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yeyinde · 4 months

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Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin.

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering.

Incurable.

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty.

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock.

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it.

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish.

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist.

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer.

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed.

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you?

Obediently following the wrong master.

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth.

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him.

But of course, you don't.

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands.

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to.

And so, he doesn't.

No. He blames you.

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity.

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next."

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners.

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like—

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them.

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest.

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen."

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?”

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem.

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning.

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you.

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half.

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone.

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?”

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross.

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging.

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all.

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle.

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?”

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation.

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain.

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?”

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him.

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching.

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving.

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease.

Cathartic.

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.”

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady.

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific.

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again.

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose.

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony.

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs.

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs.

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit.

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming.

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.”

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips.

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose.

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he?

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts.

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth.

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic.

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades.

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive.

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow.

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins.

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him.

It's new, this. This meekness.

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it.

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening.

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched.

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender.

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one.

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring.

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs.

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh.

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?”

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head.

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No.

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight.

Bracing yourself.

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over.

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine.

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx.

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere.

Something will break. Shatter.

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock.

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric.

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl.

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting.

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth.

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that.

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers.

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins.

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand.

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you?

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.”

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—”

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel.

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox.

“E–eight.”

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone.

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare.

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly.

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body.

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks.

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze.

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.”

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking.

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon.

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand.

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet.

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap.

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader

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meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender · 14 days

Text

Summary: When the god of the Winter needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But John Price, the god of the Winter, had other plans for his devotee. Eventual Poly 141.

A/N: Leaving this here, then backing away slowly. If you like, please comment and reblog. Special thanks to @itsagrimm for editing, even though you aren't into the type of writing. Thank you to @ethereal-night-fairy and @wildflower-and-honey for feeding my brain worms. I love you three and cannot thank y'all enough <3 Thank you, @saradika, for your beautiful dividers that I use in literally everything.

CW: (18+) Children begone! PIV smut, swearing, a Dyslexic wrote this, Religious Kinks, brief mention of suicide, brief mention of hypothetical pregnancy because what is John Price without a breeding kink? Voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, elements of paranoia, and mindreader elements.

NO AI

Leave a comment and reblog!

You had been abandoned. Sent aimlessly into the east by your deceiving elders to find the oh-so-benevolent god of Winter. Your people had discarded you, and perhaps, you had now been forsaken by the Holy One. Under the new winter moon, you had no bearing in these strange woods. You were lost and without hope. Stumbling into a thicket, you paused, catching your breath. Once your village elders cut your binds and removed the blade from your still bleeding throat, you ran. You had three options now: find the Winter God John Price and beg for mercy, return home to your village to die by your elder’s blade, or finally, die by a frozen death.

Yanking down the sleeves of your dress, you shivered. Only a fool would think the thin lace would be enough to fight the cold. You hadn’t bothered to ask for a cape when you would be dead come dawn by the blade of your elders or the mercy of winter’s chill. Besides, if the elders thought it could help entice the winter god closer to you, you welcomed the possibility. The god liked fine things- the fragility of ice coating sleeping trees, the nuanced tendrils that composed a snowflake, the finespun embroidery on an altar cloth. Perhaps the gossamer lace of your gown would make you look as alluring as snow?

Your village worshiped the god of the East along with his three other seasonal counterparts. In the winter, the altar faced east for John. In the spring, it faced north for Kyle. In the summer, the altar faced west for Johnny, followed by facing south in the Autumn for the one they called Ghost. You traversed the mezzanine of the aged temple as if it was your birthing ground, dedicating yourself to the unknown and to what divine vexed within.

A creature howled in the far distance, three more joining in the call. You wished you had a blade for protection, but the foolish elders would not allow it after the last messenger sent to find the God of Winter killed himself. He died from fear of the gods with his body left for the animals starved for winter scraps according to the elders. The collapsed skull and bloodied rock meant otherwise. You would become like the warrior- murdered- if you didn’t keep moving.

At least you’d be dead if you stopped moving, and wasn’t that something to rejoice over for the elders? They wanted you gone the moment you opened your mouth, defending the holy temples in a burning righteousness against their infidelity. The elders mocked your faith, staging a spectacle to rejoice in their perceived standings with the holy gods, to enshroud their continued greed of village resources, and holy temple offerings while preventing you from stepping foot inside the sacred temple.

All you wanted was to worship your gods in peace and for your village to know that peace.

A branch snapped in the distance. Setting your foot down ever so quietly, you glared into the darkness of the night. In your chest, your lungs froze as if a tiny breath could lead starving beasts toward you, but your heart tapped a wild rhythm against your bones like a war drum urging warriors forward in battle. Between the bones of the trees, a figure raised from the ground. Dirt quaked in its path, fearing the disturbance as flashes of odd whites and black wove into a tall, hulking beast emerging like smoke. The vaporous monster inhaled. It was as if he sucked the forest in with his expanding breath, the conductor of the skeletal structure of the land. The one who assembled appendages of bone like armor and crown, marking his distinct otherness to any creature known before. Opening his eyes, bright gold light flared from its eye sockets, a perpetual fire, locked on burning you alive.

You ran. Barreling through the underbrush, thorns cut and tore at your dress, slowing you down. Pushing deeper into the woods, you dared not glimpse back at the monstrous shape. The gods, you prayed, would give one last indulgence by sparing your life. Dodging fallen trees and saplings, you heaved for a breath. Your toe caught on something sending you tumbling forward, down the hill, to be stopped by a mangled stump. There was little to be felt from the roar in your mind and blood careening to endure, to run, to survive.

Looking up, the terrifying haint peered down at you with its head tilted to the side, lazily biding his time hunting you. Fleeing, you made way towards the river that supplied the village with water. The monsters couldn’t cross the running water at the bottom of the ravine. Everybody knew that. Your breath created puffs of smoke with each gasp of air, streaming from your lips like a dragon’s purr.

Down at the river, you paused, cursing at your luck. The river was frozen over, but how deep the ice went was beyond you. You had to cross, fighting for a chance at life and to find John Price to appeal for assistance proving your claims. Taking a deep breath, you ventured on the ice, straining your ears for cracking and shifting sounds. Freedom sang like a siren from the other side of the waters with the promise of faith delivering you into her hands. On the other side was an assurance of one more day in your beloved temples with the beloved gods, of life, and of being free from the elders.

Without the freedom to roam the holy grounds of faith, what would be left for you?

You slipped with a screech, flailing until you caught your balance. Your hands trembled as breath fogged the air. Crossing was the only option, regardless of death prowling down to find you. The thought of the being sent shivers down your spine, and you squeezed your eyes shut as if it would banish the evil and push you across the waters.

“Stop!” A man bellowed like thunder echoing in the ravine. You jumped, slipping on the ice. With an assured crack, the ice broke, plunging you into the icy waters.

You gasped, choking on river water. Kicking to the surface, you were met with a ceiling of ice. You hit the ice with your hand to no prevail until the bubbles from your nose dissipated and a film of darkness descended upon your peripherals. In the gloom, eyes of golden fire shimmered at you, refracted by the ice, illuminated by the flash of lightning.

It smelled like oak and spices as you inhaled. The bed you laid in was spacious, a soft luxury you sunk greedily into. Moments of time slowly returned to you as you stirred, until a tapestry unfolded, painting what had occurred in the woods to you. How you had survived drowning or hypothermia was beyond you, feeling none of it, now. Cocooned tightly in thick blankets, albeit naked as the day you were born, sleep still called in the comfort of the home. A warm crackle of a fireplace and the deep mutterings of men speaking filled your ears as you blinked. In your nest, you buried further in, savoring the needed heat with a sigh with your eyes peeking over the cover.

The two men, seated in the corner, had stopped conversing to stare at you. One was slim but muscular, with dark skin and shining brown eyes. He wore a grin both authentic and sly as if mischief personified, waiting for his time to strike and laugh at your mild misfortune.

The other man was a bear. Thick, burly, legs with sizable thighs spread to consume room; it seemed all he did was call attention to himself. The cocky spread of his legs to the icy blues of his eyes; your neck burned as he smirked, having caught you staring.

“Hello, Fawn,” The bear rumbled, intentionally softening his voice and leaning down as if afraid to spook you like the little deer.

“Ghost found you,” injected the younger one. “It took him and Soap to pull you from the ice and bring you home. That was pretty stupid; getting on the ice like that. Haven’t people told you not to do that?”

Getting on the ice was stupid, but letting yourself get consumed and murdered by a beast was even worse. You had half a mind to tell the younger man your thoughts on the matter, but here you were, naked in a stranger's bed… alive. While grateful, you needed to leave. The task to find John and plead for his assistance in clearing the village of your awful elders still loomed, as did the precarious nature of being nude in a room of two strong men.

“I’m looking for someone,” You mumbled. “I had no choice.”

“I know,” The older man hummed before speaking your name like a whisper of wind on your ear.

The God of Winter . Your spine went straight before you bolted upright, clinging the blankets to your chest. These men were not men at all but your four holy gods. There was half a mind to shuck off the blankets and fall to your knees in reverence. You had offered prayers while bathing before; was this any different? As you shifted, apologized, and begged for pardons on the tip of your lips, John shook his head and stood.

“Gaz, go let Soap and Ghost know our fawn is all right,” John said, clasping Gaz on the shoulder. Gaz promptly left the room, closing the wooden door behind him, not before offering you one final comforting grin.

“I am sorry. I had to find you. The elders sent me to the woods to murder me. And… I didn’t know what else to do but to seek your help. I’m so sorry, please forgive me. The elders are murdering anyone who dares question them. Nobody believes me even though I have proof! The village will not survive the winter because of our elder’s theft from them and of the temple and I need your help. I have done nothing wrong except be loyal to you, John,” You rushed out in a single breath. “Please, help me. Help us .”

John set his hand on your cheek, running his thumb over your warming cheeks. A violent shiver sprung through your body, encouraging you closer to the god. You closed your eyes and nuzzled into his palm, lulled by the smell of spices and the alluringness of being physically held by him. Finally, you had removed the burden of secrecy and responsibility and John took it lightly with his hands soothing the ache from your skin with the glide of his fingers.

“Love, you’re being too harsh. There is no reason to apologize,” He reassured you with a kiss on your forehead. “The fault lies with your elders. You have done all I have asked of you and more. Do not agonize yourself over the stubbornness of others. It will get you nowhere.”

You closed your mouth and held his wrist, keeping him to you. You thought of all your nights spent praying to the god of Winter when sleep evaded you. When you screamed or cried your prayers in agony, begging the divine god of winter to make himself known to you so that your faith was not in vain and your people could be free from the elders.

But what of your people? What choice would they make? The old gods were worshiped only in tradition and the elders had slowly pushed your people further from the gods as the temple began to deteriorate.

You were always dedicated to the divine in odd ways. Observant gifts of John’s favorite flowers and drinks were left on your homemade altar—prayers written on little papers in a box. Spare time spent tending to the aged temple and cleaning it, preparing it for worship. Devotion in wearing John’s favorite color as a ribbon around your wrist, bearing his color like a mark of ownership over you.

It was… your stomach clenched as you remembered bathing in his favorite fragrances, the soap trailing between your breasts, water falling as gracefully as the curves of your skin, for his solstice day. Later that night, deciding to offer John an orgasm on a lust-induced whim. When you came down from your high, you swore you could feel the divine by your knees, looking down at the mess you had made, dribbling into the sheets. The idea of him voyeuring into your bedroom made you leak, reaching a bold hand down to part your lips for him to see your swollen clit.

“What you want from us, little Fawn,” John tilted his chin to look you in the eyes as his warm toned voice dipped between your thighs to make them clench. “Comes at a high cost for you.”

“And let my people suffer from the elder’s greed? Surely, you understand how harsh winter can be! And to let the gods lay waste when this is proof you still are near has to be blasphemy. I don’t want to die, but I’d rather try dying than be left bystanding in silence, rotting away-”

John took your neck in hand and hulled you to your feet. Your words died on your tongue as his nose pressed into your cheek. Chests pressed together, his human form radiated heat and softness protecting layers of muscle and power. You wondered briefly if his divine form would look more bear or beast, unleashing the thrum of calculated energy pulsing inside the god.

“Fawn, martyrdom is for suicidal fools. Not even the martyrs ask for their portion, they stumble upon it trying to uphold the will of the gods which threatens the portions and powers that be in your mortal world,” John shook your head ever so slightly, pressing closer until you gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. Dark as ice, they pierced into you flickering from your eyes to your mouth, the urgency he held you with inching into territories you were unsure of but eager to explore. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and you shivered at your exposure, pressing your face into his neck as if to hide. “You will stay the night but come dawn, you must return home to live for us.” John instructed, pushing your hair from your neck. Leaning down, he nipped the bottom of your ear playfully, kissing along your neck.

You hummed, offering your neck to his lips. It didn’t matter if you had laid with a million other people before or none at all. You yearned for the assured solidity of the gods, and now you had it. They could have your body, the works of your hands, the words of your mouth, the paths of your feet. You only wanted to be near John, safe, nestled into his side, even if for a little while. To be welcomed into the god of winter’s bed for even a night? The idea made your thighs slickened with want, heat pooling in your stomach.

Everything in your bones wanted to please him, to let him have his fill of you, to honor him with the best of your skin and body. You’d get on your knees for him. Suck his cock until you are panting, with his cum on your tongue. You wanted to be good . You let out a little whine, a soft vibration in your throat. John chuckled, coming up from your throat to kiss you properly, all while moving you on the bed.

He kissed down your throat, gently touching your chest with the hints of friction making you squirm, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I want you to soak my fingers and cock with this pretty cunt tonight, Fawn” John decidedly spoke. You eagerly nodded, humming as his hand squeezed the fat of your stomach.

You opened your thighs as he descended between them, grinning as he knelt before you. You could have laughed at his eagerness if it wasn’t for the gentle, inquiring sweep of his finger through your folds, collecting your wetness. A sigh fell from your lips as he played with your cunt, a pleasant warmth filling your mind as your legs found a home on his shoulders, your hand on the back of his neck, scratching the short hairs there.

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty pussy since you showed her to me,” John growled, thumb swirling on your clit just as you had when you played yourself for him. Your knees bent, pushing your pelvis to catch the angle just right . “Offered me use of your body, a delicacy, to use as I please. Perfect little human for me to fuck whenever,” He growled before putting his mouth to work, sucking on your clit.

You keened, bucking your cunt into his face. John devoured you whole, feasted on you, your head in the clouds, floating with nothing to tether you but his mouth. The god of winter’s fingers prodded your entrance, slipping in with a slight stretch. His fucking hands, reaching depths you could never achieve on your own, made you moan, opening your eyes to watch him. From below your stomach, John was fully committed, eyes closed, grunting against your cunt.

John fought against your legs, drawing out the pulsing waves of pleasure until your ears were ringing, vision white, cresting into a beautiful brainless hum as your body went limp.

“Fuck, John, I can’t,” You whimpered, pushing his forehead back. Your chest heaved, hands grasping for anything you could reach until he slid his hand in yours, anchoring you to him. He moved, and you closed your sticky thighs, clenching at the slick dribbling down. John reverently kissed your collarbone, hands brushing over your scalp, lulling you from the cloudy space.

His lips kissed along your neck and chest as his hands wandered along your hips and thighs, rough fingers tickling the sensitive skin of your ass. Your eyes opened, greeted by his gentle gaze as he hovered over you. His mouth had been pinkened by your cunt, hair mused by your thighs and hands.

Grabbing his hand, you kissed his palm before licking the fingers that had been inside of you moments before. Something was intoxicating about the way you tasted, strong and delicious. Taking his fingers in your mouth, you hummed, thinking about how much thicker his cock would feel. John swore, pushing his fingers against your tongue, stilling your control. You moaned, letting your eyes close and legs fall open. Holding his arm, you could feel how your tits were pressed together by your biceps, making you not only a sight but a spectacle .

