningly, beginning to walk you back to the campground. "I absolutely despise when they hand easy assignments to new recruits. They are not required to be here, and it always leads to me babysitting."

You can't help but smile slightly, it's not an everyday occurrence you casually converse with harbingers. Sensing the humor in his tone of voice, you just have to engage a bit.

"Ah, is that what you call sending a group of incompetent cowards off to fight large monsters? Babysitting?"

Scaramouche rolls his eyes.

"Trust me when I say that was the kindest I've ever been in this sort of situation."

As he guides you back to the campsite, your mind trails to various thoughts about how stiff and cold he is against your side. You didn't want to make too big of a deal out of the proximity with him, but it was so unexpected. It feels as though every muscle in his body is firmly tense, and his skin is noticeably cooler than the rain that you had just been nearly submerged in moments ago.

Curiously, you steal a side glance at his face as quickly as you can. It was already obvious to you that he is beautiful, but his features are so picturesque and devoid of flaws that they almost look unreal. Doll-like and hand-crafted. Something about him feels uncanny to you.

"Something on your mind?"

You're snapped out of your trance at his words, you swiftly shake your head and remain quiet the rest of the way.

When the two of you arrive at the campsite, he's quick to help you into a tent.

"Alright, rest well-"

"You're leaving again?" You instinctively cut him off.

He raises an eyebrow at your intervention.

"No, I already completed the mission while the rest of you were here." He stated. "But you should sleep, if you're going to be worth anything tomorrow."

You stare at him wordlessly for a few moments. He doesn't seem bothered by the unoccupied silence for whatever reason, but he does eventually speak up once more.

"What is it?"

You smile. "You are a rather interesting individual. I've worked for you a while, but have never gotten to speak to you one one-on-one before."

Scaramouche seems surprised at this, processing your words for a few short seconds.

"Hm? So, that's what you've been thinking of. I thought you were behaving overly placid for someone who just sustained a head injury... Alright then, I'll give you a bit of my time in compensation for working alongside amateurs today." Scaramouche nodded, joining you in the tent. He sat on his knees in front of you.

"You've got my attention. What do you wish to speak to me about?" He asks

A slight hum leaves your lips as you contemplate the confusion you felt before.

"Why are you so... Cold?"

Scaramouche almost seems amused at your words, choking back a snicker by clearing his throat.

"Well... It is raining-"

"You are much colder than the rain." You chime.

This time, he seems at a loss for words. He takes your hands in his own and brushes his chilled fingers over them.

"Why are you so warm?" He asks, an honest demeanour flickered through his eyes.

You shrug slightly.

"Metabolism? Body heat generates in organs... Like your heart."

He nods knowingly, as if you somehow managed to find the answer to the question you'd asked him with that response alone.

"Sleep well tonight, okay?" Scaramouche patted your shoulder. "I will need to make preparations for travel. Let me know if you need anything."

And just like that, he left the tent as you struggled to think of something else to say to him.

"Oh... Goodnight."

[recklesssturniolo]

can you do a story where their on tour and us and matt have to be quiet on the tour bus or hotel room pls if you have time🤭

Be Quiet - M.S

As per request! Dom!Matt & in this they’re on tour

A/N: lowkey short I’m sorry don’t hate me

NSFW below, leave if you’re a minor

Being on tour with the boys was incredible, the only shitty thing was the lack of privacy for Matt and I. Our sex life basically going down the drain since tour started. I mean we couldn’t exactly just fuck on our bunk with his brother right across from us. However as I watched Matt brush his teeth, wearing his plaid pyjama pants hanging slightly below his waist and his white tank top, I couldn’t help but get turned on. Watching as his arm flexed as he moved it, paying close attention to his fingers. Recalling in my mind how good they felt inside me. He looks up and makes eye contact with me through the mirror, noticing I was staring and raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug my shoulders in response.

I stand up from the couch, saying goodnight to both Nick and Chris, and climb up into Matt and my bunk, sighing slightly knowing I wouldn’t be getting anything tonight and would likely have to settle for a bathroom quickie at some point tomorrow. Matt joins me shortly after.

“Something got you worked up pretty girl?” He asks while wrapping his arms around me, spooning me.

“Don’t even start Matt, you’re not getting me more turned on than I already am and doing nothing about it” I reply.

“Who says I wouldn’t do anything about it?” He whispers back. I notice his hand slowly creep up my thigh, extremely close to my pussy but he simply rests it there.

“What are you doing?” I say, knowing his brothers were less than another room away. Gasping slightly as his fingers now rest directly on my pussy with him moving them in small circles.

“I’m gonna make you feel good, I know you’ve been wanting this all day. But you have to be quiet okay?” He whispers in my ear, kissing my neck afterwards.

“Okay” I nod back.

“Mm good girl” He responds. Now moving his hand under my panties, his two fingers rubbing down my slits. “So wet already”

“I can’t help it, fuck you look so good and I just want all of you” I whimper out.

“I know I know” He says back.

He moves his fingers upwards, now focusing on my clit. Adding more pressure and moving his fingers in circles, without thinking I let out a whine. Not being able to control it after thinking about this all day.

“I’m gonna have to stop if you can’t stay quiet baby” He mumbles.

“I’ll be quiet I promise please don’t stop” I whisper. Needing him to continue pleasuring me.

He doesn’t respond but instead moves his fingers lower on my pussy again, tracing circles around my entrance and bringing his other hand over to cover my mouth. Pushing on finger into me, I throw my head back. Biting my lip to force myself to stay quiet.

“That’s my good girl. You want me to add another finger?” He smirks.

“Yes Matt please” I whine.

Feeling his other finger enter me, I instinctively open my legs wider and place my own hand over his that’s already covering my mouth. As I do that, he takes his hand off my mouth and moves it to my throat, squeezing it slightly. A moan wanting to escape my lips causing me to push my hand tighter against my mouth.

“F-feels so good oh my god” I say, my voice now below a whisper.

“Yeah? Taking my fingers so well baby, just wait till tomorrow when I’m fucking you senseless” He whispers back.

The thought of that only creating a more intense sense of pleasure within me, craving not just him, but a release. Matt picks up his speed, moving his fingers in and out of me at a much faster pace.

“Listen to that eh? So wet that you can hear each time my fingers go back inside of you” He says.

“M-Matt fuck harder” I whimper.

Taking a minute to adjust his hand, he then proceeds to slam his fingers into me. A gasp leaving my mouth, but due to our hands it was kept quiet, but not quiet enough for Matt not to hear it. I feel him squeeze my throat a bit tighter now.

“That’s feel good baby?” He asks before using his thumb to rub my clit.

“Yes don’t stop don’t stop” I mumble out, feeling my climax almost starting.

“You gonna come for me pretty girl?” He smirks.

“I - yeah fuck Matt” I say.

Matt continues finger fucking me while playing with my clit, the sensation sending me over the edge. As my stomach knots up, I feel myself come. Throwing my head back again and squeezing my eyes shut, Matt’s grip on my throat loosening, and me having to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning out loud.

“Matt I - feels so good holy fuck” I stutter.

“Such a pretty girl coming on my fingers, so patient waiting all day too” He says, leaving kisses along my jaw.

Matt pulls out his fingers, smirking before saying “Open”

I do as he says and he places his two fingers in my mouth, making me lick my juices off of them, before taking them out and placing them in his own mouth.

“Should have ate you out, fuck you taste so good” He sighs

TAGLIST: @sturnphilia @thatonekid536 @cupidisworld @devsturniolo @loveesiren @daddyslilchickenfingers @christinarowie332 @ilovemattsturn @mattenthusiast

[frickingnerd]

throw away your mask

pairing: ren amamiya / akira kurusu / joker x gn!reader

summary: after finding out about the deal your boyfriend made with the god of control, you confront him! but ren has since changed...

tags: evil joker, kinda yandere joker too, established relationship, angst, spoilers for persona 5's bad ending, implied corruption

a/n: i replayed persona 5 and went for a bad ending this time! after seeing evil joker, i had to write this immediately! <3

“w-who are you…?”

the man in front of you wore your boyfriend's face, but there wasn't a single trace of the boy you once loved. ren amamiya was a good guy, who wanted to help people! never would he have made a deal with a god, that only brought suffering upon people!

“you know me.”

ren's eyes were covered by his glasses, making his expression impossible to read. only the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips was there to show any sort of emotion.

“you're not the boy i fell in love with! the ren amamiya that i know would've never sided with a god, much less the god of control! how could you betray everything the phantom thieves stood against!?”

ren took a step towards you, his lips parting, as he was ready to talk back at you. but you quickly stepped back and cried out:

“don't come any closer!”

ren adjusted his glasses, finally allowing you to get a glimpse of his eyes. they were staring at you uncomfortably from behind those glasses, almost as if they were piercing right through you. could this really be the same boy you once fell in love with? could those same kind eyes that made you feel all warm and fuzzy now scare you like this?

“i didn't betray the phantom thieves. i saved us! we can continue our work and finally get the recognition we deserve! the public loves us, just like they should! isn't that what we all wanted? we are heroes!”

he sounded insane! with each word that left his lips, you felt more disgusted with him. is this truly how he viewed the world? how he viewed the phantom thieves?

“heroes? don't make me laugh!” you yelled at ren. “you are not a hero! you are the villain of this story! you enslaved the whole world for your selfish wants! you are no better than those we took down! you are… just like them…”

for a split second, ren's face distorted. your words seemed to wound him, but the anger quickly faded from his face again. slowly, he stepped forward. even as you took steps backwards, it was impossible for you to escape him. soon, he had you cornered, his hand resting on your cheek.

“i am not like the palace rulers we disposed of. they were weak fools, but me? i am on the same level as a god now! the people worship and adore me! all of us, all phantom thieves, can be as gods! we can forever continue this way of life! we never have to change! we can simply live as heroes, worshiped like gods, for eternity!”

a twisted smile had spread over ren's face.

“why should we waste our time worrying about humans? humanity is enslaved by the god of control? well, this isn't our problem! you and i, we stand above them! so, join me! you and i, we can become as gods! you only have to join me and give up your foolish rebellion against me…”

ren took a step back, yet reached out his hand towards you. he didn't force you to take it, but whether you'd accept his hand or reject him would change your life forever. there were only two options; either you were with him or against him!

