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faesystem · 10 months

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As an ambulatory wheelchair user I have so many thoughts about how people draw/write disabled!Scar. This is sort of a guide/insight from a disabled person about writing/drawing disabled people.

Specifically in regards to wheelchair users.

Do not get me wrong, this fandom is genuinely probably the best group of people I have ever seen when it comes to drawing wheelchairs. I do not believe I have ever seen Scar fanart where he is in a completely unusable, horrible, hospital chair. It is so clear people have taken the time and energy to research into wheelchairs and I love it. I am in no way saying stop that.

I just think people could maybe put a little bit more consideration into him being disabled beyond visual appearance.

I saw a really amazing artwork of SL!Scar and he is in a sports chair. Which is really cool, in many ways, as it shows some thought being put into the setting. If I were in combat, I would in fact like to not be knocked from my chair or have my chair tipped over.

Yet, you have very limited mobility in a sports chair. It is, by design, made to prevent you from tipping over. Which means that you are incapable of going over bumps, really, let alone natural terrain.

Just in general, there really is not any wheelchair that exists in our world that would allow wheelchair users to exist in a setting like the life series.

So, I have some ideas:

- Horses. Hands down my biggest suggestion. Especially with Secret Life they fit in very well with the setting, everyone uses them, and it fits the bill perfectly for what he would need. Especially considering Scar is an archer, it makes a lot of sense for him to be on horseback. It suits him and his style of fighting so well.

- Some sort of redstone power chair. There are all sorts of ways you could design something like this. Perhaps with pistons that push down against the ground, allowing for jumps. Perhaps just a series of pistions functioning as like a bunch of little spider legs. There are a lot of things you can do with that, you can get very creative.

- For my Vex!Scar lovers, you could have magic be used as a mobility aid. Perhaps a magic wheelchair, or perhaps a magic exoskeleton.

And with all of the ideas, considering how they fit into the setting really changes everything. What are the strengths? What are the draw backs?

With horses, they are strong and fast and agile. But they are big, it is hard to fit into small spaces, and they can be killed.

With some sort of redstone chair, I feel as though it would make sense for it to be robust and strong. Depending on how it is constructed, something fast and agile or perhaps something a bit slower and more clunky. Is it loud? How would stealth work in something like that?

When it comes to any sort of magic you do not want it to fix the disability. It is a mobility aid like any other. Not perfect, not the same as not being disabled, just another tool with its own unique draw backs. Perhaps magic is draining or it takes concentration. Would he tire quicker than others? Would he require food quicker than others? Is it possible for him to lose focus on it in a stressful situation, leaving him stuck until he can calm himself down?

Other things to consider are really specifically the setting as well as what disability you are giving him.

I feel as though on Hermitcraft an option like a redstone chair just makes a lot of sense. Multiple redstone chairs, even, all constructed differently for different uses. Such as ones for building. How does long distance travel work with the chair and how you lore your setting? Is it something he can put in his inventory? Is it something he remains in when using an elytra? Does that have any draw backs, such as being slower or needing more rockets or being less coordinated in the air?

I feel as though in the life series a mix of vex magic and horses makes a lot of sense. The magic is good for small spaces and short trips and emergencies, but it is too tiring to travel across the map with and too much effort to maintain when he needs to concentrate on battles. That would be where the horse comes into play.

As for what disability, well, it truly depends. Most of my rambles here have been based upon paraplegia, because I often times see people making him an ambulatory wheelchair user just because they do not know what to do otherwise.

Not that making him an ambulatory wheelchair user is a bad thing by any means. I am one and I adore reading stories like that. It is just a bit clear that a lot of you are quite lost as to how to navigate hurdles disabled people face, so you make it so he can walk over those hurdles. Which, once again, I am not shaming you for! This post is just to show there are other options

But in the case of him being an ambulatory wheelchair user: why is he one?

Mobilities aids are disabling unless you need them. You cannot access spaces or you do not have hands free or any number of things. What to the Scar you are writing makes using mobility aids helpful instead of a hindrance? What times are they more trouble than help, and what cost is there for not using it?

A good example is if Scar can walk around short distances with minimal difficulty/drawback, but long distances are painful or physically not possible.

Look into different disabilities and consider it. A lot of people tend to default to chronic pain because that tends to be quite a common one across a lot of disabled people, but there are a lot more different reasons why.

It could also be that he is very slow because of his disabilities. I have muscle weakness sometimes because of my FND, and it is like moving through sludge whenever I try and move.

It could also be that the mobility aids are a preventative measure. He does not need to use his wheelchair, unless he has done too much walking and then his body refuses to support his weight. He does not need to use his wheelchair, but when he does not he is a lot more likely to dislocate something and then yeah he can't walk. He does not need to use his wheelchair, but he is a fall risk especially after a lot of walking or running. Him being in his wheelchair prevents him from falling! (And if he's a fall risk, maybe he's strapped in too!)

I just have so many thoughts and I wanted to share them.

I see so many of you putting in effort already and it warms my heart. It is why I feel comfortable enough to make this post, because clearly you all care a lot about representing disabled people well.

If you have read this far thank you so much. Let me know what you think or if you have any questions.

Edit: I made a rough redstone wheelchair design. It is one of the few reblogs that has comments, if you filter for that you should be able to find it. If not, reply to the post and I can send you the link to it. :]

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sunonyoreface · 2 years

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One Cot - Simon “Ghost” Riley

Hi there, this story is a one shot about Simon Riley. I haven’t played COD before and I don’t know much about his character, but I love the thought of tough men being soft.

Summary: You help Ghost on a cold night and he returns the favour.

Word count: 2398

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: none, fluff.

Crews like task force 141 aren’t the type to pack extra cots. They don’t need them. Because crews like 141 don’t make a habit of bringing home extra bodies. There’s only ever one scenario when they have extra cots. Luckily for them, tonight’s not one of those nights.

For me, however, that means another night on the floor with my ankle cuffed to the bottom of one of their cots in case I try to run.

Although I’m deemed non-violent, I’m also a flight risk. According to them at least.

According to me, I have no clue where we are or how I’d even survive away from them. I’ve got no money, no ID, no map or compass, or even the slightest clue how I’d escape. Regardless, the cuffs stay on.

My wrists face the same fate. But my hands are free enough to rake them through my damp hair, working them through the tangles. It’s a soothing feeling of normalcy in this strange place.

In his cot on the other side of the room, Soap waits for one of the other boys to return from the showers and trade off babysitting duty.

One thing I can say is that chivalry is not dead, because they allowed me to shower first. Not that it matters all that much. There’s no hot water anyway so there isn’t much of a benefit in going first. But it’s the thought that counts.

Ghost is the first one back. It’s strange not seeing him wear layers upon layers of tactical gear. Instead, he only wears dark jeans and a black henley. And the balaclava too. I’ve yet to see him take it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showered with it on. I don’t know that the other guys have seen him take it off either. They make comments sometimes, little jabs and jokes about how it never comes off. Ghost hardly notices though. Or maybe I should say hardly reacts. He’s stoic through it all, preventing any emotions from breaking through.

Soap leaves without a word. They understand their positions. So well, that half the time I think they’re communicating through their thoughts.

Ghost places a duffel bag on the cot I’m cuffed to. I sit cross-legged on a blanket on the floor as he ruffles through it.

His strong form towers over me two feet away. Ghost doesn’t make eye contact as I watch him search through the bag. He’s less threatening without the bulky gear and a gun in his hand. But that mask is still terrifying enough to find its way into your dreams.

However, it's not the mask that sets me on edge around Ghost, it’s his eyes. They’re cold and unwavering, giving away nothing. They’re the eyes of a killer. Of someone who enjoys inflicting pain. Of someone whose been in so much pain himself, his only release is passing it on to others.

He hasn’t bothered me that much since my first day with them all. Back when he was ready to put me down like a lame horse. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up. Still am, if I’m being honest. Price stopped him, but if it was up to Ghost, I’d have been dead for days now. Even now, I’m sure part of him wants to kill me knowing it’s the more logical option. But until then, he’s under orders to keep me alive.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a staring problem?” His rough voice breaks the silence. He rarely acknowledges me so for him to speak up must mean I’ve struck a nerve. My mouth suddenly feels dry.

“Just you,” I say. “Sorry.”

But I don’t look away. I continue to watch him search through the bag. I don’t know what he’s looking for but he can’t seem to find it. The tight sleeves of the Henley hug his strong arms. Even through the fabric, I can see the defined lines of his muscles. His posture is nearly perfect and his movements could almost be considered robotic.

“What’re you looking for?” He doesn’t seem like the type of person to misplace his things.

“Nothing,” he responds bluntly.

“Maybe it fell behind the cot. I can check for you?” I offer.

“Negative.”

“Are you sure beca-“

“Stop talking, y/n,” he snaps. I flinch at his response. As he says this he finally makes eye contact with me and I regret ever looking at him. There’s an anger in his eyes that no man I’ve ever met has been able to match. A deep-rooted hatred for the world and all of its inhabitants. It’s not a look that you’re born with. It’s one that’s carved from years of pain and betrayal. He’s witnessed the type of things that would break most people. The intensity of his gaze is too much. I break eye contact to stare at the floor.

Fine. I won’t try to help.

I lean against the cement wall and try to think about anything else. I press my hands to the inside of my thighs in an attempt to warm them up.

When they found me I was only in ripped shorts and a ratty tank top with nothing else to my name.

Since then some of the men spared me a set of long johns, a long sleeve shirt, and a pair of thick socks. I’m not allowed shoes in case I try and take off. It’s better than what I had but the warehouse is cold and the cement floor seems to suck out any heat my body produces.

Ghost angrily zips up the duffel bag and tosses it on the floor at the other end of the cot. I watch the bag skid for a foot before finally coming to a stop.

He climbs onto the cot with a dissatisfied grunt. Ghost sleeps with his head on the far side of the cot and his feet at the end I’m cuffed to. He doesn’t take his shoes off. None of them do. In fact, I’m surprised he isn’t sleeping with more gear on. Some days they’ll all sleep in their tactical gear as if they’re waiting to be attacked. Part of me is relieved they don’t feel as though that’s a threat tonight.

I can hear voices echo down the halls. Some of the others must be done in the showers.

I lie down on my makeshift bed: a pillow and a blanket that I fold in half to act as a mattress and duvet.

When I lie down, however, something shiny catches my eye under Ghost’s cot.

It’s a tiny chain. A necklace.

On my hands and knees, I crawl under his cot to grab the necklace.

“What’re you doing?” Ghost mumbles above me. I hear him shift his weight against the rough canvas fabric.

When I back out from under the cot, he’s sitting with his legs off the edge. Suspiciously eyeing my movements. His right hand is in one of his pant pockets probably wrapped around a knife in case I try something.

I kneel in front of the bed beside his legs. My damp hair clings to my neck and the tip of my nose is red and cold.

I raise the chain up to Ghost. His eyes latch on immediately.

“Is this it?” I ask. He eyes me suspiciously. I see him searching for any signs of deceit. Maybe I lied to him and hid the chain from him. Maybe I pickpocketed him before he went to shower. But I didn’t do any of those things. I hold his eye contact this time. His brows soften ever so slightly. It seems to be enough.

Ghost doesn’t say anything. Instead, he simply grabs the chain from my hand. His fingers brush against my palm as he scoops it up. He examines it a moment before slipping it over his neck and tucking it under his shirt.

I don’t know why but I was hoping for a thank you. Or at least an acknowledgment that I’d helped. But Ghost remains silent. At the same time, the voices reach the room. Roach and Gaz round the corner from the hallway.

At their entrance, I turn back to my makeshift bed and pretend to sleep. It’s not that I don’t like them - although I don’t, in fact, I don’t like any of them - but I don’t have the energy for more questions from them tonight.

I hear Ghost shift in his cot and it seems our thoughts are on the same track.

As hard as I try, sleep doesn’t come. They shut off the main lights over an hour ago, yet I still haven’t calmed down enough to drift off. It doesn’t help that I can’t stop shivering from the cold.

The warehouse remains utterly silent except for the light snores and breathing of the men. Only the emergency lights fill the corners of the room with dim, orange light. They’re almost comforting in a way.

I pull the single blanket tighter around my shoulders and ball up even smaller if that’s possible, but nothing helps. My bones shake and my teeth rattle. If only I had another blanket.

The cot next to me creaks as Ghost shifts in his sleep. It creaks some more and then I notice he’s sitting up.

Ghost spares a glance in my direction as he rummages through his pocket for something.

Something silver glints in the light and I realize it’s a key. He wordlessly tosses it in my direction and by some stroke of luck, I catch it mid-air.

It’s the key to the cuffs. I spare an uneasy glance in his direction. He wants me to uncuff myself?

Ghost doesn’t react. Instead, he watches as I process my thoughts, as I push through my weariness and unlock my ankles first before freeing my wrists.

I reach to pass the key back to him but instead of grabbing the key, his large hand wraps completely around my wrist and tugs me in close.

I’m face to face with him as his other hand wraps around my jaw so I can’t pull away.

“If you try to run, I’ll kill you,” his low voice is barely above a whisper. The edge to his tone makes the threat feel all the more real.

“Okay,” I nod in response. My heart is racing and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Come here. Bring your blanket,” he motions to the cot. I spare a glance at the narrow bed. Surely he doesn’t want to share it with me? There’s barely enough room for one person let alone two.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back as though it’s an option. I don’t know where he’s going with this suggestion and I don’t think I trust him.

“That’s an order, y/n,” his response does nothing to ease my soul, but I grab my blanket anyway and crawl onto the cot.

It’s now he notices my hesitancy. How I purposely leave space between us on the bed. That I’m unsure of why he wants me up here. The fogginess of his intentions.

“I can't sleep with the sound of your teeth rattling in my ears all night,” nothing changes in my expression so he tries again, his tone softer this time. “You’re safe, y/n. I’m safe. Nothing’s going to happen.”