“Want my cock that bad, little fawn?” John teased. Opening your eyes, you nodded, nudging him closer with your foot. Removing his fingers, he drug his hand down your centerline, leaving a cold trail of your spit down your body. He slowly entered you, grunting with his eyes glued to the way you sucked him in.

“Fuck, John,” You whimpered, panting at the fullness pressing you open. His thumb rubbed your clit, lulling you back to another orgasm. Spreading your legs, he placed a knee on the bed as he began to thrust, covering his cock in your frothy slick.

It was hot and so, so full as he reached parts of you that had you gasping for air and tearing up. There was no pinch, only a subtle burn from the stretch, soothed by his cooing in your ear and thumb working wonders on your clit. Shifting his hips, he fed you more of his cock, making your vision go frayed around the edges. If your brain could leak away, it would slowly leak out with the wetness of your cunt.

“Just like that, fawn,” John encouraged, making you clench around him. “My little offering to take as I want, letting me use you like a good girl,” John grunted as you clenched around him, his hands falling to your stomach and hip, selfishly grasping at the plush skin to pull and drag you off his cock with.

“I’m,” You whined, clawing at the god’s massive arms, rippling with movement. “Please, John! Feels so good, filled up,” You babbled, trying to run closer and further with each thrust.

His other hand laid over the base of your throat, curling possessively around, forcing your eyes to his, forehead to forehead, as he pressed and pressed into your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you perfectly.

“Pretty wet cunt, dripping for me,” John’s lips brushed your ear, moaning into it. He reached a hand to gently pinch your nipple, making you gasp. “Rub yourself for me. Let me see you soak my cock.”

You slid a hand between your thighs and rubbed your clit, spreading your lips wider, feeling fully exposed, unable to help the moan and the chasing buck of your hips, humping the tight heat pooling in your stomach.

“Cum, love. Cum for me.”

You listened, you always did, a perfect little offering for him to use. You fought to keep your eyes open as you came, body convulsing, to show him what he had made you into. But when your fingers became too sharp, the pleasant hum of blood in your head turning into a sharp ringing, you went limp, thighs covered in slick cum as John took his final thrusts. Ropes filled you as his hand lovingly smoothed over your lower stomach. He rested his forehead on yours, panting as he lazily kissed you, his cock twitching as you warmed him.

“You okay?” John whispered from his place between your breasts as you scratched the back of his head.

“Sore,” You hissed as he slipped from you but was quickly scooped into his arms and laid across his chest. “M’tired,” You confessed, closing your eyes with a soft sigh.

You would be content to lie on his chest for the rest of time, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, wrapped in the warmth of his broad arms. Everything about you felt small compared to him; the way his hands engulfed yours, the way your calves had laid over his shoulder, the ripple of muscles and fat as he had fucked you.

“I need to clean up,” You mumbled, fingers following the lines of his pectorals.

“In a moment, darling. We’ll both clean up.” John kissed the top of your head, reaching for a glass of water for you to drink from before he took a few sips.

The god of Winter leaned down and kissed you so gently, soothing the aches with gentle hands against your thighs. Though, you felt it was more an excuse to touch your thighs more, but you didn’t mind. After cleaning up, you fell asleep swiftly, draped over his chest as his fingers traced dainty traces of snowflakes along your spine, tended to and protected.

In the morning, you woke in your own bed, dressed in the robes of a high priestess, as someone pounded on your door. As you rose, you felt the phantom aches of the previous night between your thighs. Quickly hiding the robes, you caught the white scars of John’s handprint over your womb, etched like silver ice into your skin.

“One second!” You yelled, dressing. Once you were decent, you threw open your door and gawked.

“There’s been a war party! They burnt the elder’s homes and the wheat stores! We need help!” The man took you by the arm and pulled you into the fray of dark smoke against the blooming pink winter sky. It was snowing, melting into water that slid down your arm and into the frosted grounds.

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gunaerystargarygun · 5 days

Text

The brain worms continue to infest my brain.

Posted on Ao3, but posting here as well: Here's my contribution to the Stan x Reader genre.

Tags: Vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, porn with mild plot, c'mon you guys know me at this point.

Know When to Fold 'Em

"Thanks for all your help, you're doin great, dood!" Soos's voice is full of pride, contentment as you hand over small zipped bag, the profits of the day. You smile, giving a slight shrug of your shoulders. "Soos, you've told me that every day for the past two years."

"And I mean it every time! Can't imagine runnin' this place without ya," he beams at you, his crooked smile making your own smile grow a little larger. Despite him being a few years younger than you, he makes a fantastic boss. "Can't believe Mr. Pines thought you was gonna be useless when I hired ya."

Well, that makes the smile drop.

You met Mr. Pines, well, both Mr. Pines when you got a job here at the shack, cashier and handyperson. A little odd, yes, but you needed the job and for a tourist trap? The place paid well enough, you could afford a small house and just about everything else you needed. You tap your foot, pressing your lips together. "Soos, not that I don't appreciate the words of encouragement, but you don't have to be up here." You throw a thumb over your shoulder and gesture to the shack. "I'm sure Melody could use your help with the baby."

"You sure? I feel kinda bad leavin' you here with all the clean up and restocking." Just as you're about to assure him that you're more than capable of restocking bobble heads and putting out minimally designed bumper stickers, the doorbell chimes and another voice breaks in. "Don't worry about it, Soos. I'll make sure everything gets put back in its place." The old Mr. Mystery poses in front of you. He stands tall, a rather tacky Hawaiian shirt with luau girls and surfboards plastered on it, a pair of khakis completing the look. He stretches his arms out in a flourish, making his entrance more grand.

You roll your eyes slightly, it's the same every time he comes into the shack, which...has been quite a lot, recently. "I haven't had a complaint once," you remark as Stanley begins to look around the place.

"That's cause Soos is too nice of a boss," he says, running his finger along the underside of the checkout counter. "See all this dust? Unbelievable!" He sticks out a finger towards your face, which you squint at.

"There's nothing there."

"To the untrained eye, maybe! This place may as well be covered in mud." You grumble an unhappy sound before Soos speaks up again. "Ah c'mon, Mr. Pines, they're a great worker!" Soos' arm comes around you in a one sided hug, squeezing you tight against his side. "Say, you been around a lot." Soos relaxes his grip on you, which lets you take in a deep breath. "You miss runnin' the shack?"

"What? No, no." He waves a hand dismissively. "Just makin' sure my life's work is still up and runnin', you know. Plus, the kids loved this place."

That was true. You had the pleasure of meeting the twins at the start of this summer. The girl, Mabel, was charming as all get out - she even made you a sweater, which you promised to wear in the colder months. The young boy, Dipper? A little surly. You swore he was running tests on when you weren't looking, or was trying to, anyway. At least by the end of the summer, whatever anxiety he had about you seemed to wash away.

"Okay! I'm gonna trust this place to yous guys. Lock up!" Soos waves his goodbyes, disappearing from the gift shop and somewhere into the house.

"I can handle this, you know?" You make your way to the small storage closet, taking out a box and ripping it open.

"I'm sure you can," he shrugs his shoulders. "Just makin' sure you do it right." Stanley then makes his way behind the register and takes a seat. You stand, blinking.

"What?" He asks.

"Aren't you going to help?"

"Huh? Oh, no, I'm not helpin' like that. I'm supervisin' ya," he laughs, slapping his own knee before propping them up on the counter.

You don't know why you expected anything different. You've known Stanley for the better part of two years and while he certainly has his redeeming qualities, being extra helpful isn't one of them. You sigh, and begin unpacking the restocks.

To your surprise, Stan is the one who strikes up the conversation. It's simple questions at first, how the shack has been, the types of tourists that've been coming around, and how Soos has been running the place. Whenever you think you finish with an answer, he probes for me, and you notice, his eyes stay on you a large majority of the time.

You feel your face flush a little with that.

Finally, the restocking is done, and you get the broom. Minimal housekeeping; the weather has been dry, so no mud. "You got any plans tonight?" The question catches you off guard, making you turn completely around to face Stan.

"Uh, other than eating a frozen pizza? No. Why?"

"Wanna play a couple round of cards?" He stuffs his hands in his khaki pockets, shrugging, as if he doesn't care how you answer the question. The way he shifts his attention to the floor, however, makes you think otherwise. "Ford's out on a nature hike, or whatever it is that nerds do in the woods, so I got no plans myself."

"Sure." You answer. "Sounds like fun, and beats eating the pizza alone."

By the look of quick surprise, he clearly wasn't expecting you to say yes. He shrugs it off fast enough, shooting a finger gun at you. "Perfect! What's the address? I'll be over at seven." You grab a pen and paper, scribbling it down and passing it over.

Huh, this'll be the first time he sees your house. You think that you better clean up a little bit, not that you think he'd particularly care, but still.

It takes very little to actually clean up your house. A few stray pieces of clothing that make it to the hamper (you missed each time you threw it in, but who's here to see?) and washing a few of the dishes. Just as you finish putting the pizza in, there's a knock at your door.

You hurry up, stopping at the mirror in the hallway just before the door, and look at yourself. You smooth out your shirt, nodding and opening the door.

Stanley stands on your porch with a twelve pack in one hand and two bottles of liquor, held precariously by the neck, in the other. He's still in the same outfit from earlier, but the top few buttons are undone. Were they like that earlier? "Figured it'd be impolite if I only brought it for myself," he shrugs the pack in his arm a little, the bottles clinking together. He glances around. "Nice place."

"Thanks," you say, stepping to the side and letting him in. "Just set it on the table." You watch as he strides through your house, the pack of alcohol landing with a thump while the bottles settle down nicely. He pulls out a chair, easing into it as he props up a foot on one of his knees. The way he leans against the table...

"Where's the cards?" You clear your throat, sliding out a chair across from him and taking a seat. You need something else to distract you.

"Right here," he sticks a hand in his pocket and pulls out a rather beat-up-looking deck of cards and slaps them on the table. "You shuffle, or me?" You eye the cards for a moment, reaching out and grabbing the deck.

"I will." The cards are pleasantly worn, and you can't help but wonder how much use these things have gotten. "Go easy on me? Been a while since I played."

"First rounds are on me," he nods. "Don't try and pull the wool over my eyes." He playfully points an accusatory finger at you.

"I know, I know." You cut the deck, shuffling them thoroughly before dealing them out.

It's...pleasant. You didn't expect it to be unpleasant, to be fair, but aside from the one off times of drinking, there's a handful of times when the two of you have been alone together. Stan takes the time to tell you a wild tale of when he was a "much younger buck," when he managed to steal a shipment of some undisclosed items from a smuggler. It's amusing, even if it isn't real. You can never tell with him.

Eventually, the oven dings and the pizza is ready. It's served, and you bring two glasses out as well. Before the beer, Stan reaches for the liquor and twists off the cap. "Want one?" You press your lips together, thinking for a moment.

"Hit me." It's a guesstimate on how much a shot would be. Or maybe two.

Either way, you wait until Stan pours his before clinking your glasses together and downing it. Whiskey may not be your go-to, especially when it's warm, but the burn in your throat has a familiar comfort. You cough a little, shaking your head and nodding. "Strong." You comment.

"That's the point." He says. Stan sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers as a sign to hand the cards over. You do, still reeling from the shot as you fish out a bottle of beer. It goes down much easier than the whiskey.

You try very hard to not stare at his hands, but it's difficult. It wasn't something you noticed immediately, but Stan's hands are.... big. Large. Pretty much every synonym for big is how you would describe them, and you vaguely recall the one time you touched them as you passed him something in the shop. They were rough, calloused, but also incredibly warm.

You're not drunk enough to blame that thought on the alcohol right now, so you just push it from your mind as he deals the cards.

Once again, things go back to being pleasant. You nurse your beer as the cards continue to get played, one bottle quickly multiplying between the two of you, along with the cash piling in the center of the table. The conversation steers to him telling you about the adventures he had with the Twins, an endearing tone in his voice that you can't help but smile at. The pizza gets devoured, and when you glance up to the clock, you realize that it's almost eleven o'clock. Have you really been here this long?

That's when it clicks in your alcohol muddled brain.

Stan is lonely. He's been in the shop almost every day for the past week, since the twins left, and even before then, he and the twins were around quite a bit. It would make sense, he went from being around them, his brother, Soos's family, and you for almost three months straight. You look down at the cards, your focus fading for a moment before he speaks.

"Think I mighta run you outta money," he gestures to the table. Your attention turns to it and yeah, there's a decent pile of cash on it. You're pretty sure there's also monopoly money in there, but you're a little too drunk to really notice. "Got anything else to bet?" You think for a moment, tapping the table.

"M'clothes." You answer, plainly. He stares at you.

"Uh, didn't quite catch that?"

"M'CLOTHES." You say it in a louder tone, making sure he can hear it this time. "S'all I got, I'm not up for bettin' my appliances." You point at the blender that sits atop the counter.

"C'mon," he rubs at the back of his neck. "That'd involve me takin' my clothes off too, you don't wanna see that."

"What if I told you that's why I suggested it?" holy shit, why are you saying this? Why are you suddenly so bold, what the hell is in this drink?

"I'd tell ya, you should stop teasin' an old man." You grab the deck of cards, shuffling them in the absolutely worst way ever before slamming them back on the table and pushing them over to him. "Deal 'em."

"You're too drunk for this." The rather sincere reply catches you off guard.

"No, I'm not." You say, stern in your rebuttal. "Look." You jump to your feet, a little wobbly, and begin putting one foot in front of the other, walking a line in the linoleum of your kitchen. While you're not walking perfectly straight, you're doing better than expected. You think so, anyway. "See? I'm f-" just as you're about to finish your sentence, you perform the miraculous feat of tripping over air. You fall a freshly logged tree.

You expect to crash to the floor in the most painful crash since the last time you went to the roller rink, but you never meet the ground. Slowly, you open your eyes, staring up at him. You must have spun in your fall, his hands tucked under your armpits. "What were you sayin' about bein sober enough?" Oh, he's so fucking smug about this.

"I trip on nothin' all the time, drinkin' doesn't have anything to do with this." you weakly shrug your hands, but this close, you catch the smell on him. Mixed with the alcohol, you can catch the scent of cigar smoke, but something faintly woodsy and earthy. It takes everything in you to not sniff at the air. "Uh-huh." he chuckles.

There's a brief moment of silence that passes over the two of you. He doesn't make a move to pull you up, but you're not making a move to get up, either. Instead, you raise a hand and gently press it against his cheek. "You're handsome." You mumble.

"Oh, you're fuckin' wasted."

That makes you twist in his grip. You manage to push yourself to your knees, putting your face just a few inches away from his. "Stop talkin' like I don't mean it."

"You don't mean it."

"I mean this." You grab the sides of his tacky Hawaiian shirt and pull him forward. Your lips crash against his, not realizing how hard you pulled him into you. The scrape of his stubble burns against your chin, a slight shiver running through you. There's the faint taste of tobacco that lingers on him, the chapped skin of his lips. It isn't how you expected this to happen, but to be quite frank, you didn't think this was ever going to happen.

It's only a moment later that you realize he hasn't made a move to kiss you back. He hasn't done anything. You quickly pull back, embarrassed. Why did you do that? God, you're never drinking again. You're not even an alcoholic, and you're planning to go to a 12 step program the second you get sober enough to drive. Your mind races - where else could you move? Maybe the Arctic, right? That's far enough way, that way you c-

You're actually not even far away from him before his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his broad chest. You squeak in surprise, hands resting on his thick thighs as he deepens the kiss.

Even through the clothes, he's hot, almost like a furnace. He's burning against you, and this kiss. It makes you dizzy, head spinning. There's a hunger in the kiss, a desperation that you don't think you've ever felt when you kissed other people. His hand holds a tight grip on you, squeezing your side, and you practically melt right into him.

It's a little awkward at first before you two manage to change your positions; neither one of you is keen on breaking the kiss. Eventually, you end up sitting on his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, he sits on the kitchen floor. Shifting, you can feel the hardness of his cock beneath the fabric of the khakis.