“what do you say, darling? will you choose humanity over me? or will you come to your senses and realize you belong by my side?”

[raineandsky]

#127

The lock on the door is an easy pick, and with one final touch the door clicks open and allows the villain inside.

Now, the villain is usually well above petty crime. He’s done his fair share of thieving. He’s pick-pocketed, he’s robbed, and yeah, sure, he’s broken into places here and there. But his life is actually fun now, thanks to a villainous promotion and some less of the dirty work, and so stealing ended up rather low on his list of fun weekend activities.

It’s not a weekend, though, and it sure as hell isn’t fun either. This is business, and goddamn if the villain isn’t a professional.

He glances at the screen of the phone in his hand, checking and rechecking the picture he took of the supervillain’s instructions. If only the supervillain wasn’t trained to be a doctor, his handwriting might be somewhat legible. He is though, unfortunately, and the villain is wishing he’d just typed up the words when he had the time before.

I’ve had a ‘tip’ on [Hero]’s address. The villain can just about make the words out. It’s like a word puzzle, which he is notoriously bad at already. I have reason to believe she’s got some important documents in there. Infiltrate, find her stash of secrets, and bring it in.

Easy enough. The fun part of stealing was usually finding the most expensive object, though, and the villain has an inkling that some paperwork won’t exactly make him a millionaire. He tucks the phone into his pocket, taking a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness before shutting the door behind him and exploring.

He finds a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, the fridge, ooh she has good taste. The villain plucks a punnet of grapes from the fridge and tosses one into his mouth. The supervillain has him on late nights—he doesn’t have time for dinner at the moment. The hero will have to survive without her grapes.

The office feels like stumbling across a mine of incredibly boring, inexpensive gold. The villain takes to rooting through the piles of papers mounting on the desk. All plain, civilian problems—bills, taxes, a newsletter from the mayor. Nothing exactly incriminating.

“What are you doing in my house?”

Who the hell is awake at three in the morning? The villain wasn’t that loud coming in. He turns dramatically, expecting to make his first introduction to the hero, but he isn’t faced with the hero. He isn’t faced with a hero at all.

An old lady is standing in the doorway, her glasses perched wonkily on her nose and a baseball bat in her hands. The bat is kind of menacing, at first, but then she has to awkwardly adjust her glasses and the illusion is gone.

The villain’s mind is short-circuiting. That’s not a goddamn hero. What the hell has the superhero gotten him into? What the hell is he meant to do with a bat-wielding civilian?

“You’re deaf as well as unlawful,” she adds drily.

“No, no.” The villain's cool demeanour is slipping too fast. “No, I can hear just fine, thank you.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

The bat taps pointedly against the woman’s palm. She’d probably injure herself trying to swing it at him. That thought alone is vaguely comforting. Only vaguely, though—she’s still wielding a baseball bat.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“I am here,” the villain starts slowly, “to rob you blind.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. He didn’t expect to run into anyone, much less a civilian, much much less a little old lady. He’s running on a bank of prewritten sentences he used in his thieving days, and for some reason the least helpful one is the one that wants to be said.

The woman’s face scrunches up in an emotion the villain can’t read. At first he thinks it might be distress, or perhaps fear, but then she raises the bat and he realises that, oh, no, that’s actually unbridled rage.

She brings it down in an arc and the villain just about dodges to the side. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact the bat absolutely annihilates her desk in his stead. Jesus Christ, is that thing made of steel?

He may be a villain, and villainy may require a certain amount of balls, but this is where he draws the line. The old lady swings again, crashing into the glass cabinet a hair’s width away from the villain’s face, and he decides that no, he’s not dealing with this shit tonight.

He scrambles for the window, throwing himself out onto the fire escape stairs with his new nemesis in tow. She makes one last swipe at him as he takes the stairs down two at a time.

“I’ll bash your head in next time!” she shrieks after him.

It’s only when the villain is safely on the other side of the building that he slows down. He pulls his phone out, sucking in a deep breath, and unlocks it to look at the superhero’s note again. Really scrutinises it. Then it clicks. He sees the problem.

That’s not a 6. It’s an 8. He was on the wrong goddamn floor.

He stares blankly at the screen for a moment. He’s too old to be putting up with this shit.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, heaves a age-old sigh, and lets himself back into the building for round two.

[drdemonprince]

Hi I keep thinking back to your book unmasking autism, I recently was diagnosed with level 1 by my new psychiatrist but with losing my healthcare I feel lost on how to function without medical assistance. I typically mask and been learning how not to, but it always feel at the opportunity cost of more money, overly explaining to family or grief. I’ve been in a loop of feeling I shouldn’t exist due to my disability and it a sad feeling.

I am so sorry to hear that you are going through this. I'm certain you already know this, but it's not the case that you shouldn't exist because you are disabled. The vast majority of people on this planet find it absolutely soul-sucking and exhausting to present as what gets called "neurotypical" at work. It's too many hours of pretending to be someone you are not, with no space allotted for your full humanity, with not enough energy or hours left behind to look after oneself, have nourishing authentic relationships, and ample space to recover, be playful and joyful, and dream. Every person requires ample time and space for themselves to recouperate, and to listen to the actual feelings that they have inside, and capitalism instead demands that we suppress all of it, and it can slowly eat away at us and make it difficult to access authentic pleasure or connectedness. For Autistics it's especially pronounced because we are such a bad mismatch with what capitalism demands, and because we need so much energy recovery time, but it's simply the case that you are not broken or defective for failing to fit within such an oppressive system. It is that system that should not exist, and that terrorizes everybody, to varying degrees. I bet if you look at the most "well adjusted" hard working people that you know, you see how their lives have been totally ruined by overworking and killing what's wild and free about themselves, or what used to be those things.

I have spoken to hundreds of Autistic people in the situation you are in at this point, and I have found that for the majority of us, embracing our disability and articulating our needs means that very dramatic changes have to happen in our lives. Some people have to reorient how they interact with their families, establish new boundaries, push to really educate them on neurodivergence, go no contact, or rethink what family means to them altogether. Lots of us leave careers or switch to part-time or remote work, or have to get incredibly creative and resourceful in order to survive in a way that we can stand: going on disability benefits, public assistance, living with friends, pooling resources, going off the grid in some way, finding some side hustle or scam that makes it possible to survive, doing sex work or freelance, taking on childcare or eldercare duties for a friend who is employed, or something of that nature are all options I've seen a lot of unmasking Autistics pursue. None of these options are ideal, and they all come with significant costs and risk factors. But then, so does killing oneself slowly with work.

I have a whole book coming out next year in March about these specific considerations, with lots of tools and decision trees and research and quotes from other Autistics. The book is designed to help Autistics who are in that second stage of their unmasking journey sort out what a life where it is possible to be less masked means for them. Where can they live? Who is gonna support them? What matters to them in their life? How can they reset their relationships in light of their neurodivergence? What does it mean to grow old as a disabled person? These are the kinds of questions the book will hopefully help me explore, and discover the best answers for themselves. Of course, many people would say that their only way out of this is the downfall of capitalism, but I personally am of the mind that we have to make that end happen ourselves by working less hard, consuming less where possible, leaning on other people, providing support to our neighbors, becoming less reliant upon our employers and the government, and building our collective escape from the capitalistic machine. And we can all have some small part in that, even if only for ourselves and those immediately closest to us. That's enough.

I hope that you find a way of life that is sustaining and feels whole and good for you. As neurodivergent people we do things very differently. And that is both the curse and the beauty of us. The prescribed script we've been given for how life is supposed to look is never going to work for us. Indeed, it's not working for most anybody else either. There way forward will not be easy, and the lot you've been given to deal with is not fair, but there are also millions of other disabled people just like you who are leaning on one another, slowing down, refusing to play into the existing system's hand as much as is possible for them, and making a new world. And just by pondering the things that you are, you're helping already to make that new world too.

[starrylothcat]

Hey Starry! Wasn't sure if those prompts you shared were an invitation for requests, but I thought I'd shoot my shot.

❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don't get to have you, but i do. ❜

With either Fives, Jesse, or Kix? Or someone else if you're not feeling them. And a f!reader if that's okay. I'm a sucker for first-time sex.

Feel free to ignore!

First Time

Pairing: Jesse x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Jesse having been dating for awhile and you decide to go all the way with him.

Warnings: Smut, NSFW. 18+. PiV sex, virgin reader’s first time, some cuteness and fluffy ending. A hint of possessive Jesse.

WC: ~2300

A/N: Sorry this took so long, anon! The holiday season has been a whirlwind for me and I’m finally at a place where I have time to write! I’m also a sucker for first-time sex, I hope this is what you had in mind. Enjoy some Juicy Jesse! This is also my first time writing him so I hope I did him some justice 😊

When Jesse escorted you back to your apartment after your dinner date, you knew you wouldn’t be watching a Holomovie like you suggested.

You and the ARC trooper have been dating for a bit now, taking it slow and getting to know one another.

You’ve had short-term relationships in the past, but they never seemed to work out. You were getting ready to give up and knew trying to find a partner during a war no less was a silly dream.

When Jesse waltzed into your life, though, his boyish charm and resolute dedication to his brothers won you over quickly. You never expected to date a soldier, but when Jesse asked you out for a caf, the rest was history.

Everything was so easy with Jesse, and you didn’t want to rush it or mess it up. And he didn’t either.

As your relationship progressed and became more serious and physical, you told him you were technically a virgin, not yet going all the way with a partner.

Jesse just smiled and kissed you, saying you could go as slow as you needed. He would never pressure you into something you weren’t ready for.

You had barely started the Holomovie when Jesse’s lips were on yours, fervent and passionate, taking the breath out of one another’s lungs with each pass of your lips and caress of one another’s bodies.

You were soon on your bed, stripped of both your clothes, kissing and exploring, mumbling praise and pleasured sighs, basking in one another’s arousal.

Jesse had just finished satisfying you with his mouth and fingers, something he took great pride in and would happily do all night if you let him.

Jesse smiled into your neck pressing his rigid length into your thigh, waiting for you to catch your breath after your orgasm.

This is when you’d return the favor, taking him in your mouth or hand, fulfilling him just as much as he pleasured you.

You had other plans, though. You wanted him inside you. You were ready for the next step.

“Jesse…I want you. I want all of you.” You whispered, lightly tracing his facial tattoo as he locked eyes with yours.