I sigh in relief but don’t say anything in response. He knows.

“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket for me to slide in. The warmth immediately welcomes me into the space.

The cot is more narrow than a twin mattress and leaves little to no wiggle room for two people. I’m pressed tightly into Ghost's chest as his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer and preventing me from falling off.

I thought I’d be tense but the heat under the blankets completely relaxes me. I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck. His balaclava is soft against my cheek. I hear his breathing pick start to pick up. I can feel his chest expand deeper than before.

“Thank you,” my voice is barely audible, but I know he heard.

As I adjust to our proximity, I breathe in the scents that linger on his skin and in his clothes. I can smell the same standard citrusy shampoo on him as myself and the rest of the crew use. But there’s also a remainder of smoke and gunpowder from the day’s work. There’s something else more unique to him and yet I can’t put my finger on it. I take a deep breath and allow myself to revel in the calming smells. This shouldn’t be comforting and yet it is.

Nothing about this situation should be comforting and yet I feel safer than I have in weeks.

Wrapped in Ghost's arms, I know nothing else in the world can get to me. My only danger is the man who holds me. Yet I know in this instance after he’s sacrificed his space and his bed for me, that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

Ghost shifts against the canvas again. This time pulling me on top of him as he spreads out across his cot. He wraps his arms around my back he readjusts for the final time. I feel so small on top of him. Ghost spreads a hand out across my lower back and it feels as though it takes up the entire width of the space. His thumb soothingly brushes back and forth along the arch of my spine.

I lay my head on his chest and listen to the thrum of his heart. It beats strong and steady like a bass drum. I feel myself relaxing even more as my breathing starts to match his. I feel myself start to drift as my head lulls with his chest when it rises and falls.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t worry about what tomorrow brings. I’m so content in his arms that I don’t think about what’s next. All that fills my mind is the strength of his heartbeat and the distant scent of gunpowder. The last thing I think about before finally nodding off is the feeling of his thumb brushing up and down along my back, letting me know everything is going to be alright.

Edit+A/N: I have never received this much attention on a story before so thank you!! When I have time should I write more for Ghost?

Fic based on this concept:

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eowynstwin · 7 days

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Blackbird, Fly - Two

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him—perhaps it has something to do with you. previous masterlist ao3 next

Kyle Garrick—who instructs you to call him Gaz, explaining it as a nickname—drives you out of town in a two-horse wagon. The countryside is dyed in pastels by the softening light of a just-setting sun, every bit as beautiful as Hans had written when he told you about it.

Like a painting, he said. Everywhere you look could be framed in gold. I wake up every day in this land and thank God I have the fortune to live in it.

Here now, as the wagon rattles down the wheel-carved trail, you understand his words. You feel that if you brushed your fingers against the sky overhead, towering with lavender-bottomed clouds as thick and soft as cotton on the stem, that they might come away smeared in blue and pink and violet. The surrounding landscape is a cornucopia of vibrant greens, rich browns of trees and soil, and clusters of orange, yellow, and white wildflowers.

You keep looking all around you to take it in, jostling your driver beside you, but Gaz seems not to mind. At least, he doesn’t say anything.

You’ve been trying not to feel so aware of his presence, but the endeavor is impossible. He is a solid weight beside you on the driver’s seat, exuding warmth where your shoulders brush against each other, and the earthy, masculine scent of him is inescapable. Every time his elbow or knee or thigh nudges yours during the natural sway and jostle of the wagon ride, you have to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. Ever since you stepped foot off the train, you’ve felt like a lightning rod set out in anticipation of a storm.

You ascribe it to displaced longing for your husband-to-be. You’d spent the whole journey west imagining how you’d meet, longing for the moment he took you into his arms for the first time. Gaz is a handsome man—it’s only natural that your unfulfilled anticipation would transfer onto him. Especially considering he said you were perfect.

But then said very little after that. He’d seemed—well, not friendly, but at least amicable on the train platform, so you wonder if your manners have offended somehow. He’s spent most of the drive now with his eyes ahead, partly obscured by the brim of his hat. Occasionally he glances at the letters in your hand, but otherwise does not acknowledge you.

After one such glance, your discomfort with the silence becomes too much to bear.

“I read my favorites every night,” you tell him.

If Gaz is surprised when you break the silence, he doesn’t show it. “That so,” he murmurs.

All you have is his profile, very handsome in the light. The line of his mouth is taut.

“I know it’s silly,” you continue nervously—you have a bad habit of rambling when you’re uncomfortable. Adjusting your carpetbag in your lap, you go on, “but you must understand, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I never expected to marry, you see.”

He grunts.

“Much less to be a mail order bride,” you say. “I always thought I would be an old maid, for lack of available suitors if nothing else. Mama and Daddy thought I ought to learn to read and write, to improve my prospects, but most folks where I’m from don’t care much about all that.”

“I see,” replies Gaz. He still does not look at you.

“Sometimes I think it even made them like me less, like I was putting on airs, being smarter than them.” You realize immediately how arrogant you must sound. “Oh, but I don’t mean any offense! I don’t mean to suggest I have ideas above my station. It’s only just that, I wondered for years and years why no one offered for me, and it was the only thing I could think of. Why would a farmer’s daughter need to read and write? And why would a wife need to, if her duty is to tend to her children and her home? So that must be why no man has ever been very interested in me.”

You realize with horror that words are pouring out of you faster than you can keep up with them. And your driver’s attention has not shifted; his eyes remain on the road.

You look at your lap, face burning. “I’m sorry, I’m just annoying you, Mr. Gaz. I’m sorry.”

Shame grips you, tight and awkward. If you’d wanted to endear yourself to this cowboy at all, you’ve already failed.

But Gaz finally says, “Most men are idiots.” You look at him; he does not look at you. “I’ve only just met you, and I like you fine.”

He says it matter-of-factly, as if no more need saying on the subject. Simple and to the point; an economy of feeling you imagine must be characteristic of men in this part of the country.

Hans was like that too, in his letters. Communicating feeling without dancing around it, with a bluntness that ends up soft in its honesty.

It eases the tension frothing poisonous in your belly. “Thank you,” you say.

You ride in silence for a stretch. A cool breeze catches the free-floating ends of your hair, rustles along in the tall grass by the wayside. The steady thump thump thump of the horse’s hooves, and the creak of tackle and leather, are the only sounds populating the air.

Home was quiet like this, too; the fields stretching endless and green beneath the sky, the silence there so blank and open that birdcall traveled for miles, and the lowing of the family milk cow sounded sometimes like the trumpet of God.

You peek again at Kyle Garrick. There’s a furrow to his brow, the kind a man gets when he’s in a mood and won’t admit it if asked.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quietly, because he made you feel better about things, and you’ve done little more than whine.

He finally looks at you, the edges of his face lined and glowing in the evening light. Studies you, for a moment. The furrow eases.

“No,” he says, “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m afraid manners are secondary on a ranch, without a good woman nearby to remind about ‘em.”

You give him a small smile. “Have you worked for Hans very long?”

He turns his gaze back to the road. “Six or seven years, now.”

You toy with the clasp of your bag; you’re brimming with questions. “Is he really all that tall?”

“Oh, yes,” Gaz says. “Like a giant.”

“What’s he like?”

Gaz gives a great breath through pursed, full lips. “Fair, I guess. Asks a lot of us—but then most bosses out here will. Worked for his father for a few years before him, too.”

“You must be a good hand then,” you say.

“I work hard,” says Gaz. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m sure Hans is grateful,” you reply. “He must trust you very much, to send you for me.”

The furrow returns. “He must.”

It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him, and it’s nothing you will resolve between now and when you make it to the ranch. Perhaps it has something to do with you—a new face, an unknown quantity that threatens to knock the balance of his livelihood askew.

You sigh a little. Of course, you should have expected to have to win Hans’ people over. Their loyalty to the late Mrs. König will inevitably be challenged by your arrival.

Neither of you speak again—you decide not to push what little grace Kyle Garrick has given you, and he does not volunteer any more conversation. The rest of the ride is unremarkable, leaving room for anticipation to grow in your stomach; soon the wagon crests the slope of a hill, and your destination comes into view.

Long Mask Ranch sits at the base of a range of mountain foothills, fed and watered emerald green by spring runoff. You’ve been on Hans’ land for a while now; opening up before you is the ranch proper. A collection of buildings form a semicircle around a large corral in the valley: stables, a barn, some cabins, and a large two-story gabled manor, painted white.

The sun sinks further toward the horizon as you approach, painting the world in liquid orange. Figures resolve themselves, people moving tables and chairs around, and on the manor’s front porch, observing the proceedings, stands a tall man in a rancher’s coat and hat.

Lightning suddenly bolts through you. You sit very, very still as Gaz pulls the wagon through a cast iron archway adorned with LMR at the apogee. Your heart thrums in your throat like a picked guitar string. When you finally come to a stop, the man’s head turns to toward you.

At the worst possible moment, shyness grips you. You look around, at anywhere but him, at the house, the corral, the cowboy beside you.

You startle to meet Gaz’s eyes. The expression he wears is a mask of seriousness.

“This is it,” he says.

Your voice leaves your chest trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Gaz.”

“Just Gaz is fine, Miss.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” you reply. Propriety feels like the only solid thing to cling to just now.

He looks away. The line of his mouth tightens. “Of course,” he says.

He dismounts the wagon in one smooth motion, boots hitting the packed earth hard. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tall man start his way over to you. Gaz rounds the back of the wagon, and you give your bag to him once he’s at your side. He offers his hand to help you down.

You’re dazed as you take it, lightheaded as suddenly the present moment becomes very, very real. It’s warm, his hand; rough in all the places you expect a cowboy’s hand to be. Yet there’s something soft in the way your palms meet, how the dips and contours align with each other and fit together. You’re shaking very hard as you ease your way from the seat, gripping him tightly until your feet meet the ground, and his grip circles yours with a solidness to it in a way unlike any man has ever held you.

You meet his eyes again when he hands you your bag. Gaz gives your hand a squeeze, averts his gaze, and lets you go.

“There she is!” an accented voice announces.

You pull your gaze from Kyle Garrick and the mystery of his tension with you, and turn to face your intended husband.

Hans König has loomed large in your imagination for half a year. He’d described to you what he looked like, of course, as best he could, but you find as you look upon his face that no written word can convey what it means to meet for the first time the man you will marry. You’d fallen in love with someone formless, absent, but inscribed in other ways with enough distinction to nurture your tender feelings.

Looking upon him now, though…his appearance offers nothing to that distinction. He’s neither ugly nor handsome. As he comes to stand before you, you think he rather looks like every other middle-aged man you’ve met in your short life, although certainly much taller. You meet his eyes—pale blue, as he’d related—and the rush of love you’d expected to feel, once you knew who he was, simply does not come.

This man is a stranger to you.

You reprimand yourself immediately. He isn’t a stranger. You’ve known him for six months. His face is simply not one you have attached any love to yet; the measure of his character is contained in the stack of paper in your hands. In the promises he made to you to make your quietest dreams come true.

So you smile the way you’d dreamed you would—like watching the sun crest the horizon after a long night of darkness, seeing the bounty of the near future coming toward you. Summoning joy by making room for it to exist.

“Hello, Hans,” you say, “it’s me.”

Hans König steps forward. He looms over you truly, now, eclipsing your vision. “It is you, indeed.”

Without another word, right there in front of Gaz, Hans grips your shoulders, bends down, and kisses you on the mouth.

Your brows shoot upward. It’s the first time anyone has ever kissed you. His lips are…hard, and motionless against yours. Almost perfunctory. You are so shocked he’s done it that you don’t think to respond, and then as suddenly as it happened, it’s over. He pulls away, pats your shoulders with a little smile, and then looks at Gaz.

“Get that wagon put away and then go help the others,” says Hans to the cowboy, slinging one arm around your shoulder.

Your brows lift further. Is that all he has to say to him, for delivering you safe and sound?

Gaz doesn’t seem to share your feelings. “Yes, sir,” is all he says, even and toneless.

But he looks between you and his employer for more than just the span of a heartbeat. Eyes going from him, to you, to the arm around your shoulders. Then he meets your gaze, expression stony.

If Gaz is wary of your presence here—if you’re going to win him over—the best time to start is now. “Thank you very much for seeing me here safely,” you say. “I was so glad of your company, Mr. Gaz.”

To your dismay, his expression only tightens. Gaz looks at Hans again, then back at you.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he says.

Then he climbs back into the wagon, gives the reins a snap, and drives away.

a/n: fun fact, the ranch and neighboring town are based off Valentine and Emerald Ranch from rdr2 :) the ranch layout is more like Pronghorn Ranch however.

#gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz x you #gaz x y/n #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz x you #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #blackbird fly #mwritesgaz #madi writes #was gonna schedule this to post tomorrow but realized if it's up on ao3 it might as well be up here too #oh well

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cuubism · 2 months

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as a certified horse obsessed freak i'm obliged to have an equestrian au so here's an equestrian au. make it olympics flavored for relevance. but there will be no sex in hay!! EVER!!!

it is smutty though.

Dream Endleas’s reputation for being difficult preceded him. His critical eye, his adherence to perfection, his crisp turnout and refusal to ever appear the slightest bit disheveled even after competing in the summer heat; his family, his money, his luxury-brand sponsorships—Hob had seen enough videos of Dream’s Grand Prix tests to be prepared for all of it. But he wasn’t prepared for the force of seeing it in person.

Dream in person was somehow even more perfect and posh than he appeared on video. Hob hadn’t actually spoken to him yet, had only communicated through his groom, Matthew, while getting the horses settled in—but God, he looked like such a prat. He looked like the type of snotty kid Hob had seen around the yard growing up, the type who thought they could ride because their parents had bought them a fifty-thousand pound pony. The type that persisted into adulthood, rolling up in a Range Rover to get on an already tacked horse, later handing their fancy horse back to the groom before stalking back out of the stable in pristine white breeches, leaving all the care to others.