Your hands reach for the hem of your shirt. They don't make it far, Stan's hands gripping your wrist. He's somehow even stronger than you expected, your stomach flipping at the pressure. He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours, panting. You're expecting him to say something filthy, something that's going to make you squirm in his lap.

"Say your alphabet," is what he says instead.

What.

"What?" You ask.

"Say your alphabet," he repeats. "Not sleepin' with ya if you're not in the right state of mind."

"I walked, didn't I?"

"You fell."

Okay, fair enough.

So, you recite your alphabet. It's deliberate, and it's not too slow to cause any concern. As soon as you finish, he releases your wrists and grabs your shirt. It's the fastest your shirt has ever been removed, Stan's face immediately between your tits as soon as he's able. The stubble scratches as your skin, laughing slightly as he plants kisses against your chest. His hands reach around to your back, and you expect him to have trouble with it.

It's off before you can even blink.

"You're suspiciously good at that," you say.

"Aww, you jealous?" He laughs, sliding the bra off and tossing it somewhere behind him. "Don't worry, ain't nobody else gettin' the treatment you are."

"That's what you tell m-" you're cut off, Stan's tongue flicking against your nipple.

"Sayin' somethin', sweetheart?" He glances up, not giving you a chance to speak before he presses his mouth against your left nipple. You grab his shoulders, squirming against him as his tongue swirls around the hardened flesh. One arm wraps around your waist, grinding you against him while his free hand finds your other breast, kneading the flesh in his hand.

Your body feels like it's on fire under his touch. He plays with how much pressure he can put on you, rolling a nipple between his fingers while he sucks mercilessly on your other. Sweat beads on your brow, bucking against him while whimpering sounds escape you. "C'mon, sweetheart." He takes his mouth away from you, the cold air assaulting wet flesh. He playfully bucks his hips up, his cock grinding against you for just a moment. "Wanna hear what a good job I'm doin," he changes the arm that holds you against him, his other hand rising and brushing against the spit slickened skin.

Between the cold and his rough, calloused hand, you feel like you're already on the edge. "You aren't done already, are ya?"

"N-no," you mumble, tilting your head back and moaning as his mouth closes around the other nipple. Judging from the way his tongue flicks against your skin, he certainly appreciates the reaction. The way he sucks against your skin is greedy, teeth nipping at the skin. You're going to have bruises, you've accepted that. Your hands move from his shoulders to his hair, running through the gray, surprisingly soft, hair.

Using everything you can muster, you grind yourself against him. He groans against your skin, the grip on your skin tightening. He pulls away from you with an obscene sound, the words practically a growl in his throat. "Where's the bed?"

"Down the hall, last door on the right."

He gives pause for a moment, thinking. "Too far." He decides, aloud. Before you can process what he says, you're suddenly scooped up. You wrap your arms around him, tits bouncing as he hoists you around him. You leave the kitchen, and in a few feet, you're tossed unceremoniously on the couch. Your hands find the button of your jeans, getting them half way down your thighs before Stan takes over. They're off before you can even blink, Stan settling between your thighs. He picks one up, hooking your leg over his shoulder while he presses a thumb against your soaked panties.

You're already trembling, and your entire body jumps as he presses his thumb against your clit, rotating it in small painfully slow circles. He leans over you, grinning. "You want somethin'?"

"You know what I want," you breathe, fingers gripping the couch cushion.

"'Fraid I don't, sweetheart. You're gonna have to tell me." He lets up on the pressure, eliciting a whine from you. "I want your fingers," you reach out, gently touching his arm.

He's happy to comply. "Wasn't so hard, was it?" There's that smug fuckin' tone in his voice again. You expect him to pull off your underwear, but it doesn't seem like he's patient enough for that. Instead, he pulls them to the side, his middle and ring fingers sliding up and down against your wet cunt.

"W-wait!" You sit up some as he presses against you. "It's, uh..." you clear your throat. "It's been a while." You feel almost embarrassed to admit it, but with how thick his fingers are, and two of them? You don't wanna run the risk of getting hurt. He pauses, offering just the middle one to you in compromise. You make a face, and he laughs before he raises the finger to his mouth. He presses it against his tongue before dipping it back between your thighs. "Don't think that would've been an issue," you murmur as you feel him begin to slide into you.

You tilt your face against the couch arm, moaning as he buries the finger inside of you. "Bein' careful doesn't hurt," that's true, and you do honestly appreciate the sentiment. He moves his hand in a steady rhythm, the other hand keeping your legs spread apart. You bite your lip, and after a few minutes, he judges that you're ready for another and adds the ringer finger inside of you.

It's thick, and stretches you in the best possible way. "Feels good, don't it?" He leans over you, his face just a few inches away from yours. You don't know why it slips out - maybe you lapse back into what you were taught when you were younger. "Y-yes, sir." You pant the words out.

Stan's fingers stutter for just a moment before he thrusts them back into you, a moan immediately muffled by his lips against yours. He curls his fingers in the same way as before, the way that made your body shake like a leaf in his hand. "Like the way that sounds comin' outta you," he says the words against your neck, pressing kisses against your rapid pulse.

You can't handle it anymore. "Stanley," your voice teeters on the edge of breaking, fingers twisting in the Hawaiian shirt fabric. "F-fuck, Stanley, I-I.." the words die in your throat as he suddenly removes his fingers from your cunt. "W-what?" The words come out a whine, grabbing the shirt tighter and moving your hips to try and find his hand. "Stan," you groan.

"I can't have you all tired out before we get to the good stuff," he tells you. His hands move to the belt, making quick work of it. He slips off the khakis, positioning himself between your legs again before pressing the shaft of his cock against you, sliding against the slickness. You look between your legs, the head of his cock dipping in against your cunt before his hand tilts it up, bumping against your overly sensitive clit.

You're dizzy, just like before. Your head swims, biting your lip as he teases you constantly, angling himself and barely pushing himself in before pulling out. "You're lookin' desperate, sweetheart." He does a poor job of concealing his own desire, unable to take his eyes off your body. "Fuck, you're drippin'." He grins at you. "Still got it, huh?"

You suddenly brace your arms against his shoulders, pushing him back against the couch and straddling his lap. "You talk too much," the words come out in one rushed breath as you reach between your legs and grab the base of his cock, holding him steady as you bury him inside of you. A stifled moan escapes you as your body adjusts to his size. One hand grabs your waist, stilling any movement you might make, while the other grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "You alright?" You nod your head, your lips slightly pursed from how he squeezes your face.

"Good," he breathes, releasing your face. His hand drops to your chest, holding your breast. As soon as you roll your hips forward, Stan can't keep his mouth shut. "Shit, fuck," his eyes are half-lidded, head resting against the back of the couch as you ride him. "You're tight as a fuckin drum, and hotter than hell." You smile, bracing your hands against the couch as you snap your hips forward, rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Both of his hands are on your tits, thumb brushing over the nipples. "Perfect," he mumbles out. Sweat beads across your body, Stan's hand eventually traveling downwards and finding your clit again. The moan rips from your throat as the calloused finger pads press against you, an almost aggressive rub against you - but it's exactly what your body wants. "There ya are," he practically purrs the words out as you lean down.

Your lips catch his, sloppy kisses without much care, as long as you can kiss him. Your burning in every sense of the word, body and nerves as Stan grabs your ass, timing your movements with his own thrusts. He somehow manages to go even deeper inside of you, each thrust sending another wave of pleasure through you. "Stanley!" His name is barely above a whisper as he suddenly pushes you back against the cushions, back on top of you.

He takes a leg, hiking it over his shoulder and leaning over you, your body curling slightly. His pace is merciless, whatever words you had before devolving into incoherent moans of pleasure as they spill from your lips. It's when the orgasm wrecks your body that you swear to God, you see literal stars in your vision as you cum. Your body tenses, nails digging into his forearms so hard that you're a little worried you may draw blood. Stanley, somehow, has enough sense to pull himself from you, his cock sliding against you before he cums.

Thick, milky ropes land on your stomach and tits as he slows his thrusts, breathing heavily before slumping down over you. You're catching your own breath, a hand raising to his back and gently running up and down the now sweat soaked shirt.

"You good?" He asks, his voice somehow hoarser than before.

You can't really respond, offering a thumbs up in response.

"Huh, fucked you so good you lost the ability to talk huh?" Weakly, and playfully, you slap him.

"Asshole." He snorts, removing himself from you and sitting back against the couch. He looks at you. Then the mess on you. "Where's your shower?"

"Bathroom, which is in the bedroom." You yawn. Stan picks the boxes out of his khakis, sliding them on before bending beside you. "Put yer arms around me," you stare at him a moment. "C'mon, before I change my mind." You do as he says, looping your arms around his neck as his hands slide under your sweaty body, hoisting you up.

"Not too much for you, is it, old man?" You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I can still drop you, ya know?"

"Mhmm." You mumblr. He feigns the drop, your grip tightening on him.

"Gotcha." He winks at you, but at this point, you're too tired to really fight back. Stan manages to open the door to your room and find the bathroom, setting you on the closed toilet. He reaches into the shower, turning the knobs and keeping his hand in for a moment. "You want it on the hotter or colder side?"

"Uh, hotter." The question catches you off guard.

"Figures, every woman wants it hot as hell." He adjusts the knob behind the curtain, taking it back and shaking off the water. "What?" He asks, raising a brow as you make a face at him.

"Just, uh..." again, you're trying to avoid sounding like an asshole. "Didn't expect aftercare?

"I may be a lot of things, and one of those things may be an asshole, but I'm not that big of an asshole." He sets his hands on his hips and you can't help but snort a giggle. "Up." he tells you, offering an arm. You stand on wobbly legs, leaning against him.

"Not sure how this is gonna work." You admit. "Kinda feel like a newborn deer."

"I'm gonna help you," he says. "Also, get a new metaphor."

"That's a simile."

"Oh, look at me, I paid attention in English." He mocks in a joking tone. "Just.. stand here." You do as your told, watching as he unbuttons his top and shakes it off, revealing the sweat covered girdle that's still wrapped around his waist. "You kept that on the whole time?" That's...kind of impressive.

"Done a lot more uncomfortable things, sweetheart." He says. He drops the girdle on your bathroom floor, gesturing for you to get in the shower. You do, Stan offering his arm for support as he follows you in shortly after. He keeps an arm around you, just below your breasts, in case you slip.

It does make you feel safe. You take the washcloth, soaping it up and slowly begin to scrub your body. The hot water feels amazing on your tired body, breathing in the smell of your soap and shampoo. When you're happily scrubbed, you turn in Stan's arms. "Your turn." You say.

"What?"

"You need to get clean too," you tell him. You don't let him protest, reaching over to your shampoo and squirting a pump into your palm and scrubbing it onto his scalp. There may have been a moment of protest, but it falls off quickly. His eyes shut, letting you work as you comb through his thinning hair. You take a few steps back, turning as carefully as you can so that he's under the stream of water. You work diligently, ensuring all the soap is off before you apply the conditioner and repeat it. He's strangely quiet the entire time, and yet you notice, he's relaxed. It's the first time you think you've ever seen his body this loose.

You grab the washcloth again, soaping it up again before pressing it against his chest. Now that there's no risk of soap in his eyes, Stan cracks one of his eyes open and looks down at you. "You're sweet, y'know?"

"Mhm." You hum in response.

"Seriously," he says. His thumb and forefinger catch your chin, tilting you up to meet his gaze. He leans down, the kiss tender, soft.

There's no intent behind it than affection. Somehow, it makes you feel hotter than what happened in the kitchen. You know you have the dopiest smile on your face, but at the moment, you don't care. You drag the rag over his body, his stomach, everywhere you can as he holds you close to him. When he's finally rinsed, he turns off the shower and carefully helps you step out. A few towels later, you're dry, warm, and exhausted.

You have a few oversized t-shirts that you used to clean the house in, and you manage to find one that fits Stan. There's no way he's making it home tonight. In your own pajamas, you climb into bed as Stan sits on the side of it. "Oh this thing is way comfier than your couch, no offense." He tests the springs, looking at you. "Maybe next time we'll make it to the bed."

"I'll hold you to that," you laugh. "Not tonight, though."

"What a shame," he winks. "You, uh, actually fine with me sleeping in here?" You're getting comfortable beneath the sheets, resting your head on the pillow.

"Stan," you start. "You were literally inside me. You can sleep next to me."

"You'd be surprised how often those two things don't go hand in hand," he remarks off-handedly. Your face creases in worry, about to sit up before he reaches out and pushes you back down. "Story for another day." He pulls the sheets back, sliding in beside you and staring up at the ceiling. A shiver runs through you, scooting closer to him and hooking a leg over his. He raises an arm, putting it behind you so that you're able to rest your head against his chest. "Don't get used to this," you know he doesn't mean a word of that.

"Goodnight, Stan." You stretch, placing a kiss on his cheek. You settle back down, shutting your eyes.

Gently, you feel the ghost of a kiss on the top of your head. "Goodnight."

You fall asleep to his heartbeat, something you think you'd enjoy getting used to

#gravity falls #stanley pines x reader #stan pines x reader #dw i'm still inactive but i wanted to post

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cairavende · 8 months

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My wonderful girlfriend got me Gideon the Ninth for Christmas and I realized why should I just give Worm recaps? Let's read some Locked Tomb! (We'll see how this format works, maybe I'll adjust it. Specifically might break stuff down into smaller segments instead of full acts, but I didn't think of doing this until after I had read all of act 1.)

Gideon the Ninth Act 1 (chapter 1 through 8) thoughts:

This book is so gay oh my god

Like, it's gay in ways I can't even explain. I love it.

Harrow beats the shit out of Gideon in chapter 2 and I don't know if I've ever seen someone get beat up in a more gay way.

"Oh Griddle! But I don't even remember about you most of the time." ROLL A FUCKING DECEPTION CHECK HARROW! You are saying this standing in the middle of the field you spent all night burying bones in just to foil her escape in the most dramatic way. You can't stop remembering her.

Gideon is the most herbo of herbos. I fucking love her. I love reading her PoV. She just knows punch and stab with sword and if those don't work than she'll just do them harder.

Also Gideon is SO fucking gay. Dear god. Dulcinea faints and Gideon turns off all though. HELP PRETTY GIRL. Nothing else.

Ok I could just make this whole thing "EVERYTHING IS GAY" but there is technically more than that.

I love how weird everything is and how little explanation is given. I don't want pages of exposition, I want to learn the world as it comes at me! This is perfect.

And just the very nature of things that seem weird not being given more than a passing thought in the book is information. Something may seem wild to the reader but it's so normalized to the characters that they wouldn't even think about the idea of it being different.

Lack of explanation also helps really show how much of a meathead Gideon is. Do the readers get to learn details about this thing? Only if it is a weapon, has tits, or Gideon is forced to listen while Harrow explains it. Otherwise no, why the fuck would Gideon spend her precious few brain cells on thinking?

And even if Gideon is forced to listen as Harrow explains it, the readers might not learn much cause Gideon might stop listening. I love her.

Aiglamene is wonderful. Crux is fine but I like her more.

Poor Gideon just wants a big sword that she can swing hard. It's not like she can't use a rapier. But why when she can go big sword?

SO MUCH CATHOLICISM

As someone who once was Catholic and then realized I was actually not a straight man, but instead a lesbian, I am in deep.

And the fucking slang used! Or whatever would be the right term. The shit they say! I love it. Just the weird sci-fi far future space necromancer universe and then suddenly "Are you asking me to . . . throw her a bone?", "Gideon had always known that this would be how she went: gangbanged to death by skeletons.", "Don’t hypothetically shove stuff up my butt again, it never does any good.", "Lo! A destructed ass.", "Well we were developing common sense, she studied the blade.", "Double Bones with Doctor Skelebone."

House of the First appears to be Earth. I kinda assume the House of the Ninth is Pluto, even though things obviously aren't in order given that the Seventh and Sixth are closer to the sun. Of course, I'm kinda expecting this to not technically be this solar system at all.