“Are you sure?” He asked, studying your face, making sure he was understanding what you were asking.

“I am sure, Jesse.” You smiled, still gently tracing his face. “We’ve been together for a while now and…I want my first time to be with you. I’m ready if you are.”

“Yes, Maker, yes I am.”

Jesse closed his eyes, kissing you deeply, his heart fluttering at the thought, both from his nerves and the trust you were bestowing upon him.

When he pulled away for a breath, he also pulled himself away from you.

“Let me know if you want to stop at any time.”

You nodded. “I will. Don’t worry Jesse.”

“I can sit against the headboard, so you can be in control.” Jesse nipped at your neck, the realization of him burying himself inside your soft, beautiful pussy exciting him beyond measure.

You agreed, adjusting yourself so you sat on his lap, his back against the headboard on your bed.

You slowly rubbed your slick pussy on his thick cock, still sensitive from your previous orgasm. You both moaned, and Jesse took hold of your plush hips.

You could feel how hot and ready Jesse’s cock was for you, precum dribbling from his swollen tip.

You needed him inside you.

You grasped his bulky shoulders as you lined yourself up, pressing his tip to your entrance.

You sunk on him, slowly. Your breath hitched as he entered you, immediately feeling the intrusion. Jesse let out a low moan as your velvety walls enveloped him.

“That’s right, baby. Take your time.” Jesse rubbed your back as you sank lower, adjusting to his size. You were used to his fingers, but they were still nowhere near the length or girth of his cock.

“Jesse,” you quietly gasped, stopping momentarily, almost bottoming out.

“If it’s too much, we can stop-“ Jesse looked worried, bringing his hands to cup your face.

“N-no.” You smiled, kissing him gently on the lips. “I want to keep going.”

He nodded, letting out a low moan as you fully took him, a sound that sent a jolt of desire straight to your core.

“Kriff, baby, you feel amazing.” His pupils were blown, his hands now tenderly cupping your breasts, squeezing and kneading as he let you take the lead.

You gripped his shoulders, moving your hips a little, still adjusting to him inside you. You weren’t entirely sure what to expect, but it was better than any fantasy. You felt so full, so close to him. Connected not just physically, but emotionally as well.

“You feel amazing, too.”

Pleasure was beginning to override the discomfort of his girth inside you, allowing your body to relax and focusing your mind on how amazing you felt.

You honed in on how good his fingers were as they played with your breasts and his shallow breathing through his nose as you tightened around him.

You gave him a coy smile, moving slightly.

“Ah, Jesse, you’re so good inside me.”

Jesse groaned in approval, latching his lips to your nipple, sucking and nibbling as you began to slowly ride him.

“So wet…so warm…” He moaned into the flesh of your breasts as he reveled in everything that were you. “Wanna stay like this forever…” Jesse locked eyes with you. “You feel incredible around me.

Every delicious sound that left your lips as you rolled your hips on him stoked the fire that was burning in his body. You felt like heaven.

“So perfect.” Jesse let out a ragged breath. “You're taking me so well, mesh’la.”

Jesse buried his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you, inhaling your scent and gently bucking his hips up into you.

You moaned, riding him faster, focusing on how his thick cock felt sliding in and out of you.

Pleasure was now mounting, electric zaps of bliss up your spine every time you sunk on his cock, taking him deeper each time.

Jesse was now moving too, matching your pace and carefully thrusting up into you.

“Tell me if it becomes too much, okay?” Jesse increased his thrusts, sinful sounds leaving his lips as you involuntarily clenched around him.

“It’s good, you’re good, so good Jesse…” Your thighs were beginning to burn, his cock now nudging something deep inside you that made your eyelids flutter.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to keep up this position for long, though, the strain in your thighs from straddling his thick ones beginning to distract you from pleasure.

“Jesse…can we change positions?” You slowed down, easing the tension in your legs.

“Anything for you, mesh’la.” Jesse nodded as you climbed off him, laying on your back. “As long as I get to be back inside you.”

He hovered over you, resting his weight on his forearms around your head.

“Ready?” He kissed your jaw, waiting for your okay to enter you, sliding his cock through your folds.

You nodded, whispering a hoarse “Yes,” desire flooding your senses wholly.

Jesse carefully pressed back into you, both of you sighing at the sensation.

He didn’t move at first, still looking down at you.

“What?” You asked, bashful under his worshipful gaze.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Jesse murmured, kissing your neck, sucking gently at the spot he knew drove you wild. “So, so beautiful. Your sounds, your body, your everything…”

You mewled at his praise, feeling him twitch inside you as you clenched around him, earning a deep rumble from him, as well as a breathless chuckle.

“Kriff, baby if you keep that up I’m not gonna last…barely holding on as it is.”

Jesse pressed hot kisses from your throat to your jawline, then finally to your lips which he captured in a heated kiss. Your tongues danced as his hips began to move, slowly and with purpose.

You arched yourself up into him, your soft whimpers becoming louder and more desperate moans of his name.

Jesse couldn’t get enough of how your body was reacting to him, how your nails were digging into his shoulder blades, your ankles locked around his waist as you both ascended higher in your shared ecstasy.

Your bodies were perfectly entwined, and Jesse felt something bubble inside him, a possessiveness he hadn’t felt before. As he witnessed your pleasured expressions, feeling the most intimate parts of you that no one had ever felt before, he could barely hold on to his control any longer.

Jesse gripped your hips, pressing his mouth to yours in a passionate, frenzied kiss.

He moaned your name, resting his muscular forearms around your head, his cock hitting deeper than his fingers and tongue have ever been able to go.

“I love that no one else has seen you like this…” Jesse panted against your lips, beginning to move faster, sliding almost out of you, before thrusting in until his hips met yours. “…that no one else has felt you before, been inside you.”

“Ah - Jesse, I’m yours, I’m all yours…!” Your mind was fuzzy with pleasure, his sexy words bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

His voice was deep, desperate, cut with moans as he quickened the snap of his hips into you.

“They don't get to have you, but I do.”

Jesse’s words shot white-hot liquid desire through your veins, his pelvis providing just enough friction to bring you close to your release, but you needed more.

“I need you, please, Jesse I want to come!”

Jesse knew what you were asking for, and didn’t hesitate to place a practiced finger on your swollen and sensitive clit. He rubbed tight circles just the way you liked it, stars appearing in your vision.

“Come for me, baby. Need you.” His voice was husky and deep, laced with desperation as he brought you mind-numbing pleasure.

Your body shuddered beneath him, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter, the lewd sounds of where you were connected filling the room pairing with the even more lewd sounds leaving your lips.

“Jesse, I’m gonna, I’m so close…I want to come for you…I…” You gasped out as Jesse laced his free hand with yours above your head. You couldn’t believe how good he felt, how good he made you feel.

You know he had a few short flings in the past like you did, but this was different. It was different for both of you. Jesse had never felt so close, so in tune with a partner before, and you hadn’t either. The realization was almost overwhelming for both of you.

“Come for me, baby, that’s it, just like that.” Jesse’s voice brought you back to reality for a short second, and with a final circle of his finger, your orgasm crashed over your body.

Waves of intense pleasure spread from your spine to the tips of your toes and fingers, accentuated by his cock driving into you again and again.

You weren’t sure how many times you cried out his name as you rode your high, never feeling so connected and cared for as Jesse pressed his lips to yours again, swallowing your broken cries.

“Wh-where?” Jesse could barely speak, his peak nearing dangerously close as your eyelids fluttered open to meet his, bringing his hand from your clit to entwine with your other.

You looked like an angel, flushed and blissed out, your eyes holding nothing but adoration for him.

“Inside, Jesse, please come inside me.”

With a final snap of his hips, he stilled and gave you everything he had, not able to hold back upon hearing those words breathlessly whispered from your swollen lips.

You felt Jesse pulse and fill you with his warm release, his muscles shaking against your body as he hoarsely moaned your name into the side of your neck.

You whispered his name, tracing his back as he relaxed on top of you, his hips slowing as his cock softened, but not quite yet ready to leave you.

You lay there, holding one another. Jesse lifted his head to look at you, smiling. He carefully pulled out, loving your quiet whimper at the loss of him.

Jesse flopped to your side, pulling you into his chest.

“Was that okay?” He sounded nervous, unsure. “I didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“Jesse, it was amazing.” You pecked his lips, nestling your head on his chest. He let out a breath, nuzzling closer to you.

“It really was.”

Jesse kissed the top of your head.

Jesse sat up, lifting himself off the bed. You watched as his tanned, thick body disappeared into your refresher. He emerged a few moments later with a warm, damp towel and you could hear the sound of your bath running.

Jesse carefully cleaned you up before cuddling back with you on the bed.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” He mumbled, absentmindedly drawing circles on your arm with his hand.

“I know.” You smiled, his laugh at your response reverberating in his chest.

“You mean the world to me, mesh’la. I’m glad we could share this together. Thank you for trusting me.”

“It’s more than trust, Jess. You mean the world to me, too, and that’s why I wanted to take the next step in our relationship with you. At least that’s how I see it.” You blushed, hoping you weren’t moving too quickly for him.

Jesse wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. “That’s how I see it, too.” His voice was quiet, but absolutely sincere. “I’ve never felt this way toward anyone before.”

You touched your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

“That makes two of us.”

Jesse grinned, his forehead touching yours.

You sat there for a moment as the bath warmed up, basking in new feelings that you knew would only grow from here.

The TL: @crosshairlovebot @sev-on-kamino @kimiheartblade @wizardofrozz @clonemedickix @sunshinesdaydream @kashasenpai @freesia-writes @multi-fan-dom-madness @aconstructofamind @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @secretthegriffin @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @secondaryrealm @littlemissmanga @maybethatfanfictionwriter @pb-jellybeans @wanderer-six @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @523rdrebel @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @sleepingsun501 @coraex @cw80831 @dangraccoon @mythical-illustrator @eternal-transcience @the-cantina @nahoney22 @moonlightwarriorqueen @skellymom @reader6898

Dividers by the ever amazing and lovely @dystopicjumpsuit

[vivicanyounot]

"I'm so sorry! I thought you were someone else! ^-^;" "..."

Amy Rose just did the biggest mistake of her life. She ran and hugged some other hedgehog AGAIN! And this one was not what she was expecting.