Hob might have had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about that sort of thing.

It would have been easy to hate Dream, except that, fancy horse or not, he actually could ride, exceedingly well at that, and—and Hob was feeling very betrayed by his dick on this one—he was also blisteringly hot.

Dressage competition wear was, by and large, not one’s first choice of clothes that would be considered “sexy.” The combination of “business formal” and “cavalry officer on parade” wasn’t exactly giving come hither, but Hob took one look at Dream stalking down the center aisle of the barn in his clean white breeches and his high boots and his black coat with its little fucking Union Jack embroidery and he wanted. It was a good thing thoughts were an internal situation because it was embarrassing how quickly he went to I want those skinny little thighs wrapped around my head. Mortifying, really.

He was thinking about it so hard he didn’t immediately realize Dream was coming for him.

“You,” Dream said, stopping before him. “You are the stable manager.”

“That’s me,” Hob agreed. Regretting it more every minute, too. Managing the horses for the Olympic team had sounded like a good gig in theory…

“Why have the horses not been turned out?” Dream demanded.

“Aren’t you competing in—” Hob checked his watch— “an hour? Why are you asking me this now?”

“Because it came to my attention that things were mismanaged,” Dream said, unrepentant, then stood, waiting for his answer.

Hob sighed. “They didn’t provide us any turnout space.”

“They did not provide—” Dream started, then stopped, apparently flummoxed. “That is unacceptable.”

Hob had to grudgingly admit that it was to his credit that he cared. Not everyone did. “Tell me about it. But if you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a several hundred year old stable and they weren’t about to revamp the entire situation for us.”

“As per usual, horse welfare comes last,” Dream said, narrowing his eyes. Jesus Christ, Hob thought, he’s wearing eyeliner. “Be advised that I will be paying close attention going forward—” he looked at Hob’s name badge— “Hob Gadling.”

And with that ominous statement, he turned and stalked off.

“Good luck with your test,” Hob offered, half-heartedly, to Dream’s retreating back. Then, to himself, “Really? That prick’s the one you want?”

He could hardly be angry with Dream for being upset about it, though. Hob certainly had a bone to pick with the organizers about the horses being stalled 24/7. But he doubted that the people who managed The Palace of Versailles gave a fuck what he thought.

It did mean less for Hob to do, though. So once he’d done another round of their team’s wing of the stables he headed out to the arena to watch Dream’s test. There was no way Hob was going to miss watching him ride after a performance like that. If you were going to live up to your reputation of being rude and difficult you had damn well better live up to your reputation for skill as well.

Unfortunately for Hob, Dream did in fact live up to that reputation. He and Jessamy were gorgeous together. She was a smaller and lighter horse than many of the others and seemed to practically float across the ring. Dream made it look so easy when Hob knew damn well it was not. Hob could have watched him for hours, though of course the test was only a few minutes long.

In addition to watching Dream’s test, he was keeping an eye on the horses going in and out of the stable, keeping up to date on any injuries or soreness, though each had its own groom who was responsible for the horse’s immediate care. At the conclusion of Dream’s test, Hob expected him to hand Jessamy off to Matthew, but instead Dream just dropped his stirrups, letting Jessamy steer on a long rein as he wandered off towards the grassy area past the border of the dressage arena.

“Oi!” Hob called, catching up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I am going for a hack,” Dream said, hardly sparing him a passing glance.

Hob followed the direction he was headed. “On the cross-country course?”

“They aren’t using it,” Dream said, uncaring. “We”—presumably he meant himself and the horse—“are sick of being in the stable.”

So saying, he started off again, Jessamy’s ears pricked forward in interest as she picked her way across the grass.

Hob doubted he could stop him. And he had to admit it was probably more entertaining for the horse to go for a walk than to sit in her stall. It seemed a strange thing for Dream to do, though, wander off across the grass, legs swinging free out of the stirrups, instead of maintaining a strict training regimen in the arena.

Dream stopped before he was too far away, turning over his shoulder to call out: “I will be back before the final test is complete. If scheduling concerns you.”

So there was some recognition of the fact that it would be Hob’s neck if the horses weren’t where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a hand. “Though given your score, I’d imagine you want to be back before they announce the medals.”

He got a half-smile from Dream for this, and then he was wandering off again, sitting comfortably in the saddle with the reins long, Jessamy’s tail swishing away the summer flies.

Hob watched his retreating back for a long moment, then turned back to the ring to keep an eye on the rest of the horses.

As Hob had predicted, Dream did win gold. He showed up just in time for it, finally giving Jessamy back to Matthew to take inside. She’d picked up some grass stains on her white socks, though Dream’s clothes were as pristine as ever. He seemed immune to dishevelment. He accepted his medal with predictable stoicism and bore the obligatory photos with grace and poise but what seemed to Hob like resignation rather than enjoyment of the attention.

Hob didn’t see where he ended up next. He had horses to feed and water and tack to be sure was in order for tomorrow’s events. In fact, he doubted he’d see Dream again at all. It should have been a good thing, for all Dream was a source of frustration for him. Instead, he found himself feeling disappointed.

Hob was always the last one in the barn at night. Partly out of obsessiveness, partly due to the fact that unlike the riders, his lodgings were actually on the stable grounds. So he did his final round looking in on the horses at around 9 p.m. Not that there was much to do—check water, throw a little hay, make sure none of the horses had managed to keel over in the last two hours since he’d seen them—but it was a soothing ritual, making sure everything was shut up tight before going to bed himself.

Or it would have been soothing, if there wasn’t somebody else there.

The distant sound of a stall door sliding open had Hob immediately on edge. No one else had cause to be here this late, and at such a high profile event, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of ill intentions—or just of a horse getting out past an improperly latched door. He walked quickly towards that wing of the stable, though there had been no more sounds since—

Oh. It was Jessamy’s stall. Hopefully that meant it was Dream, or at least Matthew, because otherwise Dream would be royally fucking pissed.

Hob peered around the door where it was cracked open. And then just stood there, frozen, because it was Dream, crouched down in the shavings cleaning the grass stains from Jessamy’s leg—but not Dream like Hob had ever seen him.

For one, he was wearing shorts. Actual jean shorts that fell to mid-thigh, legs bare down to his paddock boots. Legs which were just as wiry and pale as Hob had imagined under his breeches, but covered in dust, with a streak of mud across one knee and a small bruise on the other thigh of the type you inevitably get when you spend enough time in the barn. Instead of his crisp white shirt and black jacket of earlier, he was wearing a loose black t-shirt spotted with water across the chest—watching the way Jessamy was sloshing about in her water bucket, now full of hydrating additives, Hob could just about guess how that had occurred. Dream even had a piece of hay stuck in his hair.

It was all so shocking Hob didn’t realize Dream was calling his name until he’d said it a second time.

“Hob Gadling. Do you require something, or can I be left in peace for the first time today?”

“You’re wearing shorts,” Hob said, dumbfounded.

Dream raised an eyebrow. “It is very hot out, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I just— I can’t imagine you in shorts.” Or covered in dirt, for that matter. Dream was so pristine, so refined. Except for now, when he was at least fifty percent dust.

“Do you imagine me frequently?” Dream asked, and Hob was grateful that the low lighting disguised the way his cheeks flushed.

“No, I—” he did, though. He’d imagined Dream constantly since first seeing him. Since first learning they’d be crossing paths at the Olympics, really. “Maybe.”

Dream smirked, and stood, stepping out of the stall and perching instead on his tack trunk in the aisle, latching the door behind him. “What about me makes you think I do not own shorts?”

Hob was definitely blushing now. “You just. Always look so put together. And now you’re…” he gestured to the various bits of grime sticking to Dream.

“Of course I am put together at a show, Hob,” Dream said, rolling his eyes. “You could hardly expect me to show up to the Olympic final with mud smeared across my face.”

This was a good point, actually.

“I did not intend to be seen like this at all,” Dream added, giving him a pointed look.

Hob found it charming, though. The fact that Dream’s relative familiarity in being sticky with sweat and hay dust meant he did at least some of his own horse care regularly. The fact he didn’t just show up to get on and off.

“Why are you here so late?” Hob asked, glancing over at Jessamy. “I think she’ll survive with some grass stains until tomorrow. You’re done competing anyway.”

Dream’s brow pinched. “The amount of socializing at this event is stressful. And there is no reprieve in my rooms.”

This made Hob grin. “Not having fun in the Olympic Village?”

Dream wrinkled his nose. “I do not like having a roommate,” he said, and Hob had to laugh at the disgust in his tone. “I considered booking my own hotel room, but was informed this was not demonstrative of team spirit.”

“Oh no, you had to be part of a team at a team event, that’s terrible,” Hob said, still grinning. “Poor Dream.”

Dream’s lips twitched into a half-smile, but it did reach his eyes, Hob saw it. “Terrible,” he agreed. “Hence, I am hiding in the barn.”

“And you wanted to check on your horse,” Hob guessed, softening. He had finally reached the conclusion that he had been wrong about the type of horseman Dream was likely to be. And shouldn’t have assumed it in the first place.

“I worry about them overheating,” Dream said. “This barn has poor airflow.”

“You’ve got better at your place back home?”

“My horses live outside,” Dream said.

Hob had really been wrong about the type of horseman Dream was.

“Now you will tell me they will break themselves in the field,” Dream sighed, apparently well-used to the argument.

“Nope,” said Hob. “So do mine.”

Then, Dream looked at him in surprise and, if Hob wasn’t mistaken, a new hint of grudging respect.

“Mine aren’t as expensive as yours, of course,” Hob teased. He could only guess at the price tag on Dream’s Grand Prix dressage horses.

“They are insured,” Dream said, dismissively. “I care little for how much they cost me. They are happier out of their stalls.”

Hob smiled, and felt the softness of it on his own face. Goddammit. Now he wasn’t only finding Dream hot, which he could maybe have coped with, but going soft on him, too. “I really am sorry about the turnout situation here. There’s just not much we can do about it. I did ask.”

“It’s no matter.” He’d apparently decided to give up on his annoyance with Hob about it. “I may bring her home early. Though I doubt they will let me leave until the end.”

“No one’s ever been less excited to be at the Olympics than you, Dream,” Hob said, laughing, and Dream cracked another smile. He was very pretty when he smiled. He was pretty when he was stern and focused, too. Really, all of him was doing it for Hob.

“I am not very good at dealing with people,” Dream admitted.

Hob felt abruptly bad for him and the reputation he’d developed. Not that Dream hadn’t done anything to justify it. But it couldn’t make it any easier to make friends. He looked so much smaller, too, sitting on the tack trunk in his shorts and t-shirt, covered in dust and hay. Far from the stern and unapproachable Dream Hob had seen earlier.

“Come take a walk with me,” he suggested. “We’ll finish checking in on the horses and then, I don’t know. Get a drink or something.”

It felt too bold a suggestion as soon as Hob suggested it, but Dream sighed and stood, dusting off his shorts. “I suppose I should try not to sequester myself.”

“That’s the enthusiasm I like to see,” Hob said, and got another smile out of Dream. He was quickly becoming addicted to getting those smiles.

Dream followed as Hob checked in on the remaining horses, helping him top off waters and throw hay. By the end Hob was just as covered in dust as Dream, t-shirt drenched in sweat, and had tied up his hair in a bun to get it off the back of his neck, not that it helped much. Dream had been right, the barn was poorly ventilated, and they were both suffering the results of that.

When he turned from tying up his hair, he found Dream watching him, gaze tracking the movement of Hob’s hands, the fall of his hair, then back to his face.

“What?” Hob asked.

“I—” Dream swallowed, throat catching. “Was I. Wrong. To think I caught you looking before?”

Somehow Hob knew exactly what he meant. He probably should have felt embarrassed about it—but it was hard to when Dream was looking at him like that now. Dust sticking to his hair, sweat gleaming along his neck, and he was looking at Hob like he’d suddenly found something very compelling to cut through the weariness of the day.

“No,” Hob said. “Did it bother you?”

Dream shook his head. “No one looks at me like that.”

“Seriously? But you’re gorgeous.”

Dream’s mouth popped open, and even in the semi-dark Hob thought he saw his eyes dilate. “Am I?”

“Maybe they’re all just too intimidated by you to show it,” Hob said, taking a step closer to him.

“And are you?” Dream asked. “Am I so terrifying?”

“I think I can handle it,” Hob said, and closed the remaining distance between them, sparing one moment to think I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this before he took Dream’s face between his hands and kissed him.

Dream whimpered into the kiss, clutching at Hob’s wrists. He opened his mouth to Hob, head tipping back. Dream had such a strong presence that Hob hadn’t realized there was a slight height difference between them, but he took full advantage of it now, pressing him back, letting go of his face to catch him around the waist.

Dream pulled away long enough to take a breath, then dove back immediately into the kiss, sucking on Hob’s lower lip, digging his fingers into Hob’s hair. Hob steered him back, half-blind for kissing, until they stumbled into one of the empty stalls being used to store extra tack, where he pushed Dream down to sit on one of the tack trunks.

Dream’s breath caught, his pulse hammering where Hob set his lips and teeth to it, sucking a mark into his throat on his way to kneeling between Dream’s spread thighs. “I was thinking about you as well,” Dream admitted, once Hob had detached from his neck and dropped fully to kneel on the floor, grinding dirt into his knees. “Seeing you. Carrying bags of feed over your shoulder like they weighed nothing. Mmm. Your shoulders.”

“Oh, yeah?” That was heady to think about, Dream watching him like that. Hob undid the button on his shorts, skimming them and his underwear down and off over his paddock boots. This revealed Dream’s pretty pink cock, already plumping up as he leaned back on his hands on the tack trunk. Hob nosed at the base, taking in the sweat and musk of him, hearing Dream’s breath hitch. “You know what I was thinking about?”