Undying Emperor, King of Resurrection, I Have Ten-Thousand Titles, Boss First, etc etc hasn't been on "Earth" in over nine thousand years. I wanna know MORE.

And the fucking Ninth House has their own prayer! Everyone else has one that the Ninth didn't know and then the Ninth had one that no one else knows! GIMME MORE!!!!

Also again, so many Catholicism metaphors or comparisons or whatever!

I could go on forever but gonna end this one with OH MY GOD SHE FOUND SUNGLASSES I LOVE HER. Fucking "I came prepared, my sweet." and "But then you couldn't have admired . . . these!" as she whips on the sunglasses. God. I nearly died.

#The Locked Tomb #tlt #Gideon the Ninth #Cairavende reads The Locked Tomb #Gideon Nav #Harrowhark Nonagesimus #Dulcinea Septimus #This might be the most lesbian thing I've ever read and I've read some pretty fucking lesbian things #Dulcinea might be my favorite so far

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lou-struck · 2 months

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Little Surprises

Katsuki Bakugo x reader

~ It's funny how making just a little change in your daily routine can change everything...

Wc: 2.4k

Warnings: Injury, mentions of violence, mention of death cliffhangers, angst.

"Tell me" "No" "Tell me!" "No. Stop askin'!" "Okay…"

You look down at your text chain with Katsuki with a grin. The special trip he planned for you is a week away, and despite your best efforts, you still haven't figured out where he is taking you. Your Boyfriend is stubborn and unwilling to give you even a sliver of information. Clearly, you just have to push harder.

Chewing the inside of your lip you try to worm your way into the mind of Katsuki Bakugo. You twist your features into his signature scowl and try to think. When your caffeine-fueled brain reaches its first idea, you send him another text.

"The beach?" "Goddammit!!! I told you that I'm not telling you anything, so stop trying to guess. Don't you have work to do or something?" "You're deflecting! We are going to the beach, aren't we?" "Absolutely not, you dumbass. Get back to work."

You read his last message with a snort and shoot him a quick "I love you." before setting your phone face down on your desk. Looking around the office, you try and see if there is anything new to do to entertain you, but today is just a rather uneventful day; aside from a meeting with a prospective client and a few unanswered emails, there is nothing really to do.

"Hey," Mae, your favorite coworker, says, poking up from behind your cubicle. "Did you see our afternoon meeting got canceled? Apparently, the client's car got trapped behind one of Shoto's ice walls when he was chasing down a villain, and it won't be dethawed until the afternoon."

"Lucky us," you laugh, now clearing the last remaining item on your schedule today. "Do you think we will get sent home early today?"

She looks at you hopefully through her large wire-rimmed glasses. "They should. If there is nothing to do, it would be wasteful to have us here. Besides," she sends you a teasing look. "I'm sure you would love a bit more time to get ready for your Mystery Trip with your big shot pro hero boyfriend. Do you know where he is taking you yet?"

You let out a deep sigh and slap your hands against your wooden desktop. "Not a clue, and it's killing me. I keep trying to get little bits and pieces out of him, but he won't budge. I tried to ask some of his friends, but he knows that they would slip up, so no one is able to help me figure it out."

"Oh my, isn't that a pickle?" your sweet little coworker giggles, adjusting the cat-shaped buttons on her cardigan. "Whatever it is he has planned, I'm sure you will love it. That young man certainly cares a lot about you."

"I know, I'm just not great with surprises." You smile gratefully at your older friend just as the door to the break room opens, and a putrid smell wafts under your nose. It takes everything in you to not gag at the smell of your coworker microwaving their leftover fish stew for the third day in a row."

"Dammit, Greg," the little lady huffs as the man steps out of the room with his probably poisonous lunch in hand, the paper bowl it's in sloshes as he passes by your desk. Her hand already reaching under her desk for her emergency can of air freshener to kill the lingering scent.

But instead of avoiding you, the man chooses to stop right in front of your workstation.

"Shouldn't you be doing something productive, Y/n?" he sneers, looking at your blackened screen. "Especially since you chose to take off Friday and leave us to pick up your slack while you are on your little vacation," he says the last word bitterly as if the only reason you decided to take time off was to spite him.

Usually, you would make some kind of masterfully passive-aggressive retort back to his rudeness, but the smell of his lunch is practically lethal at this point, and you feel your life force draining. Thankfully Mae, your friend, honorary grandmother figure, and now protector, butts in. "Oh, don't worry about him, dear," she laughs, "He is just jealous that you are dating a Pro, and Pinky hasn't opened any of their digital fan mail or whatever it is you young folks call it."

You stare at her in awe as Greg stomps away with his smelly soup and stinkier attitude. Now that you can breathe again, words come easier. "Thank you for that; that soup smelled so bad I couldn't think clearly. Those leftovers can't possibly still be good, can they?"

"Absolutely not; they are clearly rancid by now. But I think that his quirk makes him a human garbage disposal. Not everyone can create bombs like your Dynamite ca~ "She pauses mid-sentence and stares at the window behind you in confusion.

"What is it?" you ask, spinning around in your chair, but your usual view looks no different than usual. Just buildings and the occasional pigeon flapping past

"Wait, really? "You turn and look at your friend in disbelief, you were just talking about him. There is no way he just passed by.

She put her little hands up innocently, "If you don't believe me turn on the tv, I'm sure some reporter is already on the scene watching Dynamite kick some villain ass."

You quickly snatch the remote for the office television and press down on the bright red power button. Sure enough, when the screen comes to life, you see a live report from just down the block from your office. He's moving far too quickly for the cameras to get a clear view of him, but you can tell from the sporadic explosions that shake the camera lenses that it's Katsuki.

Your stomach twists as your nerves take hold of you. Although he is one of the strongest heroes in the world, watching him fight live has you clenching your metaphorical pearls as you fear the worst.

Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palm as you watch the screen. It only takes him a few minutes to apprehend the villains he was up against, but to you, it felt like hours.

"It looks like he got them all, "Mae says, noting your worried expression. "You should go down there and say hi to him. I'm sure it would make you feel better."

"I guess they're not too far away?" You say glancing at the clock, it's not lunchtime yet, but it's close enough to step away. Even if it wasn't your lunch break, you know that your manager would be fine with you going. "I guess I could take an early lunch and just wander over there."

Isn't it wonderful to not be working in a toxic workplace?

"Well, dear, you might as well just call it a day." Mae laughs. "There is nothing else to do anyways."

"Are you sure that will be alright?" you ask as she nods encouragingly. Although on paper, she is your coworker, you know that she has been working at your office long enough that she is practically upper management herself. If Miss Mae tells you to clock out, you clock out. "Alright then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have fun with loverboy," they call after you. You don't have to see their face to know that they are giving you a teasing smirk.

Even if you didn't know where he was fighting earlier, the large crowd of people crowding the crime scene would've tipped you off. Reporters press against the caution tape, flashing their cameras at the cluster of unconscious villains being fitted into quirk-canceling handcuffs. Nosy civilians gossip with one another as they try to figure out everything they can about the altercation.

You weave your way through the crowd of onlookers and adoring superfans with practiced efficiency. It isn't long till you find yourself at the edge of a caution tape with a perfect view of everything.

Surprisingly, the fight didn't cause much damage to the street; the villains seemed to litter the ground more than the usual rubble of a fight. And standing in the middle of the chaos is Katsuki. The blond man scowls at his defeated enemies, ignoring the trembling hand of the red-lipped reporter trying to interview him. He's always hated having to deal with the press, so he simply chooses not to.

His crimson gaze spots you in the crowd, and he sends you a satisfied smirk; you recognize that look; it's the one he uses when he knows he has impressed you. He turns away from the reporter and strides toward you, his dark boots blending into the asphalt and crushing shards of broken glass.

The man next to you seems to buzz with excitement as he turns to his friend. "Dynamite coming over here," he whispers. "It looks like we can finally get that picture with him."

"Screw the camera; I want to try and get a piece of his spiky hair." his friend murmurs back, "I can add it to my shrine next to that tissue I won at that auction."

You cringe hearing their conversation and discreetly step away from the obsessive fanboys. As Katsuki's partner, you understand why so many people are obsessed with him. But they should be well aware that Katsuki won't hesitate to blast them into next week if they get anywhere close to his personal bubble, and that's not something you want on your conscience.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and stops a few meters shy of the tape, "Well, don't just stand there, y/n, get over here."

The eyes of the crowd are immediately fixated on you as you slip under the tape, but you are too focused on him to care about their curious murmurings. He carefully places his hand on the small of your back to lead you away from prying eyes. The intimate gesture sends electricity up your spine as your knees wobble slightly.

The two of you walk past the troves of law enforcement officers who nod respectfully at Katsuki while loading up the incapacitated criminals into their transportation vehicles.

"It looks like you had your hands full today," you comment, comparing the villain's various bumps and bruises to Katsuki's unmarred skin. "I'm glad that you are okay."

"It was nothing; I just wish one of these idiots would give me a challenge every once in a while." He scoffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest childishly.

It's infuriating how he can pout in a situation like this.

He just put his life on the line, and he's disappointed that they didn't try hard enough…

God…You could just kiss him.

When he takes note of your clenched jaw, he smirks, closing the distance between the two of you. "What's the matter, babe? You don't like it when I kick ass?"

You roll your eyes and lightly press your hand against his sturdy chest. "I like it when your patrols are boring, and you are safe. I mean it Katsuki, I don't want to lose you on a random Thursday to some kind of wannabe bank robber or whatever it is these guys did to end up splayed out on the pavement."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," he laughs confidently, but you notice a slight tremble on his lip. He knows more than anyone that he isn't invincible. His body is littered with scars, some of which have blossomed from near-fatal injuries. His tone softens as he gently takes your hand. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"You better not," you chuckle, trying your best to brighten the mood.

"Is that a threat?" he asks amusedly.

"Maybe it is." you tease grabbing his hand and pressing a soft kiss to the tips of his fingers. Katsuki has always been a sucker for PDA. He may be as tough as nails, but all it takes is a quick peck from your lips to turn the tips of his ears pink.

"Ahhh, what did I ever do to end up dating such a damn troublemaker?"

"You asked." you giggle, taking advantage of his rare, flustered state and pressing your lips to his. Cockily, you think you have the upper hand, but he soon proves you wrong.

He deepens the kiss greedily; the subtle taste of burnt sugar on his lips sends you into a haze. Your knees go weak, and his arms have to slip around you to keep you steady. You feel his smirk against your lips as he notices the effect he has on you.

Even as he pulls away you feel that you could bound over skyscrapers if he so much as asked you to. His gaze is full of adoration until he gets waved over by a sidekick. "Ah shit, these extras really know how to ruin the mood." He huffs, glancing back at that darn pesky active crime scene. "I gotta finish up here real quick, and then I'll meet you at home."

"Will you bring dinner?"

"Is that all you're thinking about?" he laughs, turning and walking away as if he isn't already planning out which one of your favorite meals he will cook for you later this evening.

He really is such a softie…

He only makes it a few steps when, all of a sudden, a panic shout arises from somewhere behind you. "THE CUFFS MALFUNCTIONED. EVERYBODY DOWN."

Your eyes go wide as you turn towards the chaos. One of the sidekicks from earlier is on his knees; the left cuff of his quirk-canceling handcuff has come loose, freeing one of his wrists. His gaze is dark as he raises a shaking hand in your direction. He must have an emitter-type quirk. "You're with Dynamite, huh? That jerk needs to be taught a lesson. I'm sorry that it has to be through you, though.

Before anyone can react, he shakily emits a Violet beam of light in your direction. You should try and dodge it or something, but at that moment, all you do is freeze.

Is this it?

Is this how you die?

You're so scared you cannot recall what your last words were.

A warm hand grabs your shoulder and pulls you roughly to the ground. The impact stuns you as you stare up at Katsuki. His gaze never leaves yours, even as the beam hits him square in the chest.

A blood-curdling scream echoes through the streets as his empty hero costume hits the floor.

End of part 1...

Tagging: @sleepyyshroom, @anjodedesgostoeerros, @isaacdaknight

#bnha x reader #my hero academia #bnha #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x reader #x reader

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epeboch · 1 year

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I really love worm, and it's infested my brain deeply since I read it. I was a teenager who related too much to alienation, and bullying, and the craving of some amount of power over anything.

It's a work that I think was deeply important in my growth into an adult person (which sure is embarrassing but that's okay) and I want to share it with people. Some of its just because I like it when I can talk to people about things I like that I normally can't but god, it's hard to recommend!

Its author is bigoted in an extremely specific manner, in the liberal 'i have so many unconscious biases that actually Aren't Bad because society agrees with me'.

He hates addicts, is homophobic, racist, and is deeply deeply committed to sharing a worldview with like, some annoying American foreign policy wonk.

I have a certain impulse to put these things in less brash language, and talk about how clearly wildbow's worldview includes some deeply deranged stuff about the global south (south america is a continent of criminals and africa is a continent of warlords), deeply sinophobic anxieties (china is an evil empire that's going to kidnap you for power) or queer people (it's pandering if the relationship isn't predatory, sorry how did you describe that schoolteacher's hands?). There's a million other things I haven't mentioned as well. The list never ends.

It's long, too, that never helps. 'oh here, please read the Bible so that I can talk to you about how much I love Michael, Homestuck so that I can talk about Rose Lalonde, etcetcetc'. Its a lot to ask!! And people have still done it!! And I feel bad about it!!

The front page of the parahumans site says something along the lines of 'this story has ever conceivable trigger, be wary' and it's true. It makes it so deeply difficult to recommend to my friends which are almost entirely made up of traumatized queer people.

The worst part is that they listen to all my stupid disclaimers and read it anyways. The worst part is that I've never recommended it to someone who didn't like it. The worst part about worm is that it's good.

#worm #wormblr #parahumans #this is a stupid post #and im a stupid poster #long post

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bts-hyperfixation · 4 months

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Outside of the Fox

Chapter 38 of????

2634 words

Y/N longs for a new life when the one she’d been living comes to an abrupt stop. Without much thought to those she is leaving behind, the little fox packs a backpack and disappears. She stumbles across the shelter and makes an interim home for herself while she works out exactly what she wants from her second chance.

Last

You wake up to the same squeezing feeling settled around your chest, although that could also be the weight of Jungkook's arms as the bunny holds you tightly even in his sleep.

All things considered, you had slept quite soundly, you just wish someone had told your body that as it tries to tell you how exhausted you are.

You do your best to worm your way out of the youngest's embrace, disturbing him only slightly before he turns around and gathers Jimin into his arms instead. You take one more look at their sleeping forms before tip-toeing out of the room. No one is sitting in the living room making your escape easier as you slip silently through to the front door.

You aren't really sure where you are going, you just know one more minute in the house is going to make you combust. So you walk for a while, you pass your old office, pass the restaurant you went to the day you met Jimin, pass Hobi's karaoke shop. You continue going until nothing around you is familiar and then your stomach starts to growl.

You walk into the first cafe you see and sit yourself in a booth at the back, taking a deep breath as you finally take stock of the position you are now in. The cafe is mostly empty with one other customer in the far corner and two waitresses who look more than a little annoyed that you have invaded their space. The elder of the two hands you a menu and waits to take your order. You barely take any notice, pointing to the first thing under the breakfast title.

With nothing left to distract you from the fear, it starts creeping back in; A remnant phobia from the hybrid genes mixed with your sheltered childhood. An instinct that tells you to disappear before you're trapped again.

Your mind runs through the previous day countless times. How ready you had been to fight for Taehyung and his freedom, only for his solution to be to trap you with him. The logical section of your brain tries to remind you that he is not trying to collect or ensnare you, that this may be his best shot to stay with you and the other members of your relationship.

The emotional side of you however can't quite get over how much your new life has come to resemble your previous one. Living in someone else's home, no career to call your own, and now a convenient trophy on the arm of another rich man...

A stack of pancakes is placed in front of your face bringing you out of your miserable monologue but instead of finding the aging waitress, you find Noelle beaming down at you.