The last time was a white hedgehog minding their business drinking apple juice at some park and now THIS? This is just utterly embarrassing!

Here she was, gone and hugged a hedgehog drinking coffee quietly on a corner and she didn't expect them to be so into their writing-- She done bumped on his work with ink spilling everywhere. Before realizing her mistake, she noticed how soft this one's fur is.

"This one's really soft!---------------I, wait a minute..."

'Sonic's more of a fluffy kind rather than a soft one.' she thought.

She let go of this hedgehog and adjusted her eyesight to the bright light cascading on the window. This one's fur is BLACK, not blue at all! How could she have missed this?! She really needs to get her eyes checked.

This figure turned their head behind revealing ruby-colored eyes.

"I-I didn't know you were writing! I'm so sorry! I thought you were someone else!" Amy worriedly joked hoping that this hedgehog would sympathize at her. She couldn't help but feel like this hedgehog was someone familiar to her.

"..." Eyes continued to stare. Then to his book. Then back to her again. There was a pause and an incalculable look bared on his face before proceeding to glare this time.

"Now what are you going to do with all of this mess?" he croaks slowly, careful with his words. He points to his book utterly disappointed.

"I-I didn't mean to bump on what you were writing. I hope to make it up to you." Amy said begrudgingly at the last part. She doesn't want to waste time today since she needs to find Sonic as soon as possible. HE has an upcoming tournament and he's seen nowhere at all from the venue! Where could he possible be?---

"Make it up to me, you say?" the stranger asks. He puts his pen down and taps his fingers on the table. Amy gulped, nervously sweating from this hedgehog's threatening aura. Yet still, she wouldn't feel much harm from him at all. She just knows that he wouldn't hurt her weirdly enough.

"It'd be nice if I had a ghost writer. *I* dictate about the contents." He flips his book, almost covered with so much ink stains.

"YOU write on it." He points to Amy then to his book. She has no idea on how to write.

'How on earth am I going to write. Much less have the time to be working with you?!' she thought. She had her hands ravaging her hair. And suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blue figure from the window. And they're ordering from a hotdog stand. Could it be?

"You're probably thinking how this is going to be arranged? Don't worry I've got you covered." He whips out his used napkin on the table and hands Amy his pen. Amy holds his fountain pen but she was distracted. She got other things to worry about like that blue hedgehog from afar already eating his 10 chilidogs. She is determined.

"Just write your number here." He taps on the napkin. Amy didn't think twice about anything she just wanted to get out and give that blue hedgehog an earful of her nagging. She wrote on his napkin quick and easy.

"Yeah yeah, we'll talk about this later. Bye!" She turned around ready to leave until her arm got caught by the stranger. Her emerald-colored eyes focused solely on him. His eyes staring back with a level focus.

"Expect a call from me, Rose." He hoarsed then removes his hand from her arm. Amy saw the blue figure blur past their cafe. She holds her wrist hurt from his handling then consequently left with an irritated look. She still feel his eyes boring into her back.

"What a weirdo." She whispered running out of the cafe.

'And h-he knew my name! Did he also ASK for my number just now?'

How is the world coming into for Amy Rose?

a/n: i just made this story now to support the drawing. should i do a comic of it now too? let me know!!! and maybe you guys wanna continue this story...?

[is-the-snake-video-cute]

Hey, I've tried searching your blog for this but I could only bring up posts advocating against rack systems (rightly so obviously)

I recently got an adult ex breeder BP, she's massive (5'7") and was kept in a 12 gallon bare bones rack tub for her whole life. I got her because a pet shop near me that bred snakes is shutting down, I did pay for her which I feel bad about but they aren't breeding anymore so I guess I'm not funding unethical breeding? Anyway that isn't really relevant I just am rambling

I've heard that taking a BP from a rack system and putting them in their forever enclosure can be really really stressful for them so right now she's still in her tub on my desk but I feel really bad keeping her there.

I have a 6x2x2 set up, I wanted to get a 6x2x3 or 6x3x3 even but couldn't afford it so I'm hoping that's good enough for her.

But how would you transition her to that enclosure? I recently gave my house snake a bioactive enclosure and I love it so the 6x2x2 for the BP has been cycling as bioactive for about 3 weeks (Ive had her 5 days) and seems stable but I'm worried that it's too much and she'll hate it and go off food and stuff (she's quite skinny too:()

But yeah I would really appreciate, if you have the time, any advice on this front. Thank you very much and keep up the good work 👍💟

I just went through this with my new Borneo python, Hobie. Just like your girl, he's spent his entire life in little tubs in racks.

You're right that transitioning a snake like them into their full enclosures is something that should be done delicately! I'll tell you my process and what I do to make it easier for them.

One challenge that you might have is with your enclosure already being set up as bioactive. That's probably going to be quite a bit more overwhelming, and my main concern there is with the lighting. If she doesn't respond well, it's going to be hard to tell if that's because she's just adjusting or because she just doesn't like the lighting (some ball pythons just don't, but unless she's albino or another melanin-reducing morph it's not a bad idea to give it a try).

If it's possible, my idea for you would be try to try transitioning her to a less overwhelming enclosure first. I set my Hobie up in a 40 gallon for now, even though he's going to be moving to a 6x2 later down the line. If you do that, you'd be able to slowly get her used to the lighting once she's adjusted to a larger enclosure itself. If you can't do that, consider adding as much shade as possible for her and even keep the lights off for as much as you can.

Alright, so my process for transitioning former breeder snakes to more appropriate enclosures prioritizes going at the snake's pace and ensuring their comfort.

The first thing I do is put their tub directly into their new enclosure. Just right on top of everything, don't even worry about it. Your goal is keep your snake in a familiar environment while also exposing them to new stuff. Check out Hobie's setup - literally just the tub, substrate, and a water bowl plopped inside the bigger enclosure. You're going to feel tempted to give them lots of new clutter and enrichment - don't. Keep it simple and easy for them, you don't want to overwhelm them!

Then, be patient and let them explore at their own pace. Some snakes will leave their take-home tub almost right away, some will take weeks. Hobie took three weeks before he started feeling comfortable and confident enough to explore outside of it. During this time, offer food and feel free to handle a bit, but keep it short and sweet.

Your snake will likely retreat back to the tub a couple times, but eventually they'll find their new hides and check them out! Wait until they're comfortable - calm, resting, and relaxed inside their new hiding places - and then you can take the tub out.

Once they're comfortable in their full enclosure, it's time to introduce them to enrichment! They'll probably need you to show them their climbing branches and other enrichment items - snakes like them just aren't used to being able to do natural behaviors. Hobie had a great time when he learned he had a swimming pool all to himself!

Take it very slow when you add new things, and don't be afraid to backtrack if your snake gets spooked. Hobie got a little stressed when we tried adding more tunnels for him to check out, but it's fine to take things out and re-add them if your snake isn't ready just yet.

Your snake probably won't know quite how to interact with their environment at first, so just be patient with them! Right now, Hobie's going through a phase where he just hasn't realized he needs to avoid burrowing in substrate that is wet, but short-tails love to soak anyway so it's not a big deal. There will be so many opportunities to find joy in watching them learn and explore!

All the best to you and your girl! It can be a little heartbreaking to get snakes like her adjusted to their new setups, but with time and lots of patience, it doesn't need to be stressful for either of you! Remember to go at her pace and lean into what makes her feel most comfortable.

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

Hi Mara, do you think it’s at all possible to force oneself to enjoy things one usually doesn’t, or do you think it is like chirality and one’s “natural” interests and proclivities are not subject to change? I can’t help but feel stupid and like a liar to myself when trying to live healthier, or be productive and work on myself. It’s just fake, I don’t really care, and so the good habits never stick, but accepting myself for who I am, an empty lazy slob with no real interests, doesn’t feel too good either.

Hi anonymous, thank you for the opportunity for me to yap -- I haven't gotten a good opportunity in awhile :-))

'Naturalness' is weighty and ought not have much to do with the self outside of chirality (if you are approaching it from a Maraist standpoint): all that is, is not much more than confusing shadows that are manipulated by outside actors to stimulate you and draw you in-to the performance, to keep you engaged and connected--I wouldn't believe another person if they told me they a) believe this, and b) live in accordance to the belief of this, as the best way to depart from the actors and their game is to self-depart and un-live, and the dead do not weigh in on much cept soil and dirt.

WITHIN CONFUSION, when I'd been thinking about answering this initially I'd been thinking that I can barely relate to you, anonymous, as most of the 'need' to fake interests seems to be related wholly to connectiveness and those whom we find ourselves connected to, ie: faking acceptance of political issues that match the odorous vibe of the friend group when deep-down the thought needles and smarts, or: someone you care about showing you something that immediately makes you think this is the dumbest thing I have ever seen but I want this person in my life so I'll say something warm, or etcetera; connection itself is a long smear of the self (small and insignificant like a little mustard seed amongst grain) to bury it in a greater body such that the color and timbre is lost amongst the neighbors, as the self is made to become a neighbor, and the self itself is but an echo of the word trapt in fat and mud (or, on the other hand: an echo of the mud trapt in shrill songs and migraine colors); you are, by design, made to be subject to a Gravity and pressurized down away from heaven, and away from self--that is the natural-way;

WITHIN CONFUSION, and less unnecessarily esoteric and verbose and stupid: I don't really believe in 'fixing' yourself one way or the other; I eat the same yogurt concoctions every morning because I struggle thinking of a better temperature/texture combination, but I am getting tired of it--and if I were to extrapolate this out, I think of etiquette-breaks like 'psychiatric profiles' an attempt at suggesting that "Mara will, and forever will, be a breakfast yogurt-lover" though all my life I'd been held over a candle and slowly melted into a yogurt-lover-shaped mold and been made to set that way. The issue I had with struggling to relate is, because I'm fairly lonely and private lately, I do not really have much other than myself to compare my 'likes' and 'dislikes' to. It is very easy for me to not bother forcing myself on-to a dislike, because there aren't many Gravities to pressure me lately. But that isn't completely true; taking cold showers, for instance: hated this but kept up with it; waking up at 4am and cleaning the house and exercising for at-least an hour: hated this, but now it is just an excuse for me to listen to more Stephen King audiobooks before breakfast; morning prayer, same as the morning routine. For some things it really has just been truth to me that if you are forced to adjust, you will adjust--a person can not be passionate forever in their dislikes or hates, same way a honeymoon fades; what you love will become a tired routine (me and yogurt), what you hate will become a tired routine (me and waking up at 4am and jogging), but if you give yourself breaks eventually you allow those feelings to melt and recollect and be subject to passions and not-set as routine.