“What?”

“Doing this.” Hob took the head of Dream’s cock in his mouth, pulling a wrenching cry from Dream as he twitched where he sat, thighs trembling. Hob bobbed his head, sucked up the length of him, pulling off with a pop and saying, “This is exactly where I wanted you.”

“Indeed?” The word was shaky. Dream’s fingers twitched on the wood of the trunk.

“Go on,” Hob told him, and Dream’s hands went to his hair, pulling it from its bun, directing Hob back down onto his cock. Hob took him deep, pressing his nose into the hair at the base of Dream’s pelvis. The weight of Dream in his mouth was addicting, and then Dream’s legs shifted and he tucked them up and over Hob’s shoulders, thighs pressing in against his head—yes, perfect.

Dream pulled him close, thrust his hips up into Hob’s mouth, hesitant at first then bolder when Hob hummed in encouragement. Dream’s fingers combed through his hair, not quite pulling but tugging and tangling in little pinpricks of delicious pain, and Hob closed his eyes, surrendering to the experience of satisfying him, so hard in his own jeans but ignoring it for now—it only made everything feel more vivid, anyway.

“Hob,” Dream cried, cock twitching, pre-come spilling over Hob’s tongue. Hob didn't let up, only took him deeper, Dream bumping against the back of his throat as he swallowed.

Dream cried out as he came, hands clenching to the point of pain in Hob’s hair, legs tightening around Hob’s head. Hob nearly came himself at the feeling. Instead he swallowed again, sucking on Dream’s cock as it softened until Dream whimpered from overstimulation, and then Hob carefully let him go, finally able to take a full breath as Dream curled around his head, thighs trembling against Hob’s cheeks.

Hob turned his head to kiss his thigh, grazing his teeth over the small bruise he’d seen earlier, making Dream gasp. He uncurled himself from Hob, letting go of his death grip on Hob’s hair to instead caress his cheeks, run his thumb over Hob’s wet lower lip. Hob looked up, met his gaze, nearly perished at the look of blown-out pleasure there. He could live on that look, he thought, feed himself on it every day.

“Come here,” Dream ordered. Hob was helpless but to obey. He let Dream draw him up, disentangle them so Dream’s legs were around his waist instead of over his shoulders, and Dream plucked open the button on Hob’s jeans, pushed his underwear down far enough to take him out. Dream took him in hand, humming in appreciation.

“Like what you see?” Hob teased, but it came out far breathier than he intended, all of him going taut with Dream's hand on him. Dream only smiled slowly, stroking Hob, slow but firm.

“I do,” he said, and drew Hob in with his other hand wrapped around the back of Hob’s neck, sticking in the new sweat that had beaded along his skin, letting Hob rut into his fist. Hob kissed up the side of his neck, leaving marks, breath catching when Dream hooked a leg around the back of his thigh to pull him even closer.

“So perfect for me,” Dream praised, hand sliding up to curl in his hair while his other kept expertly working Hob’s cock. “Mmm. Later, I want you to fuck me properly. I want that gorgeous cock inside me. I know you will fill me so well. I want to feel you.”

All it really took was Dream’s sweet words to send Hob’s arousal boiling over. He gasped into Dream’s throat as he came, hips stuttering into Dream’s fist. Dream pet his hair as he came down from the high, wiping his hand off on his shirt. Hob kissed the side of his neck once more for good measure, tasting the sweat there, before finally pulling away.

“You really want me to fuck you?” he asked. “You going to—”

Dream laid a finger over his lips. “If you make a joke about me riding you I will walk out of this stable and never return.”

Hob broke down laughing, pressing his forehead against Dream’s shoulder. “You get that one a lot?”

“Constantly.”

“I’ll bet.”

Dream was chuckling, too, chest rumbling against Hob’s body. Hob liked the sound of it.

“Cross my heart, I swear I won’t make any jokes,” Hob promised.

He liked this. Leaning against Dream. Touching him. Sharing a soft moment. He liked it a lot.

Dream tipped his face back up with a fingertip under his chin. “I do still want you to fuck me,” he said, watching Hob with dark eyes. Hob swallowed hard. “Will you take me back to your rooms? For we are certainly not going back to mine.”

“Don’t want to involve your roommate?” Hob teased, and Dream sighed.

“Don’t make fun of my indignities,” he complained, and Hob laughed.

“I’m sorry, darling. You suffer so much. Your life is terribly difficult.”

“And you are making it worse by making me wait,” Dream complained.

Hob certainly didn’t want that. So he stood, tucking himself away again, and rearranged Dream in his shorts, helping him up. He paused then, wondering just how far this burgeoning thing between them went, before deciding, fuck it, and pulled Dream in for a soft kiss, hands light on his lower back. Hob was feeling very fond of him right then. He might as well show it.

Dream hummed into the kiss, sinking into him. When they separated, his lips curved into a soft smile.

“Perhaps you might make me breakfast in the morning, too,” he said, taking Hob’s hand.

“If you’re willing to wake up at six,” Hob said. “Because that’s when the horses get breakfast.”

Dream groaned dramatically, but didn’t let go of Hob’s hand, and as Hob tugged him out past the stall door and towards his lodgings at the far end of the stable, he was smiling, eyes bright. And Hob thought waking up to him before sunrise might be very beautiful indeed.

#hob looking at dream in his prissy little dressage outfit: i want that rich twink obliterated #i wrote this in one mad 24 hour span send help #dreamling #equestrian au #my writing #nsft #poor dream like 'i didn't get involved in horseriding to talk to PEOPLE leave me alone 😡 i wanna hang out with my horsey. fuck off'

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loveinhawkins · 1 year

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The RV careens out of the trailer park and hits the open road with what pretty much amounts to ‘all speed, no grace.’ The turn Steve makes is, quite frankly, abysmal; he’s sure that if his driving instructor could see him now, the poor man would be weeping in distress.

Yet his passengers erupt into cheers as they pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, like he’s pulled some kind of James Bond move.

And, for all his insistence on being the absolute antithesis to so-called ‘jock culture’, Eddie rushes over to the driver’s seat, starts squeezing Steve’s shoulder with decidedly jock-like exuberance.

“Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking cool, Harrington.”

Oh, he’s definitely broken through the depression stage of the ‘finding out there’s an alternate dimension in Hawkins’ journey—landing firmly in the fuck it, might as well have some fun stage.

Steve could tell they’d reached that point even before the goddamn ‘big boy’ comment, when Eddie had taken one look at the Michael Myers mask, looked Max dead in the eye and said, “This is gonna be. So fuckin’ stupid. Let’s do it.”

Steve goes through a few seconds more of having his shoulder pummelled before saying, “Dude, you’re doing a shitty job at being undercover, stay down.”

“Like, do you have any idea,” Eddie says breathily, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “just how perfect that was? That was, God, a childhood dream fully—”

“You dreamed of stealing an RV?” Steve says dubiously.

“Not in such crude literal terms, no. C’mon, Harrington, you must’ve had an imagination once—”

“Hey!”

“—didn’t you ever dream of, like, daring escapes, pulling the sword outta the stone, all that shit?”

Steve thinks about it. “I mean,” he says, “when I was a kid, I just kinda… climbed trees and stuff.”

Eddie sighs as if he can’t decide whether Steve’s done something especially annoying or endearing. “Of course you did.”

They reach a stop sign and Eddie finally flops into the passenger seat, facing Steve like he’s sitting side saddle on a horse.

“So,” Steve says, “I take a right after this, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, well remembered, Mr Getaway Driver.”

Steve scoffs, glances over—finds Eddie framing him with his index finger and thumb, like a director trying to capture the perfect shot.

“James Dean,” Eddie says authoritatively, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Was tryin’ to figure it out, your whole look, you know? Very Rebel Without a Cause.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but I have a cause, we all do.”

Eddie just blinks at him, and Steve chuckles.

“You, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Steve has a moment to appreciate the way Eddie’s eyes go all soft and maybe just a little shiny, before he has to set off again. He takes the right turning.

“We should watch it,” Eddie says eventually. “Hell, I’ll take any movie. Just gimme, like, two hours of not having to think.”

“Tell me about it.”

Steve’s sure he’ll never complain about double VHS tapes ever again. Then a thought occurs to him.

“Shit.” He calls to the back. “Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’know when we left Family Video, did we even lock up?”

“Yes,” Robin says followed immediately by, “No?”

Steve snorts. “God, we’re so fired.”

He hears Robin making her way up to the front, then Eddie saying, “Oof, Buckley, that was right in the ribs.”

“Why the sudden concern about our jobs, dingus?”

“I’m not concerned, I just got reminded of—Eddie was mentioning—”

“—Rebel Without a Cause,” Eddie finishes.

“Oh, Steve, I know you’ve seen it, I put it on last week!”

“Uh, maybe I was preoccupied doing, I dunno, my job.”

“It’s the one with—”

“James Dean,” Eddie cuts in.

“Yeah, I gathered, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, but he can’t help smiling as he does so.

“—and it’s, you know,” Robin goes on, “troubled kid moves to a new town, and—”

“Aw,” Steve says, “you think I’m troubled, Munson?”

“It’s all in the eyes, Harrington. Such depths.”

“Right?” Robin says, and she’s laughing, tongue-in-cheek, “I’ve always said so.”

“You ever considered wearing a leather jacket?”

Steve laughs, too. “Tell ya what, Eddie, why don’t I just wear all your clothes?”

“Well, we know denim suits you.”

“If only you saw his last car-stealing outfit, Eddie.”

Steve sighs. “Robin, shut it.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie says, “d’you have form, Harrington? Grand theft auto form?”

“Literally once. Crazy circumstances.” Rest in peace, Todfather. “It was a Cadillac.”

“A Cadillac.” Eddie sighs dreamily. “Do you have any photos?”

“Uh, no, I was kinda busy.”

“I shall mourn the loss.”

“Take the next left here,” Nancy calls, which Steve is grateful for—the directions had gone completely out of his head.

“Wheeler, come up to the front,” Eddie says, “it’s a party.”

She must do, because her voice sounds much closer when she says, “Shit, I think I forgot to lock up, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “no-one’s gonna ransack The Weekly Streak.”

Another stop sign—Steve looks over, smirks at how Eddie has ended up squished between Nancy and Robin, all of them sharing the one seat.

“They better not.” To Eddie, Nancy adds, “I think I gave your uncle the impression that I’m doing a big piece on you. Like, testimonials for an innocent man, stuff like that.”

For a flicker of a second, Eddie looks nauseated at the thought—Steve spots the shift, the decision to make a joke about it.

“Well, Wheeler, you better make me sound good.”

“Oh, I was going more for journalistic integrity.”

“Hey.”

Steve hears a couple of thumps behind him; without even glancing in the mirror, he says, “Sit your asses down, shitheads, don’t make me turn this thing around.”

“Don’t make me turn this thing around!” Lucas parrots.

Max scoffs playfully: “Nineteen going on forty.”

“Eddie was standing before!” Erica points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Eddie’s a law unto himself. Look, just sit down and, like, make a list or something, I’ll stop off for food after we’ve—”

Dustin laughs. “You really are forty.”

“Uh-huh, one more wisecrack and you’re not getting any chocolate pudding.”

Steve’s hamming it up, he knows he is—smiles to himself as he hears a quartet of giggles.

“Can you believe they used to think I was cool?” he says.

“I dunno, Harrington,” Eddie says warmly, “at least one of them doth protest too much.”

Nancy stands in search of a pen, Robin following, insisting to Dustin that, “We’re getting one of those camp stoves, if I don’t eat something hot soon, I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Maybe it’s because they’ll soon be arriving at The War Zone; his levity slips just a little when he says, “It’s probably, like, a proximity thing. Henderson’ll have a scientific term for it.”

Eddie chuckles. “What, the Steve Harrington effect?”

Steve shrugs. “You get too close, the shine wears off eventually.”

He doesn’t realise until he’s said it that the joking, perhaps, has stopped somewhere along the way.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like the Steve Harrington effect to me.”

“No?” Steve says.

He can see the parking lot in the distance, and he gestures for Eddie to duck.

“Nope,” Eddie says. Steve can hear him moving, crouching to hide behind the driver’s seat.

He parks and everyone’s abruptly all business, deciding who’s staying in the RV, who’s going into The War Zone.

Steve hates it, has a sudden intense longing to keep talking about movies, to just be stupid.

And maybe Eddie can tell, because just before Steve heads out, he catches his eye, smiles.

“Hey, don’t worry, Harrington,” he says with a tiny, fleeting wink. “You’re still my leading man.”