"Y/N! Long time no see," She smiles.

The mouse hybrid invites herself to sit with you, sliding into the booth opposite.

"Although it feels like I'm all caught up with the amount Jimin talks about you at the shelter,"

She reaches out and takes a berry from the side of your plate. You do your best to smile in return at her, before today you may have actually been thrilled to see Noelle since she was right, it had been a long time. But right now didn't feel like a socialising time.

"Perhaps I'm not all caught up judging by that sour look in your eye... Maybe a new set of ears can help?" She offers.

"I don't know. It's a lot, I'm not sure I fully understand my issues, I wouldn't want to burden you,"

"You're my friend Y/N, you could never be a burden to me. And if you're not at home talking this out with the seven wonderful men that dote on your every whim, then I think you need the outside ear... Am I wrong?"

Noelle takes your hand from the table and holds it in her own, doing her best to reassure you.

You ponder it for a moment, but she is right an outside opinion might help your brain to rationalise, although perhaps you should think about booking your own session with Dr. Triever instead...

Still, you relay the entire situation starting from your 16th birthday all the way up to today. And she listens to you patiently, not interrupting once even when you stray from the main subject on to distracting details, although she does steal a few bites of your breakfast.

"And so I've landed at the point where I know I have to marry Tae, and I love him so that's okay! I'm just having a lot of trouble getting my instincts to retreat. My hackles raise every time I think about it, and honestly it's making my back start to ache."

"Have you considered not saying yes to marrying Tae?" Noelle suggests.

"Of course not. If I don't marry him then he and that poor girl are going to be forced together. I know what that's like and I won't let it happen to someone I love."

"No, you'll just let it happen to you a second time," She rolls her eyes. "Okay, let's start with an easier part of the equation. Jimin said you had put a lot of the funds behind the new renovations, doesn't that make it your house, not just theirs anymore?"

"I mean, I guess? But it's not what I had in mind. My name isn't on any of the paperwork for the land, and I really did think I was going to live all on my own in the world."

"Living on your own is not all it's cracked up to be, trust me. I'd give anything for a cuddle some nights, especially during storms," She shudders dramatically. "And you gave up your job yourself, but I'm 100% sure we could get you another one if that is an issue, but I think your brain is just searching for reasons to run. Really think about it, how much do you mind not working?"

You do think about it. And maybe spending your time in the house was far more satisfying than going to your nine to five. But it's still the principle of the matter. You had promised yourself that you were going to do it on your own. Now you've failed.

And that's really the crux of it. Not that you're living with the boys, not that you've dipped into your money, not that you find yourself suddenly betrothed. It's the fact that you have perceived yourself as failing. Unable to prove that you could take care of yourself in the big bad world that your parents worked so hard to protect you from.

You let Noelle in on your thoughts as she finishes off your breakfast for you.

"The way I see it, you haven't failed yourself. You've just found something more suitable instead. But if your stomach is still in knots about it, it's better to run now than on the day of the wedding," She shrugs.

"You make an excellent point," You concede.

________________

With the food gone, and your heart somewhat unsqueezed, you and Noelle head back into the world. You walk her back as far as the shelter. You intend to leave her at the door, but Jimin sees you through the window before you can make your escape.

You contemplate running, pretending you didn't see him. But a confrontation is on the cards either way and it's probably better to get it over with than let Jimin drive his colleagues insane through the course of the day. Plus the man is far faster than he looks and he is stood in your path before you would've been able to escape anyway.

"Where the hell did you go?" The redhead tries to sound stern, but his voice cracks in the middle, your heart along with it, "You didn't wake anyone, you didn't answer your phone, you didn't even leave a note. Why?"

"I couldn't breathe, I didn't really think about it, I just knew I had to move," You answer honestly.

He sighs and glances around you, noticing the audience that seems to be gathering in the windows

He wraps an arm around your waist pulling you into him, and his other hand lands in your hair smoothing it down. He shuffles the two of you into the shadows of the building instead of standing out in the open where anyone can look out and see you there.

"Obviously you're not okay so I'm not going to ask you that... Are you... Is there anything I can do?"

"No, it's not your problem it's mine."

"Was it the proposal? I think that caught us all off guard and Taehyung doesn't expect you to go through with it."

A dry laugh escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Jimin takes a step back and meets your eyes.

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you that he doesn't expect me to go through with it, but I think we all know that I have to... and I want to! honestly, I do. I'll do anything so you guys don't, so we don't, lose Taehyung. I just need to get my head around it."

"I think you should go home Y/N. Talk with Jin or Namjoon, although maybe avoid Kookie and Taehyung until you can lie more convincingly than you did to me just now," He pecks your forehead and lets you go fully, "I'm so glad you're safe."

He sends you away with a promise to text him when you return home. You drag your feet the entire way knowing that Jimin is right and you need to talk through everything with a voice of reason. Jin might be the obvious choice, while a clown the majority of the time, his clinical doctor side allows him to separate emotion from sensitive topics. Something tells you that he isn't what you need right now.

So when you reach the main house you walk inside the unfinished building and straight into Namjoon's new office finding him sitting at his new oak desk, just stroking the wood. He startles as your hand lands on his shoulder.

"Shit Y/N, where did you come from?" He clutches at his chest dramatically.

You flop down onto the new armchair as you wait for him to recover from his mini heart attack. He sits silently observing you for a moment too long until you start to wiggle uncomfortably.

"Are you ready to talk about it?" He reaches out a hand and places it on your knee.

You thought you were, but the concern in his voice makes you hesitate. You just shake your head in response instead.

"Okay, then let's not talk. Stand up." He stands too.

He switches places with you sitting down in the armchair and pulling you back into his lap. He manhandles you until you're curled up on his knees with your face nuzzled into his neck. His fingers trace patterns along your thighs and the two of you sit in silence.

The tightness in your chest is still there, curling up in Namjoon's arms is doing nothing to assuage that feeling but it still feels nice everywhere else. You think about what Noelle said about finding a new goal for yourself and you let yourself sniff Namjoon's comforting firewood scent.

"I missed you this morning," He whispers in your ear.

"I'm sorry,"

"Don't be sorry, you needed space and that's okay. I just wanted you to know I missed you,"

He pecks your cheek and you continue sitting in silence. The rope around your heart seems to release, just a little as you allow yourself this comfort.

"I love you," You whisper.

"I love you too," He confirms.

"I love all of you,"

"But you aren't ready to marry Taehyung, or any of us for that matter." He guesses

"I don't think so no... But I can't let Taehyung leave. I know better than anyone how it feels to be in a marriage you didn't choose. And it's so much worse for Taehyung, no one ever threatened me, I didn't have anyone I loved that I had to leave."

"We can think of other solutions for Tae Y/N. We aren't going to let you put yourself in a situation you don't truly want ."

"You don't know families like Tae's, families like mine. There isn't another option. I'm just going to suck it up and marry Taehyung."

"Ah yes, what every man wants to hear his fiance 'suck it up and marry him'" Namjoon chuckles.

You roll your eyes at his unserious response and start to wonder whether you should have gone to see Jin instead.

"Look, this whole situation sucks for all of us, but there are other options we need to consider as a family, this burden doesn't lie on you. Now tell me what else is going on, because the proposal may have been a catalyst but it isn't the whole problem, I can see it in your eyes."

"It's nothing," You sigh

"If it's something, then it's everything. You listen to all our problems so often but won't let us listen to yours." He chastises.

"That's because you guys have real problems, I have stupid insecurities that have no basis in reality. There is no point in me bothering you with superficial issues."

"if it bothers you then it's not superficial and you should be talking to one of us. It doesn't have to be me, but I would love nothing more than for you to be able to confide in me."

"Really Joonie it's silly." You assure him.

"Tell me anyway," he insists.

You contemplate confessing more of your issues. Realistically you know that he does actually want to help you but you also know the burden he already holds, having everyone else's concerns on his shoulder, you want nothing more than to lighten the load for him, not pile more on. However, you also know he won't drop it.

"If I tell you, you have to promise you won't make a big deal out of it. It's my issue and it's something I will get over by myself,"

"Scouts honour," He crosses his heart.

"I'm fairly certain you weren't a scout," You raise an eyebrow.

"The sentiment still stands," He shrugs, "Now tell me."

So you tell him what you told Noelle. He listens intently to each minor problem, each insecure thought, and he doesn't say a word. But you can see the cogs turning in his brain as he tries to come up with solutions. As you finish speaking, you hold a finger up to his lips.

"But I..." He tries to speak around your finger but you just press harder against his lips.

"You promised," you chastise.

He smirks and your finger slips past his lips and onto his tongue.

He pulls on your wrist to remove the digit from his mouth but not before licking along the length.

"If you really don't want my opinion I won't give it... but I would love for you to sign your name on the lease." he suggests

"That sounds like a solution I didn't ask for," You complain.

"But it's an easy solution that makes so much sense, don't you think?" He sounds far too excited, probably because he is right.

"Maybe... but I still need to come to terms with all these issues on my own Joonie," you enforce the boundary.

"And I will let you... if you let me distract you from those issues for a little while." He says suggestively.

"And how do you propose you do that?" You ask innocently.

He responds by replacing your finger in his mouth and using his now free hand to trace back up the inside of your thigh.

Masterlist

#bts fic #bts smut #kpop fic #kpop smut #namjoon smut #bts imagines #jungkook smut #taehyung smut #jimin smut #jin smut #yoongi smut #hoseok smut #bts hybrids #hybrid v #hybrid bts #bts x yn #bts ot7 #ot7 x reader

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sillygoofyqueer · 14 days

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(@weirdocat83's tags to this post) LUNA. YOU HAVE SUMMONED ME. FGRGGRGHOHGROHGROGHROGH LET'S DO THIS.

Okay, so, I don't think it's going to be a reincarnation au in a sense, but, uh, the spirits of the swords search for what could be classed as a 'replacement' for their divine wielders? So, take Xin Mo for example. His previous wielder could be labelled as a god of war, one who craved bloodshed and spent most of their time on the battlefield - so, Xin Mo's spirit naturally searched for a more hostile soul that was similar to the god's soul, because it was easier for the spirit to...bond? with the soul compared to if the spirit had to edit itself to bond with a more peaceful soul. It found the link with Binghe's (Bingge's?) soul because the guy just wanted to be powerful, and it's easiest to gain power through bloodshed - meaning that Xin Mo's spirit could probably "edit" certain parts of Binghe to fit its basic needs (a lot less predatory than in canon), and then "edit" certain parts of itself so that the bond was less hard to maintain. This would be things like recognising and becoming more calm and less bloodthirsty than it can afford to be due to the fact that Binghe is likely to only be on the battlefield if it's necessary for power - unlike the divine wielder, who had battled for entertainment (not to say that Binghe doesn't revel in a good battle, whether due to Xin Mo's influence or just general satisfaction). I feel like the gods do still exist in the divine realm, but they're a lot quieter and aren't really worshipped by the vast majority anymore (think how secularisation has affected modern society), some even disappearing because they simply didn't have enough worshippers or drive to sustain themselves after the purging of their temples - their lives, if you will. Spiritual weapons still exist in the modern times (this is a modern au, in a sense), still wielded by only a choice few (often granting them immortality as long as they held a strong bond), so people know that gods existed at one point, but most believe that all gods did die in the purging. Obviously, part of why the Three Swords are so unique in their legend is because they require a sacrifice in order to be wielded (connected to how their gods had such strong bonds with their swords that they practically sealed themselves until they could find a worthy replacement), whereas most spiritual weapons merely require respect and devotion because their bonds weren't as wholly consuming as the Three Swords' - if that makes sense? Wei Wuxian's sword will be Suibian, I think. Mainly because there is always a lot of emphasis on Chenqing and, don't get me wrong, I love that little fuckin' flute but Suibian my beloved sword. We don't quite know how sword spirits work in MDZS, so I wanna give them some spotlight in this AU! They deserve it!! Suibian definitely had the most protective/familial bond with her previous owner and (I'm not going to blab about the circumstances or anything of Wei Wuxian finding Suibian but) when she hears such a desperate cry for help from what is practically a teen who obviously has no other support, she can't help it! She's always been the most fair of the Three Swords, but she's still picky when it comes to her owner - they must have good, honest intentions to wield her, and nobody ever does (there's always, even a subconscious, ulterior motive outside of protection. Well, kind of). It's hard to yap about without spilling about Wei Wuxian because I do want to write this and I'm not one to drop secrets before I've even got a first chapter drafted. I would yap about the red/black interactions but this post is already pretty big so- PLEASE ASK ME MORE QUESTIONS, IT'S HELPING ME WORLD BUILD AND I AM A FAN OF TALKING ABOUT MY BRAIN WORMS!!

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jude5bellingham · 6 months

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Jude is sitting on the apex of a dune, leaning back, using his arms to support his weight, taking in the waves of sand created by the worms. Although he missed the sights of the rugged terrain and water that caladan offered, arrakis had its own unique charm, with the wind slowing down, the sand and spice being dragged in the air looking almost mist-like. You approach him silently from behind, but he starts before you can say anything.

"a messiah?" jude can only scoff and shake his head, the idea that he is a messiah is so ridiculous to him. He was hardly equipped to lead his house (when he was a duke-to-be), much less a population of religious fanatics who believed him to be their prophesied saviour.

Your eyes stay set on him, unblinking. You don't say anything, hoping that the silence will give him the time and ability to digest his fate. You hope that in the silence, that he will hear it.

"they can't be serious..." his gaze drops to the floor, suddenly understanding the gravity of the situation which he is in. Your gaze drops with his as you're unable to do anything other than nod, you're sure that he desires some form of comfort but you aren't able to provide him with it, not now, especially not now. he stands up, his back to you, staring at the horizon in front of him created by the varying dunes of sand.

"Tell me..." he starts, keeping his back to you, standing completely still, "do you believe, honestly, that I am the messiah? Your messiah?"

You take a step to stand next to him, huffing a breath out as you do, carefully sifting through the words running through your head to attempt to form a sentence light enough for him to hold onto for now, fearing that a heavier statement may only cause him to bend under its weight.

"I don't know..." you begin, Jude's head turning to look at you, "I think a messiah is just about hope, you know, something to believe in…"

His eyes watch as your chest rises and falls while you think carefully about your choice of words, treading lightly around the idea of him being a hero, prophet, and messiah. He juts his bottom lip out to urge you to continue your train of thought, he’s sure that whatever words you speak next will be far more intelligible than anything he has going on in his brain currently anyways.

"You've seen it Jude. The way people look at you, the looks that your presence commands…” You turn towards him as you speak, finally meeting his gaze, “You inspire hope and I think that’s more than enough.”

“Even if it's false?” he turns towards to look at the horizon again, his question leaves his lips as a quiet mumble, fearing any answer you could possibly give him to his question.

“Hope is never false.” you state, copying him and looking at the horizon, “Not to the believer.”

He can't help but chew on his bottom lip, thinking about it all. so ridiculous. all of it. Just a while ago he was the son of the Duke, now he is expected to lead the Fremen to freedom. How was he supposed to manage that?

hi this is a short part from my dune!jude au 😭 i havent proofread it but im about 3k words in but i wanted to see if i'd get any engagement!! thank you so much if you've read this far 🤍🤍 please let me know your thoughts

#not proofread #football fanfic #football imagine #football imagines #football one shot #football x reader #jb5 #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham scenarios #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagines #jude bellingham imagine

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purplebehittindifferent · 27 days

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FAQ!!!!

before asking, check this out!

How many comic series do you have?

TLDR: As of currently I have 3!

Reconnecting: my deltarune fan comic. It is completed and the masterpost can be found on my pinned.

SpiderVerse: this is completed… for now. I had more plans but they fell through as the friends I had planned to do them with, left. Link on pinned.

IEYTD: this is just little comics scattered about, masterpost in on my pinned :)

RULE5: coming soon!

(if you would like more masterposts send an ask <3)

Is there going to be more reconnecting??!