My failings, anonymous: me and drawing and writing--never been able to force myself to do these; I struggle with forcing myself to abide the word and forbid myself from listening to music completely; even though I have no problem with the vegan diet itself and had a pretty solid run with it: couldn't stop obsessing over "every-thing I hadn't yet tried" and death looming over my head (as it seemed) made the dietary sacrifices seem even more painful and pathetic and done wholly out of some forced desire to be Pure and Saintly (yet on the inside begging sin and dirt no better than a lunatic rat clawing at a cupboard). On food and diet, though: I used to be obese from middle-school to high-school and basically forced myself to exercise/diet pretty strictly out of (as you said) not liking myself as a slob--and I still am driven more-so out of a desire (fear) to not be fat, not be unhealthy, not be a slob, not be ugly--because I am scared of all of those things; it was easy enough to convince myself that eating more than 4 pieces of cereal for breakfast was a gluttonous amount of food and then slowly watch my hair fall out and lose the ability to stand from fatigue--somehow that was less scary than being fat. As well, there's just a mechanical motivation from being intensely sick from diet; if I eat the wrong thing or eat too much I end up bedridden for several days from migraines (the fear imposed from this makes it hard to seek-out trigger foods).

This part isn't even slightly helpful (likely the latter parts, too) but I think regarding diet and food specifically, it helps a lot being open to liking a lot of foods and shaking out what you think you dislike. I might be super privileged there because (although I have some preferences that I stick to ala yogurt for breakfast and wraps) I mostly do not dislike any food, and can only really think of disliking artichokes/brusselsprouts (I hear they're good if you fry them in oil but that is most things..) and badly prepared liver; I love veggies and fruits.

IN CONCLUSION, anonymous, I don't think any of this is particularly good advice and I think a better thing to analyze (than what I wrote) is what you wrote to me, how you refer to yourself, and how you're laying pitfalls for yourself. This world is made to bury you in gravity and lose you in soil, smeared under layer-after-layer of connection until you're convinced you are wax over a candle dripping down into some strange form, and those confusing shadows keep on whispering and whispering and then your mind is looking up out of a mold. Are you unable to force your likes to change? Are you someone who is unable to care about improving yourself? Do you really dislike being a slob? Who are you, anonymous?

To me: you are anonymous; take care, anonymous.

[m00kieblaylock]

Hey 👋🏻

I have not been on here in I think 18 months-ish. Truthfully, 2023 was the most difficult year of my life. It’s completely surreal to be honest that it all happened, I couldn’t have written it if I tried. I think I’m still in a form of shock. I was in too much pain to write anything or even mindlessly scroll on this app, that has for so long been a comfort for me and where I got support from friends who I met or through joy I got from content etc.

Thing is, I lost my beautiful dog in the April who was my heart and shadow, who was my warmth and safe space. A week later I moved to a rural town which completely changed everything about my daily life. In itself it’s been a massive adjustment and identity and community and comfort is something I’m still figuring out. Then a couple months later my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. He passed less than three months after. It fucking sucked because I adored him and never got a proper goodbye. It all just happened so quickly.

A few weeks before he died. My other dog, a sweet and beautiful girl who was my boys soulmate went to sleep and joined him. She was a very special girl and I still fucking miss them both. 2023 was basically me getting my heart torn to shreds too many times so close together that it was too much to even believe.

I was the closest to leaving this planet than I’ve ever been before. While it was definitely understandable to struggle with life at that point, it was worse than that. I find it hard to explain but my depression and anxiety were completely untenable for me to even slightly function. I had the darkest times and while I’m proud that I’m still here it’s been a lot. It’s kind of a miracle to think about how bad things got.

I put a lot of hard work into multiple avenues of mental health treatments. I even had an initial round of TMS treatments - something I would definitely consider discussing with anyone who is interested. It’s been completely exhausting. I am taking far longer than I would have ever anticipated to be myself again after the past couple of years and I do get frustrated, but the road is still ahead of me. Recovery isn’t linear or black and white. So here we are.

I am slowly but surely trying to include more positivity in my days, so I really want to come back on here. I deserve that joy again. I need it, in fact.

So, I’m not sure who is still around, who’s read this far or what has changed, but anyone who wants to catch me up on your life or touch base etc - I’m here to enjoy this little space again 💕✨

Molly 🫶🏻

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 21

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 21.

He put the ship down in a valley of rubble on a speck of a planet. It had been terraformed centuries ago for mining but tapped out early—like a lot of mines past the edge—and been abandoned by the SC. There was a tiny outpost on the other side, so unimportant that it wasn’t even charted as a residence in the Solar Court database.

Rory had been less sure of this little side quest when he landed than he had been when they first came up with the idea, but after seeing the look on Stardust’s face when they stepped off the ship…

How could someone who had lived in the Prime Quadrant of the Solar Court their whole life and probably seen more places than he could imagine, look so awestruck by a wasteland?

He turned and tried to see what they saw.

Lavender slate rubble and dark peaks in the distance, the white glow of the nearest star casting long shadows, and the wink of stars through the gray sky. The wind whistled through canyons and twirled fine particles into purple and black waves off the peaks.

The flare of their optic implant dragged a ring of electric orange light through their irises. Were they adjusting their vision to the lighting or were they recording images?

“No one lives here?” Stardust asked.

Rory laughed. They sounded like they were thinking of claiming the spot for themself. “There’s maybe fifty on the whole planet, mostly on the other side holed-up in what’s left of the settlement.”

Stardust nodded at the horizon thoughtfully, like they understood why those people were out here. Maybe they did, in a weird way. Anyone still living this far out, on a place that got no trade, were hiding from someone. More than likely, some of those people were hiding from Stardust’s family.

With another approving huff, Stardust grabbed the duffle bag and pointed at a spot near the wall of the canyon. “We should set the targets there!”

Rory shrugged and started walking, fishing a spray can from his bag and giving it a good shake. He marked out the target rings in fluorescent green.

“Those aren’t even…” Stardust critiqued.

He rolled his eyes and shouted back, “It’s not going to matter. You’re not going to hit them.”

“No one shoots at circles anyway.”

With a snort he took a few big steps to the side and then painted the crude outline of a person, a neon shadow on the rockface. It reminded him of when he was a kid on a rock not so different from this one. He and his sister had practiced on boulders, the side of a shed, and hollow synthetic skins they propped up in between. It had been a game when he was little. Even she had laughed then when they goofed around. But over those few years, it had changed. It had become increasingly important to hit the mark. It had stopped being fun—stopped being a game—and become survival.

A shot jolted him from his thoughts, a bullet of pink paint slapping the wall. Droplets of paint ricochet onto his cheek.

Rory turned slowly to look back at his attacker.

Stardust blinked and then heaved a laugh. They held their hands out to their sides and up a little, gun still in one. “A test shot?”

He raised an eyebrow and dropped the paint can on the ground by his boot, hands free to draw. They’d loaded up with paint rounds before getting off the ship. “What were you aiming it?”

They smiled sheepishly.

He waited.

Stardust held his gaze and even at that distance, he saw the boundless mischief there. He wasn’t sure they’d actually been aiming for him and not the wall with that first shot, but he knew they were going to try to shoot him this time.

The thrill of it was that for once in his life, Rory wasn’t sure who would be faster.

He wasn’t always the quickest, but he made a point of knowing when he wasn’t—of gauging others and being ready to jump or cheat when his life was on the line. And then there he stood, staring right at a Solinoh and not knowing if he’d survive, but not willing to run either.

Stardust’s eyes widened a fraction and he realized they didn’t know if they were faster than him either. The wind pushed across that space between them.

Their gun hand shifted, coming down and center to aim.

Rory drew and shot.

The sounds of it all were swallowed by the wind but he would swear he saw that splash of orange paint hit their vest before the two collided with his.

Stardust gaped in mock shock, one gloved hand tapping their heart and coming away with neon pink. They held it out to him like proof of betrayal and Rory couldn’t help but laugh. “You murdered me!”

“It was self-defense.”

They laughed, holstering their gun and waving him over. “I hit you first though.”

“The fuck you did.” He slid his pistol into the holster against his ribs.

“Oh, we will be revisiting the duel… But first!” They grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to stand facing the target wall. They were so busy trying to get things set up just right, that he was free to just watch them. They stood in front of him, their back to the target. “Okay… so the pirate is back there—”

“Why a pirate? Why not a merc? Or a primer thug?” Rory countered.

Stardust huffed. “It’s a pirate today. It’s usually a pirate out here…”

He didn’t argue, even though they were wrong. In his experience, it was usually just some random person that had either lost their mind or gone past desperation. But he knew that in Stardust’s limited experience of the edge, it was mostly pirates. That was fair, since they had a bounty on their head that was probably turning some of those average people into mercs and pirates. Desperation killed.

Stardust stepped up to him, focused on their game, and Rory stood still to watch. They were right in his space, almost hip to hip. Their hand slid up his side to settle on one of his guns. “You would be wearing a jacket,” they explained, practically whispering now that they were so close. “No one would expect it.”

They very slowly drew the gun from the holster and Rory held his breath, trying very hard not to read too much into this. His primer was very confusing. Just the other day they’d turned down his flirtation with a blush and then told their friend they might use him as a decoy to get away from their cousin…

But right now… right now, they were looking into his eyes and drawing his gun, slowly curling their arm around their own middle to aim blindly behind themself. They were so close that he felt their exhale on his lower lip.

They pulled the trigger.

Rory watched their pupils pulse with excitement at the shot. He tore his gaze from theirs to look at the wall and the splash of pain near the ground. “I told you,” he smirked.

They twisted around to see too. “That’s why we’re out here. To practice!”

“You could just turn and shoot…”

“That wouldn’t be as cool,” they countered. They weren’t wrong but missing would be so much worse. “Maybe if I pretend to be injured and you’re like, holding me up…”

Rory snorted. “How would that help?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of your incredibly bad shot?”

“Of my brilliant idea!”

His laugh choked off when they put his gun back in his holster and he had to cough to hide it, looking away when they took up their position again—close.