#Eddie staring at Steve dreamily: you have the range darling #conversations in the RV are becoming another fave #pre steddie #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steve and robin #steve and the party #eddie and nancy #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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donatellawritings · 7 months

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tella baby it’s ♡ anon I LOVE SWEETHEART READER but J was wondering what if Rafe were with an Americana aesthetic reader? I imagine her being a very vintage-esque girl who loves picnics, farm work, listening to Lana, thrift shopping, sucking lollipops, wearing small shorts and denim skirts, just your typical girl next door OMG sorry if this is too long of an ask I can send a shorter one ahhhhhh ♡ ♡

this is perfect! ugh i love this sm <3

rafe had met you, through the likes of his sister, sarah — she’d stumbled upon your parents’ land during one of her bike rides through figure 8, her lips parted in awe at the sight of you brushing the shiny coat of your white camarillo horse, who’d she quickly learn was named ‘leche’ a silly name that stuck since you first got the horse as an innocent child. that one question about your beloved horse, was all it took for you and sarah to become engrossed in an hours-long conversation about anything and everything. she fell in love with everything about you — your big bombshell hair, cutesy doll lashes, skimpy baby pink polka dot bikini top, and even skimpier daisy dukes, all the way down to the adorable butterfly belly button ring that adorned your tummy.

the moment you’d exchanged the pleasantries of learning each other’s names, sarah was quick to make you her very best friend, your latin tongue making itself known as you spoke, leaving the perky blonde even more entranced by you — making sure that you had her phone number, before she pressed a sweet kiss to the side of your horse’s nose, turning to send you a small wave as she got back on her bike, pedaling her way back to tannyhill. the two of you were pathetically giddy and the potential of your budding friendship, you both were left giggling into the late hours of the night, before ending the call with plans for you to teach sarah how to ride a horse, tomorrow. it wasn’t until you had been friends for about six months, that sarah decided that you should come over to her house for once, she’d grown to accustomed to the judgement-free air that came with being on the farm with you.

sure, you lived on figure 8, but your family’s property teetered on the fine line of being considered part of the cut, but your parents were insistent on you being in an environment where you could experience the lavish side of life. so, as you got to know sarah cameron, the daunting thought of stepping foot inside of tannyhill had left you a nervous mess as you meticulously dolled yourself up. latin music flowed softly through your speaker as you squeezed your tube of glittery lipgloss between your sparkly cotton candy pink acrylic nails, precisely smearing the sticky gloss across your swollen lips, mushing them together before your pulled away from the mirror of your vanity with a content sigh.

carefully clasping your rosary around your neck, you gently combed your nails through the ends of your perfectly curled hair, before smoothing your hands down your strapless micro dress, the lace and silk lined cups that confined your breasts, adorned with a neatly sewed bow, pushing them up cutely against your chest as you slipped your feet into dainty white kitten heels, before rushing downstairs, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor as you stepped out onto your driveway, silently praying to yourself that you wouldn’t make an absolute fool of yourself. i mean, it was only meant to be an innocent lunch where you’d meet your best friend’s family — surely, in your little naive mind, you manipulated yourself into believing that nothing too bad could come from having lunch with the cameron family. right?

you were broken from your whiplash-inducing thoughts with parted sticky and swollen lips as the sound of sarah’s familiar car horn filled your pearl-earring adorned ears.

୨୧

with a sigh, sarah linked her arm through yours, biting down into her bottom lip as the two of you stepped inside of the grandeur that was tannyhill. before the two of you could exceed the confines of the foyer, she pulled away from you, suddenly overcome with the impending annoyance and embarrassment that came with introducing people to her family, specifically, her older brother. your dolly lashes fluttered together as your eyes softened with confusion.

before sarah could speak, the staggering height of ward cameron stopping behind sarah came into your line of vision, your lips parting as he clasped a fatherly hand down onto his daughter’s shoulder as she forced a warm smile at you, “hi sweetie,” he pressed his lips to sarah’s head, squeezing her shoulder before he pulled away from sarah, extending a firm hand in your direction, “s’a pleasure to finally meet you, i’m mr. cameron,” ward smiled, nodding approvingly as you revealed your name, enveloping your small hand around his as you politely shook his hand.

“hi mr. cameron,” you extended a courteous smile, fighting back a laugh as you watched sarah roll her eyes teasingly.

with a clap of his large hands, ward stepped to the side, “well, we don’t want to keep everyone waiting outside, your brother should be home soon, sarah,” ward breathes out a laugh, your wide eyes sparkling with awe as you walked through the grandeur main room of tannyhill. sarah allowed a giddy smile to pull on her pout as she took in your observant gaze. she loved how despite your status of living on figure 8, you remained humble, extending kindness to every person and animal you came across, so much so that it inspired her to treat even the smallest bugs with utmost respect.

“your home is beautiful, mr. cameron,” you beamed, lashes fluttering as you stepped out into the pristinely decorated backyard. your brief moment of shock once again overtaken by your meddlesome nerves as you approached the flower adorned table, smoothing your hands underneath the plush curve of your ass, before taking your seat beside sarah.

the table was quiet as your wiped your clammy hands against your dress, suddenly overcome with insecurity as sarah’s stepmother and younger sister stared at you, their eyes greedily drinking you in. with parted lips, you began to speak when wheezie suddenly cut in, “you’re really hot,” she blurted, your parted lips expanding into a flushed smile as sarah snorted beside you, a complete contrast from the stern and bewildered stares that wheezie received from ward and rose.

“that was so inappropriate, wheezie,” rose scolded with a displeased roll of her eyes, before turning to face ward who kept his stern eyes on wheezie who sunk into her seat.

you were quick to mouth ‘thank you’ to the younger girl, before turning your attention to ward who let out out a sharp sigh, running a hand over his face, before forcing a smile, “alright, well — my son should be home any minute, so please, feel free to help yourself to what’s on the table,” ward motioned to the array of salad, sandwiches, fruits, and pitchers of juice that covered the table. with a shaky hand, you poured yourself a glass of orange juice, licking over your glossed lips as sarah did followed suit, filling her glass.

just as you brought the glass to your lips, the sight of a tall young man, with greasy strands of hair fanning over his face approached the table, dressed in a black button up and khaki pants. fuck, he was hot. subconsciously your pressed your thighs together, focusing your attention on swallowing down the citrusy juice that flooded your tongue.

“nice of you to join us, rafe — have a seat, son,” ward spoke gruffly, watching closely as rafe took the seat at the opposite end of the table, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he took in your presence. his bright blue eyes immediately went the swells of your pushed-up breasts, before flickering up to meet your shy gaze, earning a disgusted scoff from sarah. ward did not miss his son’s inappropriate transgression, clearing his throat to gather the attention of the table, “son, this is sarah’s friend,” ward introduced you, rafe’s eyes remaining on yours as your name fell from ward’s mouth, causing rafe’s eyebrows to raise in intrigue as his head cocked to the side.

rafe decided that he had to toy with you, see if you truly were as light and airy as your physical appearance portrayed as he parted his pink lips, “yeah? how’d you get so lucky to meet my sweet sister, sarah?” rafe spoke, his tone pathetically condescending as he carefully watched you awkwardly shift in your sweet. you were a skittish one — he liked that.

with a forced and breathy laugh, you smiled politely, “she was riding her bike and she saw my horse, leche,” you answered truthfully, earning an amused chuckle from rafe that left you somewhat embarrassed. your doe eyes were quick to glaze as you swallowed thickly, before you turned to sarah.

“rafe, don’t be such a dick,” sarah spat, earning a corrective tut from ward as rafe glanced at his father with feigned confusion.

leaning forward, rafe focused his attention onto sarah, a tall knowing smirk on his face, “easy, sarah — m’just getting to know your little friend, i mean, isn’t that why she’s here?” rafe pushes further, returning his eyes to yours as your fingers fiddled with the silk trims that lined the hem of your dress. “she’s a big girl, i’m sure that she could speak up for her-” rafe began, before he was harshly cut off by the slam of ward’s closed fist colliding with the table, causing rafe to silence, his jaw clenched as he closed his eager mouth.

there was a part of you that felt bad for rafe, you almost felt responsible for his scolding, your soft eyes didn’t miss the way he flinched as ward hit the table. you could see that rafe just wanted attention, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore to subtle ache in your chest as he remained silent for the duration of the lunch, his eyes hanging low as the rest of the cameron family made polite conversation with you. it wasn’t until the entirety of the table went off to do their own thing, that you turned to rafe who blankly stared at his empty plate.

going against sarah’s wishes, you insisted on at least trying to talk to rafe and sarah knew that you’d simply felt bad for her brother — it was in your nature to want to fix anything that was broken. so, you remained seated, flipping your hair over your shoulder as your eyes feel on the gold signet ring that dressed rafe’s finger, “i like your ring,” you smiled, your core simmering as rafe brought his eyes to yours, his blank face empty of any definite expression.

“look — y’just a naive little girl who is my sister’s friend, not mine, y’understand?” rafe snapped, fighting back every urge not to bend you over the table as your glossed lips slightly quivered at his harsh words. your stomach churned with embarrassment as your eyes welled with hot threatening tears, “y’don’t speak to me, unless i speak to you, a’ight?” he spat, swallowing back the bitter guilt that became apparent in his tongue as you furiously nodded in your seat.

“okay,” you squeaked out, before hastily standing from your seat as you rushed to make your way back inside of the home, before rafe could see the fat tears that rolled down your blushy cheeks.

rafe knew that he had been a bit too harsh towards you, but he could tell that you needed some tough love — i mean, what was wrong with some redirection? your head was too far up in the clouds, and that would end up getting you into trouble that not even your pretty and swollen smile would be able to get out of. and what kind of a man would rafe be, if he didn’t look out for you, keep an eye out for you … even if it meant that he stole a glance up your dress as you tearfully walked away from him.

#♡ anon #asks #stoppp because americana!reader is so cute #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron #obx imagine #obx #americana!reader

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Text

"Espionage" - Kaz Brekker x Reader

SUMMARY: Lord de Witt is throwing an exclusive banquet for socialites - just the perfect opportunity for Kaz to put his hands on whatever the aristocrat has in his safe. Fortunately, being an ambassador's daughter, you can easily smuggle him in but the two of you must pretend you're engaged to avoid suspicion.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.7k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

If Jesper didn’t know Kaz, he’d think he was having a laugh.

“When you said you know someone, I was expecting everything but the daughter of an ambassador.” Then, in a slightly anxious manner, he turns to look at you apologetically. “No offence.”

There is something quite amusing in his uneasiness as though Jesper is expecting to be decapitated for as much as giving you a sour grimace. You’re probably the closest thing to nobility he’s ever been around.

“Worry not, sir,” you reassure him with a polite smile on your face, “I will try my best not to spoil your criminal quality.”

His eyebrows furrow and he leans towards Inej. “Did… did she just call me ‘sir’?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t get used to it,” she answers half-heartedly, busy pondering something else.

“How do you even know each other?” Jesper points between you and Kaz but the moment his index finger is directed towards you, he quickly puts his hand down. “I doubt you’ve been to the Barrel before.”

To any passerby, the sight of you and the Crows standing next to each other must look like a skit. With your expensive, light-coloured dress and back about as straight as a broomstick, you really do stand out like a sore thumb. Are those lowlifes bothering a proper lady or is she perhaps noble enough to offer them a few coins?

“That’s quite right. When my father was fraudulently accused of conspiring against the crown, mister Brekker,” out of pure habit you vaguely gesture towards him, “had been so kind as to solve this perplexing hoax. It is only fair that I agree to help him when he asks.”

Kaz checks his watch. Then, his expression suddenly becomes stern, focused, and you know exactly what it means.

“We should go,” he states. His eyes have a strange glint of both coldness and concealed worry to them. “There’s no backing out now.”

Your polite smile doesn’t falter. “I wasn’t considering such a thing.”

The dearth path around the lawn in front of the manor is blocked with countless carriages - horses of one freight have their nostrils pushed against the rolling stock of another cart. It seems as though Lord de Witt has invited half of the continent to his exclusive banquet. Half of them, one might assume, came out of courtesy or simply because of the other guests sure to attend.

Mixing into the crowd of rich men and aristocracy, choking on the powder and perfume, you tell Kaz the basics of banquets like this:

“Let me do the talking. You’re accompanying me, which among socialites makes you akin to a show horse. Of course, someone might ask you a question but it will be pure courtesy. They don’t actually care, because they don’t know you. Answer shortly and politely.”

“Will it not raise suspicion that the ambassador’s daughter is engaged to a no-one?”

“Not if he’s a First Army veteran, wounded on the front lines by a Fjerdan savage,” you say in a theatrical manner. His perpetual frown elicits a chuckle from you. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m sure you can sell it. Besides, if you seem grim enough, which shouldn’t be a problem honestly, the guests won’t dare ask any more questions.”

The porter nods knowingly in your direction. Despite his old age, he’s quick to recognize the little lady you once were. You offer him the invitation but he waves his hand in dismissal. His fingers tremble slightly, making you wonder in all of your melancholy whether he’d still be able to do all those small magic tricks he used to entertain you with.

Following the mob of guests, you end up in a spacious ballroom. Crystal chandeliers reflect candlelight, causing ethereal rainbows to dance across the frescoes painted on the ceiling. Some of the artwork presented landscapes, other battles and even Saints - all of them equally breathtaking. The hall is filled with a plethora of scents: vertigo-inducing perfume, imported fruits, freshly-cut flowers, braised meats. To Kaz, this is the smell of wealth but to you, the ballroom only smells of home.

Appearance-wise, Kaz falls a bit behind compared to the three-piece suits and cylinders but the difference is not stark enough for people to give him contemptuous glances. In all honesty, this will help you sell the yarn you’re spinning. After all, what veteran has enough money to buy a whole suit for just one evening?

“Come on, we should say our greetings to the host,” you say quietly while gently nudging his arm.

As though you are something of a Grisha yourself, the middle-aged man in question suddenly appears in front of you. His face has gained a few deep wrinkles since the last time you saw him but still, his prominent laughter lines are the first thing people notice about him. Considering what kind of person Lord de Witt is, it’s a reliable first impression - a rare occurrence among thieves and noblemen alike.

The man’s face beams with happiness when he recognizes you, his eyes nearly disappearing in a genuine smile. “Ah, принцесса!” he exclaims, opening his arms. “You’re more beautiful every time I see you.” Holding your hand, he meaningfully leans down but never presses a polite kiss against your skin. Instead, he curtly nods while maintaining eye contact, uneasy at the thought of such a gesture.

“I thank you for the kind words, Lord de Witt,” you answer. “It is a pleasure to be your guest.”

He furrows his eyebrows and dismissively waves his hand. “Nonsense, you’re not just an ordinary guest. Tell me, how’s your father? Is our ambassador in good health?”

“The weather is terrible on his knees, I’m afraid. Only laudanum and nettle curb his pain enough to let him work. If I may inquire as to where Lady de Witt is? I haven’t seen her among the guests.”