TLDR: kind of? vvv

There will be no more COMIC/DRAWN content related to reconnecting (at least no more than the occasional doodle.) but I do plan to keep writing fanfiction on Ao3 to continue the story as long as it will go.

Can I send prompts for fics or art?:

Of course! Just know I might not be able to do them all!

Your art is online and your AO3 is open! aren't you scared AI is going to steal it!?:

TLDR: my ao3 will remain open, my art will always be here vvv

I hate AI stealing creators' content as much as everyone else does. However, more so, I want anyone to be able to access real art. I have selected all of the available options to keep my works from being taken, and am very aware that the only way to keep my work safe on AO3 is to close it to guests.

It took me, an avid fanfic reader, 4 years to get an Ao3 account. I care more about you guys being able to read what makes you happy and feeds your brain worms, than I care about my writing being stolen for this AI boom we are living in. It would tear me apart if you wanted to access my writing but had to wait so long for an account.

I do not support AI in any form that replaces human beings, and though I know eventually I may never be able to have my work safe from AI on any platform, I will keep sharing it, and downright refuse to take it down.

Taking all of my art down in fear of AI will be something I never do. In that way AI will kill me just as much as if it started stealing my work. Art is meant to be seen and shared. They will not take that from us.

I believe there is a group of people who like real artwork and writing made by real people. And I keep my trust in those people to see the value in non AI generated content.

We will persevere.

Is fanart allowed?

TLDR: YES

SO MUCH YES. I BEG PLEASE PLEASE if you create fan content of my content or content inspired by my content, that is absolutely as long as I am either credited or @ on the post so I can see!!!

Where can I read RULE5?

TLDR: Rule5 isn't released yet!

Rule 5 is my original comic in progress, I have posted teaser art and some concept stuff. The hope is that it will start releasing weekly in early 2025. I am completing all the art first, so that it can have a consistent upload schedule and I can relax for a while. Trust me when I say- I will not shut up once it is available.

I want to make a comic but don't know where to start…

TLDR: DM me!!

My DMs are always open to genuine questions! I've actually spoken with many people who wanted to start their own series and have been told it's been helpful!

Though my biggest advice is GO FOR IT!!!!! The first couple updates might not gain a ton of traction right away, but persevere, keep going, and @ me so I can reblog it to help support you!!!

Are you LGBTQ+?

TLDR: nope :) cishet.

Many people have asked me this lol

Where can I find the masterposts and links to your other socials?

They are all on my pinned!!!

You have mental disorders + illnesses… What are they?

Respectfully it is none of your business. I try to spread awareness because I believe that is very important, but I also try to keep my personal things personal. If i'm ever outright about something, feel free to ask questions, and if i'm uncomfortable I will just say I do not wish to answer <3

How do I commission you?

There is a link on my Ko-Fi that goes to my comms!

If you have any questions before ordering you can DM me anytime. Click the option you want, order it, and it will give you instructions from there. I check my orders once a day. If you set your order and I have not gotten back to you, please DM me it's possible I missed it.

Do you/will you draw NSFW and post it?

Not here.

Are you really in my walls?

Yep. I'm not kidding. That skittering you hear? It's me. Go hydrate yourself or I'll steal all your left shoes.

I found your work reposted without credit, should I tell you?

Yes please tell me!! I have not found any of my stuff randomly reposted without credit but I'm sure it will happen someday.

What art program do you use?

I use procreate! I highly recommend, as far as the brushes go, I use all of the base ones that come with the app itself. Nothing fancy.

Will you draw my OC?

If you commission me! sure!

if theres any more questions you think should be added here LMK

#FAQ #faq post #faq page #text block lmao #not art

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oh-no-its-bird · 3 months

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after reading your izuna tobi time travel rambles I can't help but think about them just crashing the middle of a council meeting 😭 everyone is shook, and absolutely flabbergasted and ngl they kind of just.. Want the two to stay? (Well, mostly Tobi's old subordinates/students because they feel partially sad and sentimental and OH MY GOD IS THAT FOURTEEN YEAR OLD TOBIRAMA?!?) And then the psycho Hashirama timeline is just amazinggg I can't stop thinking about it you're actually infecting my brain bro

NO BC IVE BEEN THINKING NONSTOP ABOUT THAT EXACT SCENARIO LATLEY MYSELF !! The brain worms are spreading...

(Cont. From this post for those without context)

Every other time Tobirama and Izuna enter a world where it's modern Konoha, they start taking bets about which one of them died there. Funny bit where Izuna says smthn about how there quote, "aren't nearly enough crazy nightmare trees and brainwashed people for you to have died here" (bc 9 times out of 10 in worlds where Tobirama dies Hashirama loses it to a spectacular degree that leaves a VERY visable mark on Konoha)

Actually, taking that thought, it could be fun if they got dropped into a seemingly normal Konoha only to find out that hey Tobirama did die in this one, but it seems to be the 1 out of 10 that Hashi was able to stay sane

Only nope!! Surprise attack!! He's just really really good at pretending to be normal and when they try to leave he plays his hand, lots of fire and explosions ensue and they just barley escape

Izuna and Tobirama are SO tired of people trying to force them to stay in places, theyve had Madara do it they've had Hashirama do it, maybe they even had alternate versions of eachother do it. They !! Want !! To go !! Home !!!!

Also you can't tell me that seeing a young version of them specifically would hit Madara/Hashi harder than any revived adult version could. They're lowkey the "idealized" versions of their brothers, still small and in need of being protected, not consumed with anger and burdened by the things they've done and seen in the war. They're silly little guys!! And they're slamming on ALL the "Oh god I need to protect my little brother" buttons, it's sooo bad

Anyways, them crashing into a council meeting after quite a few different rounds of dimension hopping. Meaning they really don't give a shit ab destroying anything bc they've already come to the conclusion that it's too late to be worrying ab any potential side effects of fucking with possible time lines.

They're immediatley diving across the table making grabby hands at their friendly ball of interdimensional light as it floats off, trying to go for it as soon as they land before it wanders off and they're left having to hunt for it.

I need you to picture these 2 kids just DIVING across a table of important clan people shouting smthn ab DO NOT TOUCH THAT FUCKING LIGHT

They miss it and it dissapears through a wall rip

Maybe they end up slamming into it trying to catch it for comedy effect actually

Other than just sentimentality there's also definatley a tactical standpoint of trying to get them to stay

That's THE Senju Tobirama, second Hokage, white demon and inventor of a fuck ton of jutsus. And also Izuna, who is much less known here to his (by now used to it in these kinds of world) displeasure

All young and untrained and perfect for grooming into a loyal konoha shinobi, ready to grow into his prime by careful hands who knows exactly what he could become

How much more terrifying could he be, if trained specifically by someone who knows his talents, shown his own research to build off of and given all sorts of modern tools he never had before

And also Izuna is still there and he's so fucking sick of being underestimated rn guys what the fuck he's cool too

Anyways the second Tobirama and Izuna hear "hahaha maybe you should stay a little longer..." they're BOLTING

They've heard that song and dance like 20 times now they know the warning signs and you seem nice but they are NOT risking another 'secret yandere' situation again, goodbye.

Their only saving grace is that respect and sentimentality does win out here in letting them go without too much arguing, no matter how valuable they might be. Got lucky this time around, might not be so lucky the next

#birds fic talk #izuna uchiha #time travel #birds asks #senju tobirama #uchiha izuna #tobirama senju #tobirama #izuna #madara uchiha #hashirama senju #senju hashirama #uchiha madara #naruto #naruto founders #dimensiom travel #tobiizu #konoha

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robbyrobinson · 2 months

Text

Two Roommates At the Edge of the Universe (Potential Book of Bill Spoilers)

Belos: Of all the heathenistic, pagan gods to be saddled with for eternity, it has to be... you.

Bill Cipher: (quadruples) Well, well, well, well... aren't you a sight for sore "eye." My old business partner, Philip Wittebane... or is it Belos? It's been ages... how has your whole "witch hunting" gone?

Belos: I have nothing to say to you, demon.

Bill Cipher: Oh, well look at you. You look like some slop that escaped from the pigpen! Looks like that kid you made a deal with did a number on you. Serves you right for calling off our deal.

Belos: Our plans did not align. After all, I would never help you raze the Earth. You are the Devil himself.

Bill Cipher: (chuckles) Thanks, but I can't accept that compliment since I was actually kicked out of H - E double hockey sticks. Do not tell me that you are still playing that "evil for a good cause" bullshit.

Belos: I should not conform to the temptations of sin by talking to you, Cipher. My quest was nothing but righteous. Witches defile everything they come across. But my plan failed. All I could remember before my consciousness faded was seeing a huge, celestial frilled lizard... something more ancient than the Boiling Isles... and it told me I could live once more.

Bill Cipher: Blah, blah, blah. The difference between you and me is that I can admit that everything I had done throughout the trillion years of my life were nothing more than for funsies. I wiped out planets; I ate gods for breakfast. I drove millions to madness and watched their brains melt and seep through their ears and staining the ground. I have done more than you can ever hope to! I've slaughtered hundreds because my credit card was declined. I am the god of madness and chaos. All of this I have done before you crawled out of your mommy's hoo-ha! I have lived one-billion lifetimes more than you can attest to you one lifespan, 3 dimensional, Sloppy Joe meat puppet!

Belos: Oh? Well, to be fair, I never destroyed my home.

Bill Cipher: (stops ranting) I don't know what you're talking about.

Belos: You wanted to impress your race but they were wiped out in one tragic event wasn't it?

Bill Cipher: (grasps the side of his head) No, no. I remember that day well. A monster destroyed my world! I am a victim... how dare you bring up my past?

Belos: So now you're mad. No wonder you are still here. You can't take responsibility for anything.

Bill Cipher: (he turns red and gets increasingly angry, but he calms down) Well, tell me... how is that brother of yours? I seem to recall his name...

Belos: Don't you dare...

Bill Cipher: Caleb? Oh, yes, I remember it now. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Your brother met a nice little witch lady, but you entered the Demon Realm thinking that he was bewitched... but you saw that he not only married her, but she was pregnant.

Belos: (grapples with his temples) Silence... no more.

Bill Cipher: (conjures up a knife) Oh, does my eye deceive me? Here's the knife that you killed your brother with.

Belos: Shut up!

Bill Cipher: HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! You should have seen the look on his face! He was so devastated that his own brother stabbed him when he was protecting his wife!

Belos: She - He! I was trying to save his soul! He chose his own fate. He stabbed me in the back. After all those years being witch hunters, he allowed himself to be tempted by the wiles of that harlot!

Bill Cipher: (cheeky) Ah, does widdle Belos miss his brutha? Does he want some milky? Or someone to tell him bed stowies? HA HAHAHA HA HA HA!! Face it, old man, you are just like me. All you ever cared about was being the hero who would save mankind from the forces of evil.

Belos: Grrr.... I am not evil.

Bill Cipher: Well... The Axolotl sent you here to be "rehabilitated." If you're lucky, you can reincarnate into some worm that eats shit for a living.

#theraprism #gravity falls #the owl house #belos #philip wittebane #wittebane #emperor belos #bill cipher #the axolotl #book of bill

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dirtytransmasc · 1 year

Note

TW: VERY DARK AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT (kind of)

Prompt :

He was six

Norm found him with his wrist slit

“Why’d you do this kiddo?”

“I wanted to get rid of the demon blood”

Jakes reaction

Neytiri stitched him up with an unreadable expression

IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMY

I UNDERSTAND, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS IF ITS TO DARK!!!😭

oh my fucking god... it hurts so bad, but its so good. I love dark angst, there aren't many places I won't go, so have no worries anon.

head the trigger warnings above, I don't get super graphic, but I don't skid over any details either. disclaimer, mama!neytiri brain worms are liquefying my brain, so this is a little (a lot) neytiri-centric, cause I can't help it, its the worms I swear.

also, there are like 0 resources on na'vi medicine, so I'm just fucking winging it man, I'm gonna pull some shit out of my literal ass and we're all gonna have to just be ok with that. ~~~

norm wishes he could say he was shocked, surprised that this little boy wanted to hurt himself, let alone went through with it. he should have been gutted, more than he was at least, angry, put off, something. but not that its happened, he saw it from a mile away, he should have noticed, should have stopped it. all he felt was guilt, burning up his heart and knotting up his stomach as he put pressure on spiders tiny wrists, holding his lulling body in his arms. spider was just a kid, a baby, but he's muttering about 'getting rid of demon blood' and 'not belonging' and it being 'better off' if he was gone. it was somehow worse in his childish wording, his perfect innocence and naivety only just beginning to crack as the pain in his little chest began to swell.

it had been the odd quietness from spider's 'room' back in the cave marui's that alerted him to something being wrong. spider was quiet, in a way; when he was out playing with the kids he was loud, laughing, face filled with light and joy, even if something cold still glinted in his eyes. but when he was on his own, having been left behind or told off by some adult, human or na'vi alike, for getting in the way, he would sulk off to the little marui by the shack. but even if he would sit amongst himself, playing with the few figures someone had put time aside to make, attempting to weave a new piece of jewelry or basket, mending the sad little knife he wore on his side. he was always doing something, could be heard humming or sniffling, the sound of his knife on the wetstone or the clunking of wooden figures on each other were a constant. so when norm heard nothing but silence, his gut ticked up, the hair on his neck bristled, his legs carried him much farther they would on the average day until he was staring at spider and his little bloody arms and his little bloody knife and his sad little eyes.

it took only a split second for norm to come back to himself, to rush and pick the boy up before he had enough 'sense' to try and back away (spider never wanted trouble, never wanted to get in the way or be a burden, the fact he didn't try and hide worried norm more then it would of if he did, which was even more concerning in its own right).

he just held spider as tight as he could, his big blue hands easily covering his human wrists, trying to think of what he should do. he should say something, other then "its ok" but what does he say? what do you say to a six-year-old who just tried to kill himself, no, no, "get rid of the demon blood" coursing through his veins?

he wasn't going to lecture him, spider made it clear why he did it, comfort wasn't his strong suit. he could just look at his puffy little cheeks, one side of his mask blooded as he had attempted to wipe his cheek on instinct. so he just repeated a mantra of "I'm here" and "it's ok" and "your ok" until he reached the infirmary, trying to prtend he didn't feel spider slipping further and further away with each passing second.

in the flash of just a few seconds fueled by adrenaline alone, he knew he regretted everything. he was spider's caretaker sure, but he was no father, jake wasn't either, and the boy didn't have a single maternal figure to his name. no mother to kiss his brow at night or admire his accomplishments. he had no one, not truly, and norm allowed to happen, was not only complicit in it, but played a direct role in it. now he may not get to make that up, may not be given the chance to step up, to fix this.

he carried spider to the infirmary hut, knowing he would find someone, anyone, there who could help. part of him knew that mo'at had seen something in the child that brought some sort of pity from her, that maybe just this once, spider wouldn't be so alone in her presence.

when he entered the pod, he found mo'at showing neytiri something, explaining different herbs to her, though he didn't pay enough attention to it the lesson to pull out any identifying features of the herbs in question. both turned to look at him when they heard his rapid breathing, their gaze then shifting to the bloody boy in his arms, the ever-so-faint fogging of the glass that made up most of his exopack, and the ghostly parlor of spider's skin.

"put him down," mo'at commanded, before norm could even speak, clearing her pallet in an instant, "what happened to him?" her voice was firm, almost knowing.

"he...cut himself...intentionally...I don't know how long ago, but I found him in his pod alone and brought him right here."

"intentionally?" neytiri hissed, removing the boy from his arms when he couldn't get himself to comply with the order and holding him so she could listen to the weakening beat of his heart. she tied turniquotes around his upper forearm with the strands of clothing handed to her by her mother, absent-mindedly rocking the little thing where he rested held between her free-er arm and her chest, when the last bits of his consciousness were directed to fussing, no doubt from the pain. she couldn't bring herself to bind them too tight, just enough to control the bleeding, her hands and a bit of cloth could handle the rest.