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - X [Finale]

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. Complete.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Redemption: the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

This is it, y’all! Thanks for coming along for the ride. Love hearing feedback.​

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous

Even as the sun set in the distance, the air was hot but dry. None of the sweltering humidity of Lemoyne, nor even the briskness of the northern reaches of New Hanover. No, this land was a land of sun-bleached sandstone and dusty brown earth. Of desert scrub and towering cactus, of coyotes and pronghorn and rattlesnakes.

Fitting, it seems, this inhospitable place is where he landed, the snake that he is.

Arthur Morgan heaves a bale of hay over his shoulder, walking it along the parched ground to an animal pen, where a few ewes linger in the shade of the passing shadows. Even they knew to wait until evening to start moving around - something he will never get through his thick head. Not when there was work to be done.

He should count himself lucky, he supposes. 

No, he doesn’t suppose. He knows.

He’s very lucky. 

Arthur places the bale within the wooden fence, turning back toward the sunset and clearing his throat. The wet cough that had so plagued him is almost gone - the sickness that had left him nearly dead passing with each day. 

He is lucky - and he certainly doesn’t deserve it, not with the life he’s lived. He should have been dead on a mountainside in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood, left by Micah and Dutch after the gang fell apart.

But that didn’t happen.

Somehow, someway, he ended up here, in New Austin, under the hot desert sun - ironic considering that is what the doctor in Saint Denis told him to do - get somewhere warm and dry. Convalescence in an abandoned cabin in Cholla Springs - weeks and weeks of rest before he was able to even leave the bed, much less work on what was slowly becoming a homestead.

He slowly plods back toward the cabin, where amongst the pink-purple light of the dusk settling in, an oil lamp shines through the window. He adjusts his hat on his head, wiping the dust from the back of his neck, and enters the door, closing it behind himself.

“You need to watch how hard you’re pushing yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up to find you scrubbing at dishes in the sink. Your hair is messily tied into a bun on the top of your head, and you wear a light cotton dress, blue like the color of his work shirt. He loves that color on you.

“Ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“I am fine. Stop worrying your pretty little head off.”

He frowns, taking his hat from his head and placing it on the table.

“My head definitely ain’t pretty or little.”

He stops behind you, leaning over you to place a kiss on your cheek. His large hands find your hips and slowly inch forward, lightly pressing on the skin beneath your dress.

“Let’s hope this one is.” You laugh, leaning back against his frame, as Arthur’s hands continue their forward journey, finally resting on your stomach.

Your very swollen stomach.

“Let’s hope they look like you ‘nstead of having my ugly mug.” 

You roll your eyes, swatting playfully at one of his hands, “Hush, you. I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about with ugly mugs. All I see is my handsome cowboy.”

Arthur chuckles, spinning you around.

“How about I get the rest of this and you go lay down.”

Arthur shoos you off from your cleaning as the sun fully sets, telling you that he would finish and for you to get off your feet. You sigh, but agree to his request, rubbing at your back as you slowly walk toward the bedroom. He finishes cleaning up after dinner and puts out the oil lamp in the kitchen, slowly closing the door to your bedroom after he steps in. He takes you in, laying on the spacious bed in a chemise, absentmindedly stroking at your stomach while you look out the window into the night.

He marvels at the sight. Months ago, he held you in his small cot in Roanoke, weeping at the death sentence you both had been given - and now here you are, blooming in the dry desert on the other side of tuberculosis, somehow, someway, surviving the illness and being given a second chance.

And then your stomach slowly began to swell - it was always a possibility, but he never thought this would actually happen. 

“Feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks as he sits by the side of the bed, pulling his boots off and placing them on the floor.

You don’t answer, propping your head up on your elbow, your other hand circling your belly as you lay on your side.

Arthur looks over his shoulder, “Mm?”

You nod, reaching for him as you remove your hand from your belly. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling at him, “C’monnnn.”

Arthur turns completely around, facing you. He snorts with a knowing grin on his face. “I reckon you’re feelin’ mighty fine, my lady.”

“Arthur-” You narrow your eyes in annoyance before he laughs, shucking his shirt from his body and dropping it to the floor.

Laying on the bed next to you, he smirks as your eyes rake over his broad chest - he’s not looking nearly so gaunt these days, emerging stronger and stronger from his sickness.

He reaches for the buttons of his pants, watching your eyes flit down to his hips. 

“See somethin’ y’like?” He teases, pressing one of the buttons of his pants through its eyelet.

“I swear, you’re a no good-” 

He leans over and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. You gasp into his mouth, hands flying up to his chest. 

Arthur’s large hand cups a swollen breast through your chemise, and you moan into his mouth as he gently squeezes.

“Here, turn over, I’ve got you.” He whispers into your mouth, his hand moving to your ribcage. He gently turns you over to face away from him, pulling up your chemise to bare your skin to him. 

Arthur shimmies his pants down his hips, kicking his jeans off before rolling over to press his front against your back. You moan as you feel the long, hard line of him press up against your rear, and a low rumble echoes out from his chest as his arm rounds your belly, tracing down your skin to the apex of your thighs.

You gasp as he slides his middle finger against your core, groaning into your ear when he finds you wet.

“Christ,” he mutters, rubbing gently at the opening of your cunt, making you roll your hips urgently, whining as he refuses to press inside.

“P-please, oh god, please just-”

Your begging halts immediately as he tilts your hips and presses the blunt head of his cock into your core, sliding into your warmth slowly, gently, carefully.

“Look at you,” he drawls as he bottoms out, his hips pressed fully against your rear, and his hand spreads out over your belly, “Heavy with my child and you still can’t get enough.”

You can do nothing but whine as he pulls back and slowly pushes forward again. He presses his face against the curve of your neck, sucking at the skin gently.

The two of you move against each other in a cacophony of sound - skin meeting skin, the wet sounds of bodies tessellating, gasping, and moaning and pleasure.

You press your hips back at him with a gasp, body clenching around him, leading only moments later to him throwing his arm over your belly again, spreading his hand out over his child as he grunts, spilling his hot seed into your cunt.

He pants into your ear, satiated, as your breath slows, you place your hand over his as he gently, slowly circles your stomach.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” Arthur laughs into your hair, rubbing at your belly as he softens inside you.

You smile, craning your head to make eye contact with him, “Least you’ll die an empty man.”

“Yer a minx, you hear that?”

-

Of course, it’s the middle of the night some weeks later when you push at his shoulder, jolting him awake. 

“Arthur.”

“Mmph?” He groans, wiping his hand down his face for a moment before his eyes adjust to the dark room.

He focuses on you, leaning over the bed, rubbing your stomach expectantly.

“Shit, shit, are you-”

“My waters broke a little bit ago. I think we’ve still got some time.” You say calmly, sitting on the side of the bed.

Arthur rockets out of the bed, stumbling around the room as if he were drunk, finding his pants on the floor and forcing his legs through them over his union suit.

“Christ, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I did wake you up, silly.” You deadpan, wincing slightly as a pain rolls through you.

“Damnit, damnit.” Arthur mutters to himself as he shoves his feet into his boots, “I’ll.. I’ll ride up to Armadillo and get the doctor. Y’just…” He trails off, looking at you sitting on the bed.

“I’ll stay right here. I’ll be fine, Arthur.”

He rolls out of the small house like a tornado, saddling his horse and riding through the New Austin desert at a speed he had not in months - the breakneck galloping days outrunning lawmen, those seemed to be behind him.

Ahead was something completely different.

He reaches Armadillo in record time, banging on the doctor’s door and nearly yanking the man out when he answers it. Arthur sits fuming as the doctor, an old bearded man, seems to take his time packing his bag and saddling his horse. After what seemed like forever, they were off again, riding hard for the cabin in the desert. Reaching it, Arthur barges through the door, the doctor following behind, looking somewhat bedraggled.

He finds you sitting in the rocking chair next to your bed, slowly rocking back and forth, hands framing your distended abdomen. You frown as you see Arthur’s frenzied state and the less-than-thrilled look on the doctor’s face.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I hope he wasn’t too difficult,” you say guiltily from the chair, hand over your swollen stomach. The doctor grumbles slightly, and you move to get out of the chair, wincing with difficulty before Arthur pulls you gently to your feet.

“How far apart are the pains?” The doctor asks matter of factly.

“A few minutes.” You grit your teeth slightly, letting a long breath loose after your comment.

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed.” The doctor turns around, pacing toward your bed, putting his bag down on the side table.

Arthur, for the life of him, cannot figure out why both you and the doctor are so calm. He helps you walk slowly over to the bed, and once you’ve reached it, he helps peel off the dress you shrugged on, leaving you only in a chemise as you lie down, breathing out heavily.

He looms over the bed, eyes darting between you and the doctor, who slowly unpacks instruments from his leather bag, placing them on the bedside table, each more terrifying in his eyes than the last.

“You know you aren’t helping.” You say crossly, clenching your teeth against another wave of pain.

Arthur gives you a withering expression before rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands.

The doctor, completely unperturbed or surprised, simply snorts under his breath, “He’s a new father. They tend to be like this.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort something sarcastic, but all that escapes as you moan loudly in pain, your abdomen seizing up.

Without fanfare or any regard for some sort of modesty, the doctor flips the hem of your chemise up, over your waist, and pulls your legs apart, propping them on either side of him, your heels flat against the mattress.

“Alright there, looks like you’re ready. Miss?” The doctor says, turning back toward his bag and 

You look up at Arthur expectantly, breathing in quickly through your nose to keep your mind off the pain.

He quickly moves to the side of the bed, falling to his knees and grasping your hand, which you take and immediately squeeze to get your way through the wave of constriction in your body.

Arthur looks down at you, trying to disguise the fear and trepidation in his eyes. Fear and trepidation that seem to compound when they are finally reflected back at him.

He leans over and places his lips on yours briefly, pulling back before sitting at the side of the bed. 

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shut your eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to calm yourself down. You grasp his hand tightly before your eyes open again, and you nod at the doctor.

The doctor’s mouth presses into a line, “Alright, ma’am. Let’s get this baby born.”

-  

If you were to ask Arthur, years from now, how long it was between the doctor making that comment and the high screech of a newborn cutting through the heavy air, he would have told you hours - hours, days maybe.

You, on the other hand, would laugh and say it was naught but a single hour before the doctor deposited the squalling newborn upon your breast, sticky with blood and the fluids of birth.