Lord’s face grows brighter once again but this time there’s a sense of longing in his tired, grey eyes. “My dear Betty left for Novyi Zem just a few days ago. Ever since Lady de Serre expressed interest in her antique collection, she’s been eager to go back.”

Kaz, so far unnoticed by the aristocrat, glances between you and the man. You’re exchanging mere greetings and courtesies, yet he’s learned quite a few interesting things in just those few sentences. Nobility, as it seems, will say everything and anything as long as they think they’re talking to an equal.

His inquisitive thoughts must have pushed some Saint’s hand because Lord de Witt suddenly turns his attention to him, although continues talking to you. “The dapper young man is your husband, I presume?”

“Not yet, unfortunately,” you say with a bashful giggle - very ladylike, even if forced. “Igor Dreesen,” you introduce him. Kaz shakes the Lord’s hand without ever giving away that he’s never heard that name before. “He has fought in the First Army, on the front lines.”

“You have my eternal gratitude, gentleman.” Lord de Witt has an iron grip on Kaz’s hand, holding it significantly longer than Brekker is comfortable with. “May we all have your bravery and loyalty. Please, enjoy the evening.”

Kaz waits for the Lord to be out of earshot before turning to you. “He seems to know you well.” Maybe you’re reading too much into it or maybe there is a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“When I was younger, I used to come here every week. Valeriya de Witt, Lord’s eldest daughter, taught me embroidery. I know this manor like my own home.”

“Then you surely know where the safe is.”

“It could be in his bedroom or in his office.”

Kaz cocks his head. “So you don’t actually know.”

“I’ve met quite a few noblemen and state officials, Kaz. The older the money, the less we’re careful. De Witt’s office is next door,” you motion your head to the side.

Strolling through the ballroom towards the office door, weaving your way between gold-threaded gowns and made-to-order suits, you can’t help but wonder about the master thief by your side or rather what the world looks like through his eyes. You can recall so many gossip exchanges where a group of complete strangers would discuss their wealth and business, believing that their secrets are safe among socialites similarly to unaffiliated thugs discussing their commissions over a pint of watered-down beer. In a thief’s world, you’re something of an encyclopedia on fast enrichment. Maybe telling a secret or two could be treacherous of you but in the grand scheme of things, you think it’s not nearly enough to cover your debt.

You lean towards Kaz, speaking in a low voice. “See that lady with a scandalously huge hat? That’s lady Maria de Bouvier, harbors so much contempt towards her stepmother, she’d probably be elevated if some of the jewelry was to disappear.”

Brekker spares you a questioning glance but doesn’t say anything.

“Or that retired soldier by the pillar? Next to the girl dressed in all-white?” you ask him. His keen eye quickly finds the dark green jacket with an obnoxious amount of medals attached. “Captain Geoffrey van der Greiss, earned most of his fortune from smuggling. Open any crate with fish at the Eastern harbors and the sides of the box will be filled with cash. Yours to take if you can bear the smell.”

Kaz suddenly steps in your way, stopping you. His usual frown appears more like a scowl now. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he spits out. “You’re so eager to point me towards easy wealth. It’s not just about returning a favor, is it?”

You look away for a moment - you should have expected that if someone was to notice your motive, it would be Kaz Brekker himself. His face is still contorted into an expression of contempt or anger when your stare returns to him.

“Have you ever, even for a single second, considered what would have happened to me had my father been found guilty?” you ask in a hushed tone.

“I can’t say I have.”

“I often do. He would have been locked up in Hellgate or simply killed. The family fortune would dwindle rather quickly as my mother and I would live off of it. Then one day the money would run out, we’d have to sell our house and live modestly if not on the streets. No one would employ us because of the scandal and soon we’d find our place in a brothel. All of that did not happen because of you, Kaz.” His expression visibly softens, even if he’s doing his best not to show it. “I owe you my life.”

“I don’t want it.”

Without waiting for you to continue, he resumes walking towards the office door. Although off-limits to the guests, the manor staff is simply too busy to pay attention to anything else other than restocking drinks and food. On the other hand, the guards employed by Lord de Witt are so convinced drunk aristocracy doesn’t need nannies that they’re playing cards in some dark, isolated corner and drawing lots when someone has to go swipe some alcohol and lamb from the kitchen. Perhaps they are paid to complete much different tasks but if someone is familiar with de Witt’s banquets, they wouldn’t be exactly surprised - a scandal is yet to happen inside his manor.

You meet Kaz’s gaze but immediately regret it. There’s something both chilling with determination and burning hot with focus, making you feel rather flustered at the intensity of it all.

“Make sure no one comes in here,” he says quickly before swiftly crossing the remaining meters and sliding inside the room. For a man with a limp, he’s exceptionally agile.

Minutes go by while Kaz is absent and you begin to worry. What if someone caught him? Or if he got injured somehow? He may be something of an atelier of theft but he’s still a man, after all.

Debating whether to go after Kaz or trust his expertise, you don’t notice a young man approaching you:

“Excuse me, my lady, but you are the ambassador’s daughter, are you not?”

Torn out of your spiraling thoughts, you look up at him with wide eyes. He has a kind face with strong features. His tanned skin is in contrast with his creme-coloured suit, creating a quite enticing sight. Warm, brown eyes study you with interest.

“I am, master…” you make a meaningful pause.

The man immediately picks up on your cue. “Tolkov Ilya Romanovich. My father is the legat of Ketterdam’s Merchants’ Guild.” Contrary to Lord de Witt, Ilya doesn’t hesitate to plant a kiss on the back of your hand.

“Oh, I have heard about you. Horse racing enthusiast, is it not?”

He gives you a flustered chuckle. “My vices precede me, I see. As does your beauty, if I may say so.”

You feel your cheeks warm up. There’s something about Western men’s charm that really gnaws at a lady’s heart. “That’s very kind, master Tolkov.”

“Lord de Witt spoke of you with exceptional fondness. I thought it only appropriate to witness your marvel myself.”

At the same time, Kaz is slipping back through the office door into the ballroom. Judging by the lack of interest he attracts, none of the guests even noticed his disappearance. He is making his way back to you, when he catches the sight of a rather dignified man politely kissing your hand. Although you don’t look swept off your feet, there’s nothing akin to discomfort on your face either. Kaz feels sudden uneasiness in his chest like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be, while being unable to place his gaze elsewhere. He doesn’t even know his face has turned into a grimace of distaste.

“You’re finally back, my love!” you dramatically exclaim when Kaz reaches you and the stranger. His expression is rid of anything pleasant but you decide to play along for now. “Master Tolkov, this is my fiance, Igor Dreesen. Darling, this is the son of the legat of the Merchants’ Guild, Ilya Romanovich.”

Legat of the Merchants’ Guild? Finally someone worth knowing of.

Kaz shakes Ilya’s hand but that marks the extent of his politeness. “I do not take kindly to anyone descending on my lady,” he says in a stern voice.

“But of course, sir.” Tolkov nods curtly. Annoyed or not, he’s proficient at keeping his face blandly kind. “My sincere apologies.”

Ilya gently bows his head towards you before leaving the two of you alone. Your gaze follows him until the man disappears among coiffures and cylinders. Then, you look at Kaz with hardly hidden amusement:

“You play your part better than I was expecting.”

Kaz, however, completely ignores your comment. “The safe isn't here. It must be in the bedroom. Where is it?”

“Upper floor. There’s the grand staircase in the vestibule but we can take the kitchen stairs, there won't be many people in that part of the mansion.”

The presence of ground floor guards is revealed only by loud laughter from behind the door leading to the staff rooms. All of the guests could just leave at once and none of them would notice. Still, you’re exceptionally careful when sneaking between the tables that are bending under the weight of food - even a small misstep, nudging one of the silver platters, could cause a cacophony loud enough that someone might hear it, even if not the guards in question.

You’re leaning against the wall when walking up the spiral stairs. Cocking your head to the side, you’re trying to look into the hall on the first floor but there’s not much you can actually see. As it appears, theft takes a lot more faith than you had previously thought.

The upper floor guards are out of sight but you don’t let yourself give in to the sudden feel of relief - this is only the first step into this little big scheme. There’s still a safe to find and an exit to make.

There’s a long, red carpet covering most of the floor. Although it muffles Kaz’s cane, it also makes the steps of the guards hardly audible. If you do see one, you’ll have to rely on quick thinking and a certain level of stupidity accredited to aristocracy.

Left turn. Pair of doors. Two right turns. Another left and another right. And then - footsteps.

“Someone’s coming,” Kaz whispers. His keen eyes are scanning the long corridor to find anything remotely close to a hiding spot. Decorative cabinets could well work but only if the unwanted passerby doesn’t walk past them.

The idea, a true testimony of quick thinking and aristocratic carelessness, hits you like a bolt out of the blue:

“Push me against the wall,” you order him.

His head snaps towards you, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen. “What?” he stutters out.

“No one likes clingy couples.”

There isn’t any time to discuss and ponder as the footsteps grow louder. Visibly displeased, he puts his arm against the wall next to your head. At first you’re wondering just how enraged your father would be had he heard about this but then you smell Brekker’s cologne and suddenly one nervousness is changed for another, a more bashful one.

The footsteps, as one might expect, belong to a lonely guard patrolling the manor. His face is grim even before he notices the misplaced lovers. When his eyes do glance at you and Kaz, the soldier’s cheeks visibly raise and the frown quickly becomes more of an expression of disgust. Passing by the two of you, he grunts in distaste or irritation and continues walking farther down the corridor.

Kaz, to your surprising displeasure, wastes no time in putting more space between the two of you when the guard is out of sight. No words are exchanged like a collective agreement to pretend this little embarrassment had never taken place. But, it can’t really hurt him if he doesn’t know you’re thinking about it, can it?

With a confident push, you open the ivory-coloured door, their golden decorations glistening in dim lighting.

Lord de Witt’s bedroom is strangely dark compared to the rest of the house. At first glance, there is nothing that stands out as a possible hiding spot for a safe: a bed that could easily fit five people, a vanity with boxes of jewelry and cosmetics, a small desk with private correspondence, a cold fireplace, a folding screen. The artisan taxidermy hanging on the walls only adds a touch of grim macabre.

But a master thief is not so easily dissuaded. You watch Kaz in a slight confusion and interest as he walks through the room, gently knocking against solid wood or carefully. brushing his hand along some surfaces. More than once he tapped different parts of the floor with his cane, only to let out a short sigh as if the strange rite gave him some kind of information but not necessarily the one he was hoping for.

Then, as though he had known all along or played a secret magic trick, he pulls the base of a taxidermied boar’s head. The decoration, for a lack of better word, moves on hinges, revealing a strongbox - one of those that will survive explosives as the manufacturer promises. The safe has a dial and a handle, rendering any kind of traditional lockpicking useless. But Kaz Brekker, as you’re about to witness, is not much of a traditional thief either:

He puts his ear against the iron box, turning the dial a few times in one direction and the other. Then, he lays his other hand on the safe’s door, his whole body leaning against it. Kaz begins slowly turning the dial in one direction. A silence falls between the two of you.

You can’t be sure whether the tension you’re feeling is because of the hallway perplexity or because he’s so determined to open this strongbox but either way, you’re completely uncomfortable with that. “To be honest, I used to be intimidated by you,” you throw at him in hopes of some kind of conversation, no matter how pointless.

“What changed?” he asks in an absent voice. His hand stops turning the dial only to start rotating it in the opposite direction - whatever he’s doing, it seems to be working.

“You have turned out to make a rather lovely spouse.”

A loud click resounds in the room and Kaz immediately pushes down on the handle, opening the strongbox. He reaches inside, pulls out some documents and quickly reads through them. Some he puts back, others he stuffs between his waistcoat and shirt.

“Such nimble fingers you have. I know a market for that,” you joke partially expecting the thief to say something sultry enough to get you to be quiet for the rest of the night.

He spares you a glance and goes back to rummaging through the contents of the safe. In an unexpected act of goodwill, he takes only some of the cash. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Even a lady of my sort has her weaknesses.”

You wait for his answer but Kaz doesn’t as much as look over his shoulder at you as though he hasn’t even heard your words. Although awkwardly, you patiently wait for him to be finished with whatever selective theft he’s committing. That tense silence again.

After a longer while, he closes the safe and locks it again. When he turns around to face you, something glistens between his fingers - a string of pinkish pearls. They flow along the shape of his hand as he offers you the necklace.

A quiet sigh escapes your lips. “I don’t want a payback, Kaz,” you shake your head to accentuate the refusal. “You have helped my family tremendously, this,” you make a vague gesture with your hand, “is the least I could do for you.”

“This isn’t payment,” he states.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Whatever do you mean?”

His intense gaze bores into you for a minute or two before he slowly answers. “It’s a bastard’s inclination.”

With a flustered ‘oh’, you take the string of pearls from him, feeling blood rushing to your cheeks. Still feeling his passionate gaze gliding along your face, you’re a little too abashed to meet his eye. Who would have thought - a thief with a heart!

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readychilledwine · 4 months

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✨️ACOTAR Booty Headcanons✨️

💕Peep the thigh headcanons here💕

Warnings - Butts. Fanart of butts. Nakey butts. Bubble butts. Lady butts. Man butts.

Up next? ✨️ Hands ✨️

✨️Body Headcanons Masterlist✨️ Master Masterlist ✨️

Edited to add - short plus size Elain sneak peak

A/N - for @lady-of-tearshed, I hope this meets all your dreams, my love.

A message from Mother - You, my sweet dear reader, are gorgeous as you are. You are real, touchable, and made with imperfections that enhance your beauty and uniqueness. You are a treasure. Do not compare yourself to a single body on this list.

Rhysand-

I like to start off strong..

Rhysand has a very bite-able booty.