(mo'at almost lectured her, but she saw that look in her daughter's eyes and knew it would be pointless, a mama bear gets what she wants)

norm had never seen the protective fire in her eyes, normally directed at her children, burn so bright for spider in the last few years she had known him. it scared him, it felt so unnatural that the very gaze he had learned to trust in most cases, froze him like a deer in headlights.

but that question, the tone of it, made his gut sink. how did he explain this, spider was just a baby, and he had slit his own wrists. that on its own was gut-wrenching, but the reason? Eywa have mercy.

"he said... he said he wanted to get rid of his demon blood, so he... he used his own knife and cut his wrists... its a common form of self harm back on earth, to cut yourself, but I don't even know how he would know to do that, why he would do it... I know why, but..." norm felt defeated. he should have seen something.

the look on neytiri's face made him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run off. she placed spider down as gently as one could, face scrunched up with pain and anger as she keeps pressure on both of spider's wrists.

"get jake, he is with the young hunters." she spoke quietly, her voice almost bitter. she didn't know if she blamed him, if she was angry with him, she barely understand how to feel about spider harming himself. all she knew is that he had just given her some of the most heartwrenching news she had heard in her life, so he was getting some of her mirth. norm nodded, racing off with his tail tucked between his legs, only hesitating to take another worried glance at the boy.

neytiri took a deep breath before turning to her mother. "he will need stitches, right?" she had never dealt with an injury quite like this before, the conscious effort in the wound made it clean and to the point, unlike a wound in battle. it strived to do quick, efficient damage, and now, either because she could barely let herself think straight, or because she genuinly didn't know, she couldn't think of the best way to treat it.

"yes, my daughter, but that is the least of his worries. he cut a large vein, those are very difficult to mend, stopping the bleeding will be difficult. he's already lost quite a bit of blood, so we need to be careful. the best thing would be to put a root paste to help clot the bleeding, wrap it up, and stitch it later." mo'at turned to her morter and pestle as she spoke, mixing different herbs, berries, and roots into a dark brown, almost purple, paste.

neytiri, nodded absently, while she picked through the basket at her side for bundles of lumped fibre and soft cloth to hold against his arms. luckily for him, while he did manage to do some damage and with the help of the tourniquets, one wrist had already stopped bleeding a fair bit, and the other was manageable.

in the silence of the hut, her mother working quietly behind her, turning every once and a while to check his breathing or giving her a tincture to clean his wounds with, neytiri was left to think.

demon blood.

he had done this because of the words she and so many spat at the sight of him. he had tried to rid himself of his sins, the sins of his father, the sins of his people; but were they really his to begin with? what had he done, in his six years of life, to have earned the hate he received? was the blood he carried in his veins enough to justify pushing a child to this?

no, she decided, no it was not.

seeing him so pale and lifeless in norms arms woke something in her, something deep in her gut, maternal rage coursing through her with something vicious, and even if she didn't deserve it after all she had done to him, pushed him to do, her heart was attempting to claim his as her own, and she didn't know what to do with that feeling. then she realized, that the maternal drive that prowled in her stomach like a thanator ready to pounce, not only saw the world as a threat, but saw her as a threat.

her mother handed her the salve and she was grateful for anything to do to take her mind off of the few revelations she managed to have while waiting.

"put more of the salve where the bleeding is stronger, then wrap it tight, be careful to not make it so tight it takes off his hand." the older woman guided, watching over her daughters work.

neytiri scooped it out bit by bit, slowing rubbing it onto the wounds while her mother blotted away the blood, her ears dipping whenever the boy his with pain or tried to pull away. she just wanted to make him better, to take him up into her arms and tell him it was alright like she would if he was one of her own children. but she knew she couldn't, he would wake up and see the monster who filled his little mind with such awful thoughts of himself, that he would be just as scared of her as he always was, and that she could bring him no comfort. so he was extra gentle as she finished off the paste, and held him like delicately as she wrapped the bandage around his wrists, gushing him gently each time he cried out, combing back his hair when she felt she was finished.

then jake came barreling in, breaking up the delicate silence that for a single second allowed her to believe it was just a normal day, that the new found fantasy of just being able to mother this child was true, that allowed spider to lay in peaceful sleep with her shawl over him. norm was trying to hush him, before he woke the baby, but there was no stopping jake, not when his face was full of pain and anger, looking as if he would plow down a titanothere just to get to spider.

neytiri knew jake had taken to spider more than he had let on, but the beast in her belly screamed that he hadn't done enough either, that he didn't earn the right to worry either. but she hushed it, knowing neither had the right to claim anything, not even over each other.

"ma'jake, quiet, or you will wake him and... he will be in pain. so let him sleep while he can," she attempted to soothe quietly, resisting every urge to just scoop him up when jakes loud entry did in fact stir him.

jake sat across from her, his hand resting on spider's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest. "did he really?" he asked, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn't true. she knew he would much rather hear of a freak accident over this, but she couldn't give him that mercy.

"yes, it would seem so." her voice was short, worn, despite barely saying a word this whole time.

jake crumpled a little, much more on the inside then he attempted to let show on the outside. neytiri was used to it, jake dealing with it all on the inside, bottling it up till he burst. she placed her hands over his, both of them being reassured by spider's breathing.

"but he is still here, we can and will help him. we will make sure he never feels this way again. I will right my wrongs, I will treat him as he has always deserved, and I hope one day he can forgive me. you will do the same. for now we just have to wait." she spoke gently, still worried about waking spider. she was partly talking to herself, making the promise she had worked her mind to final, she swore it on eywa. she saw jakes eyes finally close, knocking the tears he had been fighting to keep in down his cheeks.

he nodded, slumping into a lazy, defeated-looking, criss-cross position, talking spider's little hand in his, using the wet cloth from mo'at to clean the blood from his finger, the calloused palms of his hands, his muscle-toughened arms.

jake was no stranger to this, to harming yourself, even if he had never taken a blade to his wrists. trying to imagine that pain in such a little body terrified him. how was he supposed to wrap his head around little spider, the stray cat amongst the village, always smiling and laughing, always trying to help everyone, always up in trees or tussling with his kids, his blonde hair like streaks of the sun running about the village, battling such demons. he tried to imagine what he must have been feeling when he took his knife to his wrist. was he scared? relieved? confused? was he desperate and looking for a way out?

no, no norm said that spider wanted to get rid of his "demon blood" which as somehow more nauseating. it was their faults, him, norm, neytiri, The People. they hurt this child or they let it happen. they expected him to take every glare, every spit of acid, everything he was forced to endure, and to still remain a happy child. jake never once stopped to think what effect that may have on him, and now he was paying for it.

he ached, spider was small, he could fit in jakes hands even at 6 years old. he was drowning in neytiri's shawl even if on her, it would barely cover her upper arms, he had just started fitting his exopack a little less than a year ago. he was still just a baby, and they almost let his life end. had norm not found him, he would be dead, still and cold in his makeshift marui, in a pool of his own blood. the image that accompanied the thought that flashed in his made him feel sick. even with all that he denied feeling about the boy, no matter how hard he tried to push him away, no matter what he let him go through, the thought of spider dying, especially like that, alone and scared and in pain, terrified him. to have a child die for any preventable reason, was a disgrace on The People, especially their chief of all people.

chief.

he should have been the example. he should have led his people to find love for a defenseless child who wanted only to be loved and accepted. he had failed.

he let a finger caress the side of spiders face, along the edge of spider's mask, lightly pulling at the curly baby hairs that rested there,

"will he be alright?" he didn't know who he was asking, norm or mo'at. both would have very different opinions, norm more literal, mo'at more spiritual. he didn't know which he wanted.

"physically, yes. he is lucky, his blade was simple, his hand faltered, and he didn't seem to have a death wish. he didn't do too much damage, its manageable. emotionally jakesuli? time will tell." mo'at was the one to speak, the look on norms face spoke the his fear of setting neytiri off like he almost had earlier.

neytiri looked to her mother with a pain expression, her tail beating nervously where is laid near spiders head, ears still folded back.

"his mind is plauged with pain and desperation, things no child should even be aware of. he was driven to harm himself, in ways that will be permanent. it will be our actions going forward that determine his future. I fear if we do not undo the damage now, we will lose him in the years to come... what I fear more and that the damage has been done and cannot be undone. we can only hope for the former/"

neytiri damn near let out a cry, turning from her mother, eyes clenched as tears welled up in them. she found jakes arms, both leaning over spider like a makeshift shelter. just like they should have his whole life, they should have shielded him from the world, protected him from the hate of others. spider stirred once more, and this time jake couldn't resist the urge to scoop him up.

spider looked up at both of them, his little eyes tired and glossy, something small and painful in his gaze. he began to wiggle out of jakes hold, balling up nervously, but when neytiri grazed fingers through his hair, he stopped. this was the one thing he had ever wanted, deep down. not to be accepted, not to be one with the people, not even to be na'vi. he just wanted to be held, loved, by a mother, any mother. with his judgment too clouded by all his emotions, the desperation, the pain, even the blood loss, and maybe and even simpler reason being just being a child; spider let her hold him. he couldn't think about her years of neglect, the harsh words, and harsher glares, not in that moment, that could come later. right now, he needed a mother, and neytiri was willing, so he sunk into her hold, welcoming the embrace of either parent.