“A girl.”

The doctor’s words echo distantly in his head

But oh, that moment, that moment, as the doctor wiped at the child’s skin with clean linen, that Arthur gazed upon what you had created and the newborn takes a breath to stop her crying - her eyes open and Arthur sees his own reflected back at him…

“Oh… ” You whisper lightly, looking down at the baby, “Oh, she has your eyes, Arthur.”

You look back up at him, and the doctor at least has the sensibility to leave the confines of the bed, gathering up the dirty linens to deposit them on the floor.

The newborn wails against her mother’s skin, trying to find warmth as you pull the linen around her tighter, and Arthur is sure he’s never heard a sweeter sound in his nearly forty years of life.

The doctor returns, “We must finish the birth. If I may?”

Arthur watches, mesmerized, as the gruff older man gently removes the child, placing the baby on the bed next to you while picking up the cord that served as the last tie between your bodies.

He holds the pulsing white-blue cord taut, and with his other hand, he flicks the scalpel above the newborn’s stomach, severing the connection between the child and yourself. He blots at the blood that seeps from the stump of the cord before rewrapping the child in the linen blanket. He looks up to Arthur, who is still wide-eyed and incredulous.

“Here, take the child and step outside, I’ll finish the process with her.”

Arthur looks down at you and you nod, and he takes the bundle as the doctor gently lays the newborn in his arms. Her screaming has slowed, at the very least, into a whimper.

Arthur is shocked into stillness, in his broad arms is one of the smallest, most fragile things he’s ever held - he’s terrified and awestruck.

He never held Jack as a newborn. Hell, he never held Isaac when he was a newborn. 

“Go on, I’ll be alright.” You whisper, moving to slowly sit up as the doctor moves to your side.

Arthur nods, trepidatious, taking careful steps from the bedroom into the main area of the cabin, the door behind him closing.

He sits down at the table, slowly, and gently so as not to disturb the baby, finally quieting down as he gently moves his arms back and forth.

What strange dream was this? Was it a dream? Would he wake up dying on a mountain somewhere in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood?

God only knows that’s what he deserved: not to be rescued and thrown into the back of a wagon, taking a long, slow journey west, into the dry and arid desert, where his failing lungs did not feel as heavy in his chest.

His thoughts fly from his head as the baby’s brow furrows, a high wail emanating from her, so much louder than he’d ever imagined.

No, he thought as he stood up, rocking his arms gently as he circled the small kitchen of the cabin, he would not dwell on the past and what has been.

All he knows is the future. All he needs is this. All he will bleed and fight and die for, it exists in this little cabin in New Austin.

The baby cries, her small arms punching upward in discontent.

Arthur also cries, humming some off-beat tune as he rocks his child gently, whispering promises into her ear as he circles the room.

-

Some months later…

-

“She go down alrigh’?”

You nod, closing the door to the baby’s room quietly, and latching the door behind you. It was only a few days ago that you had moved the bassinet from your bedroom into the other one, now that she was sleeping through the night better.

Arthur sits at the table, fiddling with a rifle cartridge, whittling at it with his large knife.

You raise an eyebrow as you sit down opposite of him. He glances up and smiles before continuing his work. 

“Caught a coyote out by the henhouse the other day. Hadn’t made it in, but if I can shoot it and keep the pelt in good condition… Well, there’s two birds with one stone.”

“Ah.” You reply, interlacing your hands together.

He looks up again, his brow furrowing.

“What?” He asks, placing both the knife and the cartridge down, giving you his full attention.

“Wel, it’s uh-” you start, stumbling your way through your sentences, “It’s been… I mean, I’d like…”

“Darlin’. Stop your bellyachin’ and out with it.” Arthur says, the hint of a smirk on his face, his beard finally trimmed short after much complaining from you.

You blink, inhaling slowly. On your exhale, you breathe out a jumble of words so quickly that he doesn’t catch your meaning.

“Alrigh’. Come on now. What are you sayin’?”

You rub your eyes with the heels of your palm in exasperation.

“Christ, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Darlin’.”

He stoops down on one knee next to your chair, taking your hand from your lap and placing it between his own large ones.

“It’s just… I miss you.” You sigh.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No… it’s, I - ”

“You what?” He rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

You sigh and squeeze his hand. “It’s been three months since she was born. I reckon I’m healed enough now to sleep with you again.”

He snorts, part of a smirk on his face, “Y’know you ain’t gotta do any of that to make me happy. I am perfectly fine wa-”

“But what about what I want?”

Arthur takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing it gently.

“What do you want?”

“Arthur, I want you to take me into the bedroom and make love to me.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips again, “You think you’re ready? Healed?”

“Yes, Arthur, I know I’m ready, please-”

You yelp as he heaves you up into his arms as he stands to his full height. One arm below your knees, one behind your back, he carries you to your bedroom, softly nudging the door shut with the heel of his boot.

He makes his way across the room and gently deposits you on the bed, his hands moving to your feet, pulling your boots off before he sits on the edge of the bed to take his own boots off. He tosses them to the side of the bed, before turning back to you, placing a large, warm hand on your knee.

You sit up, placing your hand over his. Your eyes flit from his gaze down to his lips briefly before you lean further forward and catch him in a kiss. Your hands grasp at his shirt, pulling him closer to you, as he slides up the bed to lay out next to you.

You pull back, breathing heavily, and immediately start working at the buttons of his linen work shirt, as his hands move to the ties on your dress, feverish, as if you were teenagers falling into bed for the first time.

He’s stripped you and himself bare, laying you down in the bed before pressing his body against yours. You gasp as he slides his hand, big and warm, between your thighs, rubbing gently at the seam of your body before he slides two fingers inside you.

You mewl into his neck as he crooks his fingers in your cunt, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, lest you dig scars into the poor man’s back again.

“Ar-Arthur… please-”

He lifts his head from the pillow, ceasing the nibbling on your earlobe.

“Yes, darlin’?” He rumbles, his low voice hoarse.

“Pl-please- I’m ready-” You gasp as he thrusts his fingers deeper.

“Think you should come for me, just to be sure.” He smirks into your mouth, pressing his tongue against the seam of your lips. A shift of his hand makes you gasp as his thumb presses on the small nub of your pleasure, slowly circling it. 

You keen, turning your body into him, trying not to cry out too loudly as he works you through a rolling orgasm, clenching hard against his fingers. He grunts in approval into your mouth, slowly pulling his fingers out of your body.

“You tell me if anything hurts, you hear?” Arthur says, panting slightly as he climbs over you, pressing your legs apart as he presses his lips to your jaw.

You nod desperately, wrapping your legs around his hips and chasing his lips with your own. He settles against you, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press at your opening. He slides in, the stretch nearly painful after so long, and you gasp as he stills, halfway buried.

“No, no - I’m fine, just… be gentle.” You plead into his warm neck, your ankles crossing over his hips to not let him out.

“You tell me if you need me to stop,” Arthur whispers into your ear, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Plea-ohh-”

Your mouth goes slack as he presses forward, burying himself completely in your heat. He holds still, his arms bracketing your head as he lifts himself to his elbows.

“Y’okay?”

You nod, smiling, trying not to cry from the sheer feeling of him enveloped in your hips again, you’ve never missed something so much.

Arthur leans back down and kisses you, pressing open your lips with his tongue, groaning into your mouth as he retracts his hips, pressing forward again gently, waiting for any negative response from you.

All he gets is a soft mewl from your throat and your fingers making their way into his hair, to which he takes as permission to find a rhythm of lovemaking.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to be given this chance - after all of his sins, all of the crime and the blood and the wrong that he’s committed in his miserable life - how any benevolent deity could even think about giving him anything.

You moan his name into his ear as he gently rolls his hips into yours. A faint pang of desire settles in his gut - the desire to thrust into you like the early days of your relationship - rough and heady with the need to make you scream. But this isn’t the time. He is more than satisfied moving above you, slowly, gently, and with care.

He’s seen what you’ve been through - he saw how the birth of his daughter took a toll on you - the last thing he would ever want to do would be to hurt you.

You give a hushed cry, nails digging into his neck, as you clench around him. Arthur lowers himself to place his forehead on yours, smiling before pressing his lips against yours, urging entrance again with his tongue. He slows his hips, eventually coming to rest as you pant beneath him, taking in the sweet feeling of constriction on his shaft.

“There’s my girl.” He rasps between open-mouthed kisses, his lips curving upward in a smile.

“God,” you moan, “Ngh-, Arthur…” Coming down from your high, your hands sweep across his broad shoulder blades, the hard muscle returning after his long convalescence recovering from his sickness.

“Mm?” He presses his lips to the bridge of your nose as your breathing slows down.

“Lemme-” you try to push him off of you, hand under his shoulder, “- Lemme get you-”

“Darlin’. You ain’t gotta do nothin’.” He responds, brushing a stray lock of your hair from your forehead.

“I wanna-, I wanna hear the noise you make when you come.” You whine, continuing to push on his shoulder, completely unable to move him in your frustration.

Arthur smiles, and extricates himself from your hips, settling himself to lay at your side, one of his hands spread out on the expanse of skin at your hip, damp with a sheen of sweat. Finally out from under his frame, you lean over him, pressing his hip back so that he lies down on his back. You press kisses down his jaw, across his collarbones and chest, down his stomach to his hips. He grunts slightly as you grasp his shaft in your hand, splayed across his hips as you move to take him in your mouth.

Arthur moans needily as you bob downward.

You look up at him, mouth full of cock, and he’s immediately back in a fancy drawing room wearing a black suit, your eyes just as mischievous as those early days. Those early days when you and he would sneak off and pry orgasms from each other with greedy fingers.

He leans up slightly and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. Arthur smiles, his eyes fluttering as you gently suck. Your hands fondle him, and he does more than shutter his eyes when you lean over farther, taking the entirety of him in your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Darl- god-” he pants, unable to keep his eyes on you as he stares at the ceiling, “I’m gonna -get off, gonna -” 

He looks back down to find you staring at him with that glint of mischief before you bob down again. Arthur grunts, one hand fisting the sheets. 