He is slightly leaner than Azriel and Cassian, but he still has a firm butt.

Rhysand loves to wear tight slacks, just to watch your pretty little brain go blank when you see his ass.

He sleeps naked and it's hard for you not to just.. touch the booty.

To be fair, he loves to keep his hand (and hand print) on your butt, too.

Art by Amai actually just posted Rhysand butt fanart. Enjoy it below

Cassian-

John Cena has been described as having a military grade ass with an inhuman body.

Cassian also has an inhuman body, so it makes sense that my guy has a military grade ass.

Cassian has butt muscles in places you didn't even know you could have butt muscles.

It is intimidating. Very intimidating.

But you LOVE watching this man walk. Especially when he's walking to the bathroom to grab towels for aftercare.

Azriel-

Azriel's ass surprised you in the best way.

Azriel is lean compared to Cassian, so his bubble butt shocked you.

Much firm. Still jiggle.

You were ready for this jelly.

Azriel gets super shy when you tell him how good his butt looks, but he's like that one friend who secretly loves it and makes sure to wear the same pants/skirt/shorts the next time they see you so you are in love with their deliciousness again.

Sometimes, you just sneak up on Azriel and accidentally squeeze. In front of his family. But don't worry. He squeezes yours back.

Tamlin-

I'm disappointed I can't find this gif when I need it.

We can all hate on Tamlin as much as we want, but SJM herself says the man is muscular.

I imagine Tamlin was worried about his arms and chest being thicker than his legs, so he started hitting legs and glutes hard.

Then, the next thing he knows, he has a damn shelf.

He hates when you touch his butt though. He'd prefer you touch him other places.

But you bet your ass he is touching yours

Lucien-

I stand by Lucien having Chris Hemsworth's body type.

Lucien had the perfect, truly bite-able ass.

You constantly have your hand in his back pocket.

You constantly are giving it a little smack so it jiggles.

You always walk behind him.

Lucien loves the way you worship his body. He's insecure about his scars, so you loving every inch of him helps.

Eris-

Daddy 🫠🫠

Eris has the captain America Dorito proportions build, and I hope all of you know *exactly* what I am talking about.

I imagine Eris as slim muscular, and when I decided to do these, I needed him to have Chris Evans's ass

I mean look at it

Imagine that ass in Eris's finely tailored clothing.

Imagine that ass getting off a horse.

You're touching him. Constantly. And he loves it.

He loves that you seem to think he's some sort of God.

And he really loves it when you touch his butt because you begged him to treat you as his equal, meaning that ass of yours is in his hands quickly.

Helion-

You know when a guys thighs are so thick they become one with his dump truck? Helion.

He actually requires a CDL for his ass.

You can't really tell until he's naked and turns around due to the thickness of his thighs, but this male has ass for days.

And his ass is FIRM. There is not an ounce of fat on him.

He considers his ass a trophy of sorts, so touching it is only for those privileged to.

Luckily you have that privilege.

Oh, look.. I included the Archeron sisters

Feyre-

Don't accuse me of doing our girl dirty, but I picture Halle Berry in her Catwoman suit when I think of Feyre's body.

The reason you can't accuse me of doing her dirty is because the things I'd do if Halle Berry told me to do them are extreme.

I picture Feyre as very lean, very cut, and she had the cutest baby bubble butt.

She's definitely the friend who thinks she has no booty until you help her find the right outfit for the booty.

She also blushes whenever you touch it.

She wishes it was bigger sometimes, but a few spanks in, and she's telling you she's perfect as she is.

I wish I could find a better picture of this 🫠

Nesta-

Nesta I also picture as tight and lean.

For some reason when I read her, I picture Adriana Lima, but with blonde hair.

Maybe it's because I think Nesta has sultry vibes?

Nesta tries to keep herself small. It's ingrained deeply into her head because of her mother and grandmother that she has to be small.

She's also constantly training, so it keeps her tight.

She may not have the biggest ass, but that thing is the best apple you've bit

Elain-

If you don't know by now, you're about to: elain at minimum is slim thick.

I personally see truly happy glowing elain as mid to plus size, and I'm hoping for mid to plus size elain once this stupid shipwar is over.

Right now, though, elain is slimthick.

She's still recovering from her spicy sadness days, and her recovery has her doing squats in the garden

Ass. For. Days.

It's why she actually doesn't wear pants. She tried once and every almost had a collective mass failure heart attack.

So now, her booty is reserved for you and you alone.

You love it when she wears cheeky things in the bedroom.

I imagine elain is super into impact play because she loves the way you compliment her recoil.

I think she's secretly proud of her booty. She just doesn't want anyone else to know. So sssshhhh.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp

#elizabeths.updates #acotar #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #azriel #rhys acotar #rhysand acotar #cassian acotar #eris acotar #tamlin acotar #lucien acotar #elain acotar #nesta acotar #feyre acotar #acotar headcanons #acotar body headcanons #remember you are perfect the way you are #dont compare yourself to edited pictures of influences and celebrities

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unserenedreaming · 3 months

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on the "Sansa being the true loner of the Starks"

I just saw a post saying that Sansa is the 'odd one out' amongst the Starks because she's surrounded by her brothers and a tomboyish sister (Arya). It is true that she is surrounded by brothers and a sister who rejects the patriarchal roles of a woman (Arya) but she is by no means a loner.

The two other named young noblewomen in Winterfell are Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. Jeyne is the closest thing to a best friend for Sansa, while Beth is described more as a hanger-on than an actual friend. Jeyne strived to make Sansa happy, often at Arya's expense: Jeyne would often whinny like a horse or call Arya Horseface when Arya would walk by. When Mycah is unjustly killed by the Hound, Jeyne taunts Arya by telling her the Hound cut Mycah into so many little pieces that his own father assumed it was a bag of meat to eat. Jeyne Poole was the daughter of Winterfell's steward. Arya was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. In my opinion, it is only by her close friendship with the other daughter of Lord Stark that Jeyne feels emboldened enough to make such a comment.

And then let's talk about Catelyn. There is no denying that Catelyn Stark loved each and every one of her children with the fury of a thousand suns. In fact, the older I get, the more I understand her (excluding her treatment of Jon which deserves an essay all on its own) She saw Sansa as the perfect daughter:

"Sansa was a lady at 3, always so courteous and eager to please. She will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that." These are words from Catelyn Stark about her elder daughter.

"Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart’s desire. She had Ned’s long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collected dolls, and would say anything that came into her head." These thoughts from Catelyn Stark about her younger daughter.

Sansa fit into the traditional patriarchal view of what a noble woman was supposed to be, which made her easier to manage for Catelyn. Arya does not.

The only person that Arya truly, honestly and deeply feels akin to is Jon. This is not me saying that the only person who loved Arya was Jon. Her family loved her deeply. But I am examining the POV of Arya and Sansa.

Arya loves and gets along with her siblings, but she is an outsider compared to them: they all have the red hair and blue eyes of the Tully's. Only Jon shares the looks of the Starks. This to me has always been the most obvious divide; the physical differences between Robb, Sansa, Bran, & Rickon and Jon & Arya. Jon and Arya have always relied on each other more than anyone else, pre-canon or into ADWD.

To wrap this rambling post up, I disagree that Sansa was considered an outsider/the odd one out in the Stark family. In truth, that position doesn't even belong to Arya, though she is the odd one out amongst the trueborn Starks. It belongs to Jon and Theon. Both are boys who desperately want to be Stark children but can never be, and their subsequent actions, both positive (Jon) and negative (Theon) are direct results of that desire and lack of result.

AND AGAIN, THIS IS NOT AN ATTACK ON SANSA. This is a response to a comment I saw from a (presumed by me) Stansa. Sansa absolutely deals with isolation in the series as the books goes on as a captive in Kings Landing. All the Starlkings do as they are separated across the continent and eventually Essos (Arya).

Anyways, hope this wasn't too much of a pain to read, I'm buzzed right now. Love Y'all.

#asoaif #arya stark #sansa stark #house stark #jon snow #theon greyjoy #starkling suffering

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aliciavance4228 · 3 months

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Unpopular Opinion: Demeter Did Nothing Wrong

Alright, maybe the title isn't 100% accurate since she almost wiped the entire human race from earth, but you got the idea.

The thing with Demeter is that nowdays she is demonized/villainized all the time. And the most ironic part is that she is demonized by feminists, which leaves me quite confused, considering the fact that she would technically be a great example of female strength, especially when raporting to "Homeric Hymns to Demeter". But before discussing the myth of seasons, let's talk about her background story:

One thing that is certain about Demeter is that she had horrible experiences with almost all men from her life. Her father ate her. Poseidon raped her disguised as a horse. Zeus raped her as well (which led to the birth of Persephone). Iasion was one of the few men from her life who loved and respected her, and whom she lived with for a while before Zeus became jealous and killed him; yes, he is THAT much of a d-

The only one of her brothers who didn’t hurt her in any way at that time was Hades. And if you take into account the versions of the myths in which Hades was born before her that means that he was the one who took care of her as well during the time when they were trapped in their father's stomach. So it is pretty much implied that he was the only one of The Big Three whom she trusted the most, which makes the discovery that he was the one who kidnapped her daughter even more tragic.

Now, about "Homeric Hymns to Demeter": first of all I want to point out the fact that this myth isn't about Hades and Persephone. They are mostly mentioned in this story rather than actually playing an active role in it, because they have more of a symbolic value above it all. Wheter Persephone came to love Hades in time or despised him for the rest of her eternity is irrelevant, because this myth is not about her but Demeter.

Demeter had already faced some disturbing experiences even before Persephone was kidnapped. And considering the fact that her own daughter was a result of SA, it makes perfect sense why she would be protective towards her and raise her outside of Mount Olympus; every woman that was raped would fear that her daughter would face the same cruel fate.

About the abduction part: it is revealed to us at the beginning that Hades asked Zeus if he can marry his daughter, and he agreed. Hades only needed the approval of the father in order to wed her. Back in the Ancient Greece, especially in the Athens, people had a very patriarchal view on marriage. On short: the marriage would be usually planned between the groom and the father of the bride, her mother not knowing anything about what was going on until her daughter was already taken away from her. This myth is a representation of how the Patriarchy was a dominant system even among deities, with Zeus as its supreme figure.

At this point, the myth of seasons can be already considered a comfort story for mothers who had to endure the loss of their daughters either through death or marriage. This myth, however, has a lighter note as well, and that because Demeter, instead of accepting the fate of her daughter, left her anger free and did anything she could so that she would ultimately convince Zeus to give her daughter back, the last solution being leaving hundreds of humans dying of cold and hunger. This part basically shows how even a patriarchal figure like Zeus can be defeated by a mother's rage (or pure female rage, take it as you wish). Even though this myth is supposed to tell us just how seasons appeared, it can also be used as a moral lesson for men: it is better to consult with your wife and daughter before making a decision, or else there will be GREAT CONSEQUENCES.

And finally, one moment that is indeed very touching yet most people are ignoring for some reason is when her mother Rhea appears in front of her and starts to comfort her after she found out that Persephone ate the promeganate seeds, showing how a mother's mouring over her daughter was a common feeling among most female deities from Greek Mythology.

Now, is Demeter perfect? Absolutely not. And that is okay, because instead of that she is supposed to show in this myth a lot of humane and realistic nuances about what being a woman is like. She is a complex character, and completely demonizing her just because you ship Hades and Persephone is quite disturbing in my honest opinion. Wheter or not you like this couple (I won't condemn you because they are still one of the most stable relationships from Greek Mythology, but that basically shows just how f*cked up myths are in general lmao but anyway....), you have to understand the fact that the "Beauty and Beast" and "A mother's love will always conquer" are two tropes that can co-exist, and that things aren’t just black-and-white.

#greek mythology #greek gods #demeter #zeus #hades #persephone

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magicxc · 6 months

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Sizes

Pairings: Survey Corps - their dick sizes

Word Count: 857

Warnings: none

A/N: this is so self indulgent, it aint even funny lol. Please enjoy what I think the bois are packing.

Headcannons Masterlist

Eren - 9.5 inches

Phew I mean, this doesn’t take too much explaining…at least for me. Eren legit had the gall to wipe out 80% of the population so I can only imagine that he has the balls to match. It’s safe to say our boy is all bark and bite cause he’s absolutely backing up whatever the fuck he says. Needless to say, you need to be PREPPED before penetration.

Levi - 6.5

As my personal favorite of the bunch, daddy Levi is absolutely still working with sumn, okay!!! Let's not count our short king out the race. Matter of fact, I'm willing to bet my bottom dollar that Levi is giving you THEE best seggs. As fun as size kinks are, let's be real, it hurts before it pleases. And 6.5 is like the perfect length to comfortably kiss your cervix. That stamina? His insomnia? The low, sultriness of his voice? Yeahh, you can kiss a good night's rest goodbye and your pussy will absolutely thank you for it. It’s been said that Levi is one of the best in terms of ODM use because of how quick he is while maneuvering the gear and the way it’s used is by the wearers shifting a lot of their weight to their pelvis for movement. Once again YOUR PUSSY WILL THANK YOU!

Erwin - 7.5

Though the Commander stands tall above his peers, he has some muscle mass to him and therefore I consider him a girthy fellow. Keep in mind this is the same man who stared down Reiner in his armor titan form, all the while being short one arm. It's been said that the horses that the scouts ride are bred specifically to outrun titans but what they leave out is that Erwins horse is bred specifically to carry balls as heavy as his. Lmfaoo this man is BRAVE, just daring a mf to try some shit. And he absolutely carries that trait into the bedroom as well.

Connie - 7.5

Connie has always given me goofball vibes. That “huh” ass mf was sorta the comedic relief to the show and it’s like omg you brought dick too?? Funny men be getting me ngl jksjsks. It’s been said that Connie views the Scouts training almost like a summer camp and while he made the top ten his competitive edge doesn’t really set in until he sees someone doing better than him lol. I genuinely don’t think dick size matters to him all that much so when he becomes sexually active and gets so much praise, it’s like ohh wow - new kink unlocked.