the road to spider's recovery would be long and hard. jake and neytiri had a lot to make up for, to apologize for, holding onto their guilt for years as they waited for spider to reach an age were their apologies would actually mean something to him. he would have to be watched constantly, habits would be broken, tears would be cried. things would never be 100%, there would always scars and phantom pain, but that was ok.

~~~

a note for my regulars; I'm back, maybe sorta kinda. I've hit a rough patch with my adhd, I can't do thoughts, or social interaction really, but I'm starting to bounce back, so more regular posting may return shortly.

#I have such a hard time writing norm for whatever reason #which is why I found every excuse to not have to write dialogue for him #sorry norm <3 #also #I'm a bitch for the “neytiri having her eyes opened to motherhood/mothering spider in response to him getting hurt/sick” trope #its got me in a literal chokehold #its so good and so angsty #and neytiri's mama bear instinct vs logic fighting to the death #shes having a mild crisis #more like major. but potato patato #spider socorro #miles socorro #miles spider socorro #neytiri #jake sully #norm spellman #mo'at #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water

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mother-of-houseplants-2 · 1 year

Text

thoughts on the gallagher siblings’ relationships with fiona

and what specific and nuanced role she takes on in their lives—mother, sister, or something in between.

special thanks to @aceyanaheim for not only listening to me ramble on and on about my silly little gallagher siblings thoughts, but also for sharing so many insightful and poignant ideas themselves on the matter. thanks so much for the brain worms! <3

lip

lip’s relationship with his sister is complicated. they’re only four years apart in age, so he’s a little more conscious of fiona’s situation than the other kids.

he doesn’t see it all—fi keeps her struggles a little too under wraps for that—but he knows what she’s had to sacrifice to take care of them all (“i stole so fiona didn’t have to work a third job to cover the bills” s11). he knows how alone she feels (“you’re not supermom; you don’t have to do it all yourself” s3). he knows she struggles (seeing her cry over the sticks and skates job in s1). he knows what she’s lost in the process (“you called her mom” s1). he knows that the kids aren't fair to her a lot of the time ("we've taken you for granted. i know i have" s4).

but as much as lip sees what fiona goes through, as much as he picks up jobs to help out with the bills, as much as he takes care of the little ones, he’s still a kid in need of a mother figure. he still leans on fiona, hard.

all of s2, lip struggles with seeing fiona as a sister vs. a mother. he wants independence, he wants to follow his own plans in life, and he doesn’t want anyone to stop him—in his mind, who’s fiona to tell him what to do? he can drop out if he wants to. he’s done one more year than her! she can’t make him go. she can’t. she’s not his mom.

but, well, isn’t she? he’s still a kid who messed up and needs help. he’s still a boy who can’t go it all alone. he’s still a sixteen year old child who finally comes home and gives his big sister a hug because, despite all his big talk, he needs her. he does. and fiona loves him more than anything. she just wants what’s best for him, even if she struggles to express it in a manner that doesn’t push him away.

lip doesn’t want to call fiona “mom” (s3) but he’s okay with her taking guardianship. and why wouldn’t he be? she’s done the job his whole life. and he sees that.

the problem is that lip, as much as he wants to be independent of fiona, as much as he wants to see her as a sister and not a mom, he can’t help but to idealize her. he still craves for the perfect mom in his head that never messes up and always takes care of them, and since monica for sure was never going to be that mom, he’s superimposed that desire over fiona. but that version of her doesn’t exist. that version of any mother doesn’t exist. mothers are human. they mess up. they make mistakes. even if no one wants them to.

so when fiona messes up (s3 with the club money, s4 with liam, s8 with the apartment, s9 with the drinking) it’s unthinkable to him. he’s furious with her—rightfully so, she did mess up—but he’s disproportionately angry because she was supposed to be their mom! she was supposed to be good and never fuck up and always take care of them! so when she breaks that image of perfection in his head, it shatters his trust in her, somewhat unfairly so.

fiona’s not allowed to mess up. she can’t. she’s not supposed to. she’s supposed to be the one taking care of everyone, not in need of care herself. lip is understanding and gentle and supportive when it’s ian or debbie or carl, and fiona’s the same with him, but when fiona’s spiraling into addiction and her life is falling apart, he’s all tough love. maybe it terrifies him.

when she leaves, it’s obviously sad. but he’s grown by then to know that she’s her own person, not just a mother figure to them all. it’s hard. but he’s at that point that everyone comes to in life when they realize their parents are individuals with their own lives and hopes and dreams. and he lets her go.

at the end of the day, a huge part of lip’s relationships with fiona is his eternal struggle between wanting independence and wanting a mom—and not just any mom, but a mom he can trust and love and depend on. that mom is fiona, even when she fucks up.

ian

ian was fiona’s first baby. he was the first child she really, truly raised—lip was always her boy, but he was also her second-in-command, blurring the lines between brother and son, working together with her to take care of the others—while ian was the first baby she was all on her own for. the “we were living in a car once…” speech in s3 makes that clear.

in the early seasons, it’s clear that ian defers to fiona quite a bit. he listens to her, seeks her out for comfort, respects her word like that of a mother. fiona calls him sweetface, expresses maternal affection with him, and he is receptive of it all in that long-suffering way older teens tend to be with their moms. their relationship is more mother-son than anything else.

but at the same time, he's still marginally aware of her struggles, too, just like lip; the conversation he has with his brother in s3 when fi tries to get guardianship ("she's only twenty-two!") makes it clear that he worries for her, doesn't want her to take on a terrible burden for them. so it's clear that, though he does see fiona in a maternal light, he isn't blind to her reality.

this all changes, however, when ian starts to grow up and want independence and freedom. fiona tries to give him this in s4 when he joins the army, even though it doesn't work out. and in s5, when he is finally forced to confront his own struggles with mental illness and deal with his bipolar disorder, he starts to bond more with monica.

now, this is understandable, seeing as they share the same mood disorder and he feels connected to her through their similar struggles. at first, he actually resents being compared to her ("i'm not fucking monica" s5), but the more they communicate and bond (s7), the more he comes to care for her.

s8 shows ian genuinely mourning his mother (getting sentimental over her meth, getting a tattoo for her), and the other gallaghers don't really understand it, which upsets him; in his mind, that's their mom! why aren't they upset too? i think it's lost on ian that no one else in the family ever had the same connection with monica that he did. she bonded with him; she didn't do the same for the others before her repeated abandonment.

so ian starts to see monica as "mom." where does that leave fiona?

i think this truly marks the final shift of their relationship from parent-child to siblings. especially when looking at s8, where they're fighting over the church. in 'occupy fiona,' ian is furious with her perceived selfishness, and screams at her when she attempts her typical motherly nagging in the form of asking him if he's taking his meds. which, fair; that must be frustrating to hear. but this makes it clear that they're on two separate pages: fiona still sees him as a son. ian sees him as a sister.

but fiona's seeking independence, too. she's seeking an identity that is distinct from her role as caretaker. it isn't just ian growing apart from his sister that's shifted their relationship so dramatically; both characters seek an escape from their family and a life where they can be independent and all grown-up. and in a typical parent-child relationship, only one side of the equation feels those growing pains. in this situation, it's both.

of course, no matter how much they grow apart and hurt each other, they still adore one another. ian's the one fiona goes to for advice about leaving in s9, after all. he's the one who urges her to go and save herself from another lifetime of gallagher chaos. so really, the change in their relationship doesn't destroy their bond; it just alters it a little.

debbie

debbie had, i think, one of the most tumultuous relationships with her sister. as a little girl, she definitely saw fiona as a mother figure, and was very attached to her, almost subconsciously so. the "i wanna stay with fiona" from s1, the way she sought her out for comfort after monica's suicide attempt in s2, the terror she felt at being separated from her after dcfs got involved in s3—it all makes it very clear that little debbie very much saw fiona as her mom.

she still had some understanding of her sister's struggles—"fiona takes care of everyone, but who takes care of fiona?" (s1)—but she was still a little girl and fiona was still her mom.

and then monica came crashing back into their lives. debbie very reluctantly accepted her in, hugging her at sheila's and allowing her to buy her dolls (even though she didn't play with them anymore!) just to humor her mother's attempts to build a relationship. so, as much as debbie unconsciously saw fiona as a mother figure, she still always had this craving for monica—her real mom.

it makes me think of debbie's assertion to sheila in s1 that if monica ever came back and apologized, she'd "forgive her in a heartbeat. because she's [debbie's] mom." she was still a little girl hanging onto the dream that her mom will come home and love her and take care of her. and she barely realized that she'd found someone else to fill in the gap monica left behind, but it's just not the same. she still wants her real mom.

season 4 marks the shift of debbie's character from seeing fiona as a mom to seeing her as a sister—or, at least, wanting to see her as a sister. like ian, she was desperate for independence. she was being peer pressured by girls at school, she was interested in boys, she didn't want to be seen or treated like a baby anymore. she was fed up with fiona still treating her like she's her daughter because she's not. she doesn't want to be.

and anyway, fiona was busy with her new job at the cup company and her new boyfriend mike. she wasn't around all the time anymore. sheila'd been babysitting more and more. debbie was the one taking liam to and from head start. she felt abandoned, alone, with fiona not around as much as before.

she sought comfort in sammi. she found purpose in her friends, in boys. it's a very knee-jerk teenage-girl reaction: to find connection in others when you're mad at your mom. but for debbie, she wasn't just shifting away from fiona as a daughter growing distant from her mom, she was shifting away from the idea of fiona as her mom in the first place.

and then, of course, franny happened and drove a terrible wedge between them both. debbie grappled with her identity as a mother. she rejected fiona's help and advice in favor of her quest for independence. monica returned, made her feel like debbie's a good mom. frank supported her. and debbie was in a position where she had both her parents on her side—her real parents—while fiona opposed her. this, i think, solidified fiona in her mind as her sister. not her mother figure anymore.

don't get me wrong; fiona was in the right opposing her at this time. debbie's pregnancy was a stupid idea. it really did ruin her life and her character overall, and it was unfair of debbie to expect fiona's support in that situation. fiona was being a good mother by telling her she was making a mistake. she still saw debbie as her little girl. debbie's the one who didn't accept that anymore.

after debbie and fiona made up later in the show, they settled into a true sister-sister relationship. debbie came to see fiona at her worst ("she broke her wrist, she's nonstop ugly crying" s9) and tried to take care of her, while fiona still tried to resist the flipping of their roles ("i'm fine. i'm fine." s9). debbie fucked up ford for her that season. got angry and protective on her behalf.

and when fiona left at the end of the season, she left as debbie's sister. no longer her mom. at least, not from debbie's perspective anymore.

carl

carl's relationship with fiona, i believe, was one of the least complicated and most wholesome ones on the show. carl absolutely saw fiona as a mom in the early seasons, without a doubt. he listened to her even when he didn't want to, like a little boy to his mother ("did you brush your teeth? carl?" "yes, ugh!!!!" s1), reluctantly learned lessons from her ("privacy's important" s2), looked to her for permission for things (glancing at her when monica asked him to pass the salad in s1 and only doing it when fiona nodded yes), and sought her out for comfort after monica's suicide attempt (s3).

carl's the only one i can vividly remember saying he loves his sister ("'night, fiona, love you" s1) or thanking her for what she's done for them all ("thanks for being a great sister" s3). at least when he was little, fiona was without a doubt his mom.

it certainly helps that he never really bonded with monica. she left when he was too little to start seeing her as a mom, and every time she returned, she never really took the time to get to know him or connect with him. but carl did briefly bond with frank (the fake cancer arc in s3, "i'm shaving your head to let the sun rays in"), and was the only one who cared about him potentially dying in season four, tending to him in the hospital when no one else did.

season four is when he, like debbie, starts to rebel against fiona's parenting. he's angry and sad and mean and it all comes out in the form of sharp words and beating up kids at school and getting into all kinds of trouble. he's mad at fiona for not caring about frank, but he's also just mad at the world—understandly so. he's fourteen.

the trouble continues well into season 6. carl gets mixed up with g-doggg, starts selling drugs. frank helps him get into the drug world, but he gets caught. he goes to juvie, comes back a little harder, a little meaner. sells harder stuff, sells guns. the whole time, he's established a sort of distance from fiona, because he's too cool for deep, vulnerable relationships, or so he thinks. and the whole time, fiona continues to love him, tries to connect with him, attempts to open his eyes and make him realize how dangerous what he's doing is, but he's determined to be his own man, to earn the respect of his buddies. he feels like frank's the only one who understands.

but then he gets hurt and scared. he sees someone die. he wants out. and frank—who he hasn't like, loved, per-say, but has at least trusted and established some sort of camaraderie with through their shared misdeeds—betrays him, scares the shit out of him with his anger and disappointment. and who does carl have to fall back on but fiona?

fiona tells him she's proud of him. she and sean help him get out of the drug world. their relationship is finally rekindled. and it's around his time when carl overhears fiona cry to sean about being exhausted and scared about losing the house (s6). and it terrifies him, because here's his strong big sister, the woman who raised him, young and vulnerable and afraid. and he steps up and gives her the money to buy back the house. he's there for her. he's being a good man.

from then on, carl shapes up and his character is on track to make something better of himself. he takes on some form of responsibility, denounces his father, and goes to military school. and fiona's so fucking proud of her boy. because he is her boy—always will be, no matter how much he tries to be a strong, independent, grown-up.

when he comes home in s7, he's grown to be a kind, goodhearted, respectful young man. he doesn't refuse her hugs and kisses. he admits—though with some hesitation—that "you were right, fiona! and we were so fucking wrong!" in s8. and when monica dies, he's... conflicted. but he's okay. because fiona was always his mom, anyway. and that never changed.

liam

liam has never known any parent other than fiona.

sure, lip helped a great deal with taking care of him and raising him, and, much later, he bonded quite a bit with frank. and his relationship with most of his siblings is very parental at its core—he’s the baby, after all, and all of his siblings had a hand in raising him.

but fiona was the one who fed and changed and cared for him his whole life. took him to work with her as a baby (s1). dealt with his hair when he had lice (s6). stood up for him against anyone who dared to hurt him (s9). it was always her, really, in the end. it was only her.

liam was just a baby when monica left. and he was—what, 6?—when she died. there are a few times when she randomly returns when they spent time together, but he doesn’t even really remember her because he was too little. he’s never known a mother other than fi. she’s the only one that matters, really.

i’m still upset that she didn’t take liam with her when she left in s9, and that we didn’t see them stay in contact throughout the remainder of the show. obviously, this was just because emmy rossum left, so it’s just a reflection of the writers working around their situations, but it just felt heartbreakingly unrealistic to me.

they loved each other so much. that was her son, her little boy, her baby bear. she was his mom. no two ways about it.

it wasn't until after fiona distanced herself from the family and then left that liam and frank grew close. frank got him into private school (s8), recruited liam to steal from his rich friends (s8/9), and liam, in turn, made it his mission to take care of frank when his health started declining and his mind started deteriorating to his alcholic dementia (s10/11). part of that connection was absolutely due to liam's bigheartedness; he's such a good, loving kid, with so much forgiveness and love to give to people.

i also wonder if a part of that connection resulted from the desire for parental love and affection. liam's smart enough to know that frank will never care for him the way fiona did, but he seems at peace with his father's shortcomings. he wants a relationship with him anyway.

regardless of the reasoning, liam was so loved by his family and his parental figures—both fiona and frank.

in conclusion

i think, from fiona's perspective, she was always the kids' mom ("my siblings are my kids" s9), even though at times her relationship with them blurred the lines between maternal and sisterly. but from the kids' points of view, she was always a very complicated figure in their lives.

the gallagher siblings' complex relationships with their sister are really at the heart of the show; she is the matriarch, the thing holding everyone together, after all. not all the kids had easy connections to her. many of them grappled with their vision of her as a mother vs. a sister. but that doesn't erase what she did for them.

she still raised them. she still cared for them, mothered them. as messy as their relationships were a great deal of the time, she was the best parent those kids ever fucking had. she was their mother through and through, and that is what made shameless truly, unabashedly, shameless.

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stellanslashgeode · 5 months

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I'm happily educating myself on all things Barriss via your wonderful blog. If you'd ever feel like unpacking more of your Wrong Jedi thoughts/intrigue, I'd love to hear more of your analysis.

Oh my, you've put a quarter in the machine now you have to hear the whole song.

The arc is very divisive with Barriss enjoyers because her character veers so far from her Legends depiction. She was a pretty prominent character in the original Clone Wars multimedia project and was a caring and selfless healer. And the arc doesn't do much to explain her motivations for turning.

Another thing that vexes me is because it is essentially a police procedural (they even hired a writer from Third Watch for this arc) so much occurs off-screen. So, we do not know quite what happened but have to infer.

Let's start with motivation. In her very few post The Wrong Jedi appearances they've tried to hint at Barriss falling mainly though post-traumatic stress disorder. And that's sort of a good explanation? She was at Geonsis at the start of the war, and was one of two Padawans we know of IN the arena who lived and the other was Anakin! You have to think this is a healer, someone who was trained to be a pacifist, and the battle was so sudden and frantic that she had to witness other Padawans she knew in the creche die all around her and she was too busy defending herself to do anything. So that's trauma and guilt. The short story A Jedi's Duty shows that she sat out nearly the entire first year of the war healing others back at the temple, explaining why she wasn't there to deal with Asajj Ventress with Luminara in TCW season 1. Also, she is having trouble sleeping because of memories of that first battle. She asked for help but they told her to meditate if she couldn't sleep, but she couldn't meditate properly because of this haze of the dark side invading her perceptions. She's even having trouble Force healing and she feels guilty that others are taking risks that she is unwilling to take. She consults with an old friend, Tutso Mara and is finally able to meditate, but right then Luminara calls her to a briefing, and wouldn't you know it, they're going to Geonosis again. She is frightened but memorizes the tunnel formations under the weapons factory they need to destroy because that's her duty to the Light and to her Order. The last scene is her joining Luminara and Gree to depart for the battle. And it's such an ironic story because Master Mara is one of her later victims and the place she bombs is right there in the temple hangar where the story ends. I think that's why she chose it as her target, it was the place she went from safety to chaos.

And what happens next? She almost is buried alive Right Away, then as she's reeling from that she gets a Geonocian brain worm. She was also at the Battle of Umbara, and you know how that goes. So I guess trauma is a fairly good reason, as well as her love and admiration of Jedi ethics and pedagogy that just went right out the window when the Jedi had to do what it took to fight in this war. Barriss is a bookworm, all that heritage meant something to her. And really, that was the purpose of the war, to isolate the Jedi by having them betray their morals and sully their reputation with the public.

Fanfiction writers also can pick and choose from Legends, such as all the crazy stuff that happened to her on Drongar but that's a story for another day.

So we get to the Wrong Jedi Arc itself. We aren't shown how she meets Letta Turmond, how much of a partnership that was. Letta says Barriss was the mastermind of the operation but that's after she's jailed. I don't trust her. I mean, Letta is a grown woman and while Barriss was an idealistic and heartsick Jedi at that point she's just 17-18 according to Feloni. I can see it as a situation where a teenager gets politically radicalized and taken advantage by a woman she trusts. If we get a Letta flashback in Tales of the Empire I will be so happy!

Ahsoka is framed. But there's a multi-step aspect to it. Part A, Letta calls Ahsoka to the prison because she was told she was the only Jedi her collaborator trusted and gets Force choked by someone we do not see. Part B, after she is arrested someone leaves a key card outside her cell and she follows a trail of first injured then dead clones to make it look like she broke out and went on a killing spree. Part C is the only one we actually see start to finish, where Ahsoka contacts Barriss and she lures her to the factory that made the nano-droids.

Barriss is guilty of Part C. But did she do Part A and B? She was at the funeral with Ahsoka and heard same time as her that she was transferred to a military compound. Then in the maybe hour, two hours Ahsoka was in a mission briefing Barriss supposedly broke into a brand-new high security compound, got in the walls, and strangled Letta as Ahsoka was in the cell alone with her. Then Part B, she hung around undetected for a few more hours to set up the escape while also erasing the audio off the recording of the murder.

I personally think Palpatine MIGHT have done part A. He has much greater access and he has the motive (to take away a pillar of stability for Anakin). If Barriss did do Part A, what was the motivation? The most pessimistic reading is she did it to save her own skin and purposely framed Ahsoka. Another is that Barriss genuinely talked up Ahsoka to Letta, and did NOT do so to set her up but because she was one of the lonely girl's only friends (and maybe love interest) and then Letta goes ahead and calls her there, Barriss is in the walls, and she just cannot have Ahsoka's opinion of her ruined. She killed Letta to silence her from tainting this one friendship she had left, did so out of panic, and wasn't thinking of the consequences. Then Part B, oh no I got my girlfriend framed for murder. So she springs her out. So why does she kill those clones to further frame her?

Consider the conversation after the funeral, "Ahsoka, do you think it is right for us to ignore our emotions?" I think the subtext there was "Ahsoka, I'm hurting so much, join me to stop me." She was feeling her out to see if she felt the same about the war as she did. And she did Part B to see if Ahsoka would run, SO THEY COULD RUN AWAY TOGETHER. Sure, it's manipulative as all Hell, but that's the dark side for you. It was a test, and Ahsoka failed because as soon as she gets out, she calls Barriss to help clear her name. So that she could get back to the war. The war Barriss hates with all her being. So that's why she did Part C. She had been alienated by the Order and her own master by all these deployments and the one person left who she valued was buying into the propaganda that the Jedi needed to finish this war. It broke her. And she did something awful.

All and all I think her fall is fascinating because it wasn't for personal power or attachments, she wanted to sacrifice her own grace to save the souls of all other Jedi. She did it out of love for the Order, even if it came in such a twisted and destructive form. That's also why she'd become a lousy Inquisitor. They're the anthesis of all she stood for, an army fighting for the dark side.

I know a lot of fans hate this arc but... man that speech! I spent the whole Prequel trilogy and TCW waiting for a Jedi to stand up and say "What we are doing is wrong, we should stop." Yoda and Mace know their path is leading to the dark, but they see no other way but through. I just wanted someone to say no with their whole chest. And it was Barriss. That's why I love her, your honor. I admire the idealists, her and Satine. They should have teamed up and put a stop too all that nonsense.

Sorry this is so long? I have a lot of FEELINGS and now you can see why I have a lot of trepidation about this Saturday. You know, I thought of you last night when I was rewatching Tales of the Jedi. It was the scene were Dooku was leaving to meet Palpatine with Yaddle following in The Sith Lord. I was imagining how you felt watching that for the first time, and I remembered my reaction was "Oh no, it's the temple hangar! Barriss is going to blow the shit out of this place in a decade and change!"

#barriss offee #the wrong jedi #tales of the empire #barriss and staine could have hooped

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