“Oh god, sweetheart-” his hips buck up once, uncontrolled, as you can taste the beginnings of his orgasm - salty and bitter and very much him. He babbles on as his cock twitches in your mouth, “ Jesus, woman - ngh - suckin’ me so good, -agh - it’s all for you -fuck-”

He bucks up once more and you press your head downward, and with a helpless groan, Arthur stutters his hot release down your throat, gasping in pleasure as you swallow each drip. 

You sit up, wiping your mouth as Arthur falls back on the pillow, utterly spent.

“Jesus, woman, you ain’t lost your touch.” He laughs, swiping at his sweaty forehead as he stares up at the bedroom ceiling.

You smile in return, gently rubbing his hip as he comes down from his high. After a few moments, he raises his head and takes you in with a satiated grin.

“Get over here-” he pulls at you and you happily acquiesce, draping yourself over him as you settle in at his side. Your head pillows on his collarbone, your hand placed firmly over his beating heart. With you securely wrapped in his arms, skin on skin, in this small house you share, your baby girl sleeping across the hall, Arthur marvels at the state of his life.

He doesn’t know how he’s been blessed with this ending. Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it.

But for you - for her - he will walk the narrow path that he has evaded the entirety of his life. You fall asleep quickly, as Arthur pulls the sheet over your nude bodies. Through the somewhat dusty window, the moonlight shines on the pale skin of your shoulder.

Arthur shuts his eyes, a wistful smile settling in on his face as he’s back on the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, watching your bare form in the waters, bathing in the light of the full moon.

He’s thankful for whoever or whatever decided to have mercy on him. For all of his sinning, for all that he is - he is completely unworthy of the hand he’s been dealt.

One doesn’t choose whether or not they get considered for redemption, he figures. All he knows is that he’s gotten it.

[amaretigris]

Toe the Line

Taglist: @jonahmermaid23 @hopeisrising @luna2034 @mylittlemermaid221 @freyagallileaevans @notagreekgal28 @daydreamerwithnohobbies @justagirlthatlovedtoread

𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ

Ch. 6 | 1.7k words | Fluff

𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ

The bright Sardinian sun beaming down and the sea breeze rustling through your hair woke you from your peaceful slumber. Blinking your eyes open, you waited for everything to shift into focus. Black curls and a defined jawline filled your vision. Pulling back slightly in a panic, you examined the prince's relaxed features. His strong arms instinctively drew you back to him when you moved away. Realization hit you in that moment, looking down at your sandy dress. The two of you had fallen asleep in each other's arms on your blanket on the beach.

Your heart leapt to your throat. You could only imagine how much trouble you may be in for this. It was harmless, really. The two of you had done nothing but kiss, and no one even needed to know that. Trying to settle your flaring panic, you laid your head back down, staring at Eric's sleeping face. You were quite content nestled in his embrace. He was warm, and his frame was so solid and comforting. You decided you never wanted to leave from this exact spot. You should at least soak it in while you can.

Closing your eyes, you willed yourself back to sleep. Aware that it likely wouldn't work, you simply enjoyed being snuggled up to the man you'd come to admire so greatly. He had been exceptionally kind to you, and you'd never met a more understanding person. He embodied everything that a young man ought to be. He is royalty, after all. At the feel of Eric stirring, you quieted your thoughts, and remained stock still. You didn't know what his reaction would be to this situation.

Hearing a yawn and a light chuckle from him, you felt Eric's hand come to softly rub your cheek.

"(Y/N)," he whispered.

"Good morning. It's time to wake up," he cooed.

You slowly opened your eyes, adjusting to the brightness once again, and acting as if you'd just woken. You smiled up at Eric, seeing his happy expression. He didn't appear to be bothered by the fact that he'd spent the night with you outside of the castle. You felt a strange sensation in your chest, like a tug at your heart strings.

"We fell asleep on the beach last night," Eric laughed.

"Oh no," you breathed, allowing some of your fear to truthfully show.

"Are we going to be in trouble? Am I?"

You sat up, wiping sand from your gown. It was by far the fanciest thing to ever come into your possession.

"No," Eric supplied.

"You mustn't worry so much, (Y/N). You were with me," he gently grabbed your hand.

"Are you sure?"

You questioned again. There were some estates you'd served that had punished you for far less.

"I promise," he placed a tender kiss on your hand.

"Now, let's return to the castle for some breakfast."

Eric stood, helping you up from the blanket. When you bent down to pick it up, he gently grasped your wrist.

"Leave it. I'll send someone for it later," he smiled.

Nodding, you let Eric lead you to the base of the stairway up to the palace. There, he gingerly fastened your shoes back on your feet. Ascending back to reality, you watched as the sight of the blanket on the beach disappeared from your view entirely. The thought almost made you want to cry. Eric had given you the best night of your life. You weren't sure you would ever get to experience anything like that again. Turning your head forward, Eric noticed your solemn expression. His steps halted.

"Hey, what's wrong, (Y/N)?"

Your eyes struggled to meet his.

"That was perhaps the best night of my life," you spoke honestly.

"I'm only sad that it's over, and I'll never be able to experience it again," you breathed, closing your eyes.

Eric squeezed your hand, and you peeled your eyes back open.

"Come now, love, that was just the beginning," he assured you.

"We may not always throw elaborate balls, but there are other ways we can explore your interests."

You sucked in a breath.

"You mean it? I wasn't sure if you'd still be interested in spending time with me..." you trailed off, lowering your eyes again.

Eric hooked his finger under your chin, bringing your gaze back to him.

"Of course I am, (Y/N). I've already planned our next adventure. And eventually, one day, when my mother can spare you, I planned on taking you out on a voyage with me. You said you wanted to experience it. I can give you that," his lips quirked up.

You stood in stunned silence.

"Would that make you happy, (Y/N)?"

You nodded with tears clouding your vision.

"Eric-" your voice was shaky.

"Ah, sire! There you are!"

Grimsby's voice boomed in your ears.

"We've been wondering when you'd show up this morning," Grimsby smiled mischievously.

At least he was used to Eric's ploys by now, you reasoned.

"Miss (Y/N). Lovely to see you again. Are you alright?"

Grimsby focused his attention on you, taking in the state of your dress.

"Yes sir, I'm quite well," you bowed your head.

You looked back to Eric.

"I must go change," you lifted your skirt to move past them.

"Alright," Eric nodded.

"But you are to join us at the table for breakfast. Prince's orders," he smiled at you again.

Those dimples were quickly becoming the center of your universe. Looking to Grimsby, you blushed, and hurried to your room to change into your uniform. Eric watched your retreating form.

"Sire, did you spend the night with that girl?"

Eric straightened his posture, and cleared his throat.

"Yes, we fell asleep on the beach stargazing. I've never met anyone like her, Grims. It's as if she actually understands me," he started.

Eyeing the smirk pulling at Grimsby's lips, Eric huffed an exasperated breath.

"What?"

He couldn't help but laugh as he spoke the question.

"You must simply be careful, Your Majesty. The queen should not here of you sleeping on the beach with her maid."

"Nothing hap-"

"I know," Grimsby placated.

"I know that you'd do no such thing, sire. But you must toe the line of something so delicate. All the palace staff and your mother love (Y/N), but she would likely be the one to suffer if anything were to happen. Just be careful," he placed his hand on Eric's shoulder.

Eric nodded. He hated to admit it, but he knew that Grimsby was right. He couldn't slip up like that again, not when your good name was at stake. He'd be more careful, but he was relieved that Grimsby had not asked him to stop seeing you altogether. The mere idea made his chest ache.

Somehow, you'd come into his life, and made it exceptionally better.

𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ𖠳 ᐝ ꕀ

Barreling through the palace, you practically skidded to a halt outside of the dining hall. Adjusting your gown and the bow in your freshly brushed hair, you took a deep breath. You had to remind yourself that Eric wanted you at breakfast, though it did little to quell your nerves about dining with the queen. Before you could change your mind, you stepped through the door.

The lavish dining room table that you'd seen so many times but never had the pleasure of eating at stretched before you. At the far end, you saw Eric seated on the side closest to you with Grimsby across the table. The queen seemingly had yet to arrive. Suddenly, as if sensing your presence, Eric looked up from his placemat. He rose from his chair.

"Ah, (Y/N). I'm delighted you could join us. Come sit," Eric waved you over, pulling out the chair beside his for you.

"Thank you," you nervously stepped forward.

You sat, and Eric pushed you closer to the table. Once your seat was adjusted, he returned to his. Meeting Grimsby's smiling eyes, you nodded to him.

"It's good to see you again miss. Don't worry, we'll have your dress cleaned and pressed. I'll send someone to fetch it from you later," he spoke with his fingers steepled before him.

"That's so kind. Thank you," you smiled.

Observing the plate before you, you saw a stack of pancakes and berries- some of which you'd never actually tasted yourself. You looked to Eric.

"This is all for me?"

Eric released a laugh, and you vowed you'd never tire of that sound.

"Of course, (Y/N). You need a good breakfast to start the day," he stated simply.

"Oh," you turned your gaze back to your food.

"Haven't you heard? They say breakfast is the most important meal," Eric spoke softly to you.

You shook your head.

"I don't normally eat breakfast."

Eric pinched his brow.

"Well, we shall have to remedy that. You should have breakfast with us every day."

Quirking your brow in confusion, you started to rebut his statement when you heard the queen's shoes against the floor. You moved to stand, but Eric's hand came up to settle on your arm.

"There's no need for that presently. You're eating among us," he whispered to you.

You gulped, but nodded. You felt you could listen to Eric. The queen entered the hall in all of her grace. She met your eyes with a smile.

"Good morning, (Y/N). How wonderful of you to join us," she mentioned as she walked past you to her end chair.

Your heart was racing. You'd never been so informal in your life. But, to your surprise, the queen sat and carried on with her breakfast as normal. Seemingly unbothered by your presence, she asked you a couple questions.

"Now, (Y/N), Eric tells me that he lended you a book on nautical legends. Are you actually reading it?"

You swallowed your bite of pancake.

"Yes ma'am," you nodded.

"I finished it last night. It's quite fascinating," your fingers started to fidget.

You certainly weren't used to being the center of attention. The queen hummed her approval.

"Spectacular. I'm so happy that he's found someone to discuss his interests with after all these years," she smiled at you.

Eric reached his hand over to still your fingers, and your eyes rose to his with a blush dusting your cheeks.

"Yes, next I'll lend her Aristotle's On the Heavens," he spoke with his eyes still locked on yours.