Jean - 10 inches

I'm willing to physically debate this lmao. This is probably the only thing he’ll beat Eren in, but I whole heartedly believe that Jean is packing a SCHLONG. He’s always stood above his peers throughout the show and as he ages, it’s more prominent. Tall and skinny men are literally always packing and those pencils wanna write in every book. Mans would absolutely put Mikasa through a mattress if given the chance.

Onyankopon - 8.5 inches

Even though Ony doesn’t get a whole lotta screen time, I can safely assume his length here. This is the same man who fucking DARED Floch to kill him AFTER witnessing him kill a few others for refusing to fall in line. You wanna talk about standing on business? Ohhh Ony’s your man through and through. Mans is always fighting for the greater good and even willing to sacrifice his life for the cause; it’s safe to say you’d bark if he asked you to.

Reiner - 7.0

Ok hear me out, mans is GIRTHY. And 7 inches isn’t a bad place to be at all. Very rarely do those beefcake ass men have length, but that doesn’t mean they're lacking. In fact, I’ll take it a step further and guess that Reiners smeat curves left. CHANGE MY MIND. Any man strong enough to wield that heavy ass armor titan is absolutely knocking the cobwebs off that pwussy. Needless to say, prep is still a must.

Armin - 7.0

Its certainly the quiet ones that shock you the most. Have you ever interacted with a chill and laid back man? It's definitely a reason for that and Armin is no exception. Although I consider him the least experienced, keep in mind that he is a QUICK learner. Every contort of your face and shift of your body is all the notes he needs to take to properly learn how to work your body over. And soon, you’ll be able to mold him to your perfect sex partner. That, coupled with his sweet attitude and sincere personality; sigh that bitch Annie really struck gold with this one.

Floch - 8.0

If you look up unhinged in the dictionary, you’d literally find a picture of Floch. Many can make the argument that he may be overcompensating for something, but I di-fucking-gress. Even though he can be a bit off the walls, it truly was for good reason and all in the name of his country and THAT, my friends, is big dick behavior.

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tarotwithart · 1 year

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ⴕ ( details of your future spouse⠀ )⠀⠀⠀ 𓆩♡𓆪

❝ in every whatnot,

I'll tie a knot with you... ❞

⋆ .... ♡ how to pick a pile ୨ ɞ !

-` ✧ ࿐ from left to right — intuitively choose the pile through your mind or what your soul desire for. take what does it resonates considering this is a general reading...

𝐒ource & 𝐃isclaimer: pictures I've used for pick a pile was from pinterest, the divider was from @.v6que while the banner was made by me. expect plenty of grammatical errors, please kindly enlightened me in a nice way when you couldn't understand what is the message behind of the reading, thanks!

PILE ONE

6 of wands, king of pentacles, 9 of pentacles

Everyone eyes are all to them, whether it may glimpse naturally or seldom-a kind of individual who can turn heads by its appearance and good body. The definition of success and achiever this makes them quite popular or well known in others, although prideful doesn't mean they're narcissistic. In what scale in it, would likely people rate them as 9-10 not only for looks but for other traits and people will fall for them instantly. S/he could beat someone by using his/her skills no doubt needed- a great player indeed. An individual that denotes someone who is highly passionate about certain things into his/her own life yet will always be remain humble even though s/he's aiming top and to forthcoming.

S/he displaying a strong leadership which people adore and people can depend on these said traits also have major impact for people who surround them. For what I seen, s/he can make own money and wealth through being famous and it could give them a long lasting success in life. If being famous does make them to have more money and having money will make them more even famous. Into people's opinions and view s/he is perfect as they seen, who wouldn't right? money, success and fame are all at once to them- what a lucky man. Proud for what they achieve but not in negative way. Expensive looking- s/he would love those kind of things specially in clothing and jewelries, it makes them looks like having high status which can be true. Either s/he working as business owner or a wealthy land owner, it could also define working in real state as well.

Sometimes can be totally stubborn but they very mature and grounded most of the time, it's normal for everyone to be stubborn (it means that they aren't perfect as they seems) a totally hard working individual and who also aware how they can rule through designated society (work/place). It also signifies someone who will be generous into their finance, energy and time, s/he will knew what are their commitments and responsibilities and tends to do what they say. They tends not have any anger issues as long as s/he could understand the situation and the person however they tends to be like a volcano- will be very explosive when they do get mad. You will be lucky for having this person, quite indulgent when it comes giving gifts to their lovers- mostly will bring the best and expensive gift you'll be receiving.

However the lover will tends to be lonely as the spouse is often busy for something like work (workaholic/ self-driven/ career focus) on negative note s/he will view their lover as part of their possessions. As my advice don't make them feel jealous or dark moods that may occur in surface as it will turn to be very chaotic. S/he may possibly own some pets especially dogs and horses, they will be independent whether it is financially and emotionally. You would never found this person chasing others cause they can easily attract people into their lives. Rerely takes anything personally and reason is s/he knows it better and likely to appreciate the finest things in life.

hugs and kisses, Vella

PILE TWO

queen of cups, 10 of cups, the lovers, 10 of pentacles

A typical type of person who is sensitive and is attached to their feelings, s/he concerned with the matter of heart, emotions, family and relationships. S/he possess a strong empathy for the others, if their love ones is happy and so they are too. Strong intuition- they will be aware if someone needs them or isn't right, they are not judgemental and will try their best to understand the situation. In past, s/he experience a painful situationship and will do the best to avoid it again.

Typically shy in nature but a great listener when you someone needs them and mostly without knowing people will come to them naturally without hesitation- the only problem in here is that when problems occur into their own life, they rarely receive help from others. S/he is family oriented individual, they got some friends but family, partner and kids are most highlight and important for them. Even though you prefer men- he will have feminine features and if women she is gorgeous, may look like a goddess. In any occasion regarding to family, they will be extremely happy to gather their family especially his/her siblings with or cousins.

Generally a happy individual and rarely take negative insights as well will be feelin' grateful for what the above give to them. S/he might love to put smile on his/her face or to others, love to laughs even though in lame jokes- sometimes people do wonder if they faking their happiness but it actually isn't. They are contented to what God give to them and they probably cherish it with all of their heart, also they tends to be very spiritual individual too.

S/he will be come an excellent parent and partner and will do their best to serve and nurture their own family. This individual will possibly teach you a lot- that happiness doesn't come from material things and it comes from within, that happiness is a choice, that family and kids should be put first, that how you love your self is should be how you love the others and more great good lessons.

They want or having desire to have at least two kids perhaps a twin will be perfect for them. It also refers to someone who is playful but can be childish sometimes and very very talkative when you get to know them or when they are comfortable in someone. The type of love language they want is physical touch so be ready for lots of kisses, hugging and touching, technically they enjoy the attachment of skins. Also they proud for what body or skin do they have, confident is the key here. S/he will make you feel how deep the love is, they will understand what you have been through. You both have different lives and what have been through however they will put to understand you that life is like that and happiness is just around. You will experience unconditional love from this person.

And yes they do have some money to flaunt too but they value more the family, health and gratitude for the others. S/he do appear very lavish into how they clothes themselves even though they don't try to be like that. The only person who will make you feel that you are safe and secure into their loving arms. They do love dating (even at this moment) but do searching for someone who can have long term committed relationship with them and don't want to rush things when they do date, they want to get more someone into deeper level.

hugs and kisses, Vella

PILE THREE

4 of wands, the fool, 3 of wands reversed

A kind of individual who is the real representation of being naive and happy person, they do love their family and is willing to go whenever there's occasion regarding into family circle. It would represents someone who do brings joy and happiness towards other life by making silly jokes or for simply uplifting them in their hardest situationship. Whenever someone ( proclaiming it is a love one ) is weak, they bring something to feel this certain individual comfort like “ Hey! make it chill, I'm here for you ”. It also the type of person who is making an effort to attend or be able to be present in family gathering even though they are quite busy they wouldn't hesitate to be right there with the fam.

Negative aspects of them which I can tell for only few of you who's happen to pick this pile, that this person will be more focus into their family rather than you. It might be one of the reasons why you both will have disagreements. Anyway, let's just move on and see what the future holds for you.

To continue, it could also symbolize someone who do love to play a lot probably a playboy or girl vibes, if not I see that they really to loves to play which can be games physical or online. I see that they do love pranking people who do close to them such as friends and cousins, can be siblings as well if happen they have one. This person represents someone who do care more to their appearance rather than for who they are. Sometimes people end up envying or feel jealous about them especially their peers.

As we're getting near at the end I feel that they are younger than you or it might be physically as well. It could also be mean that they are young at heart or someone who have young faces or can be an innocent. They do love their love freedom and do loves to wonder around or exploring the places that they never been. It might also symbolize someone who can be childish and likes being at the outdoor rather than indoor.

hugs and kisses, Vella

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dragonsoftheeast · 4 months

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A Beginner's Guide to Writing in High Valyrian

written for @hotd-bigbang Summer 24 event

High Valyrian is a head-final, pro-drop language. What does that mean? Head-final means that the "main" part of the phrase comes last. In a sentence with a verb, that means that the main verb comes last. Pro-drop means that subject pronouns- the person or thing performing said main verb- tend to be dropped. Instead, they are implied by the verb form. Pronouns can be used, but only for emphasis.

Consider "Nyke Daenerys Jelmāzmo hen Targārio Lentrot, hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan. — I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria." Now that's emphasis. "Iksan" already means, "I am", but I am Daenerys! Otherwise, try to avoid pronouns. However, if the subject is clarified, then you use the nominative form of the noun. For example:

Onjapossa ipradas: "He is eating carrots." vs. Anne onjapossa ipradas. — The horse is eating carrots.

Now I've introduced different word forms! With nouns, this is called "declining," and with verbs, this is called "conjugation. If you've ever learned a Romance language, these terms might be familiar to you. This also means that you can be a little freer with word order, though the main verb should remain last.

Nouns have 8 cases, determining what role they take in the sentence.

Nominative (the subject of the sentence)

Accusative (the object of the sentence)

Genitive (possessives, commonly translated as "of")

Dative (the indirect object, also commonly translated as "to" or "for")

Locative (location or time, commonly translated as "in". Also used for the object of the 3 prepositions)

Instrumental (the instrument, or "by means of")

Comitative (accompaniament. In some words, the instrumental and comitative are merged, so you can translate as "with)

Vocative (Addressing someone directly)

Nouns also have 4 numbers, determining how many of the noun is being referred to:

Singular

Plural

Paucal: some, a small number (in some cases, this is treated as plural when it comes to matching adjectives or verbs)

Collective: all, a totality (in some cases, this is treated as singular when it comes to matching adjectives or verbs)

There are also 4 genders in High Valyrian. These, as well as the declension of the word, indicate how the form of the word changes when the case and number change. On the High Valyrian Dictionary, which is hosted by David J. Peterson, the creator of the language, you can click on each noun entry to get a table of how each noun looks for each case/number, like this one for ēdrurys, a 2nd declension solar noun meaning "dream".

Adjectives that describe said nouns must match in case/number/gender, so take note of what gender your noun is before you consult the adjective table.

Verbs have 3 moods, 2 voices, and 7 tenses. Just as with the nouns, you can use the tables linked on the dictionary entries to find the correct forms for each entry.

Indicative mood means that the statement has happened. This is the standard form. The Subjunctive mood means that the statement has NOT happened (this includes negative sentences, hypotheticals, uncertain events, or wishes) The imperative mood means that it is a command. Note that this indicates that the verb is in 2nd person, and if you are ordering someone to do something, then that address should be in the Vocative form. Active Voice indicates that the subject is the one performing the action, while the passive voice indicates that the subject is the one being acted upon. Now, here are the seven tenses:

Present tense (events happening currently)

Aorist tense (statements about general truths or facts and events that usually or always occur. You may be tempted to put some declarations here, however, the aorist tense is very rare and has the sense of being very pompous)

Future (things that will occur)

Imperfect (things that were ongoing in the past. "was X-ing)

Perfect (things that were completed prior to the present)

Pluperfect (things that happened before a past moment. "Had X-ed)

Past Habitual (things that occured generally or repeatedly for some past period)

Now that you have the basics, how do you translate? Break down the sentence in English first: what are you trying to say? Here's an example:

Azantys ohīlvoso taobe idakos! — The knight is attacking the boy with a dagger!

Azantys is in the nominative singular form. The knight is performing the action. Ohīlvoso is in the intrumental singular form. The subject is using the dagger to perform the action. Taobe is in the accusative singular form. The subject is performing the action to the boy. Idakos is in the 3rd person singular present active indicative form. The subject, who is a singular actor and neither the speaker nor the listener, is presently attacking someone.

There we have it! A basic sentence. Please understand that High Valyrian and English are DIFFERENT LANGUAGES. You will not always be able to translate directly from English to High Valyrian. Don't be afraid to have your more literal meaning in HV, then a more poetic or complicated one in English. This even happens in official dialogue! For example:

"Avy ēdruliot ilzīlza." He will bore you senseless. (Literally: "He will put you in the dreamland.")

When using the dictionary, no need to be literal or exact. Remember that it's probably easier for you to change what's being said in English than in Valyrian. Be okay looking up synonyms to find within the entries, but make sure to read those entries carefully to get an idea of the "sense" of the word, as well as any notes on how they're used. For example, some verbs mean different things if the noun attached them is in the accusative (object), or dative (indirect object) form.

These are the basics! You can learn more about grammar here, and there's a Discord server for High Valyrian learners here. You can run your translated sentences by other High Valyrian language learners! I also have a HV Cheat sheet here which might also help you.

#high valyrian #conlang #writing #fanfic

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