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i-cant-sing · 1 year ago

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Okay but like you guys know how Toji killed Riko Amanai because she was the star plasma vessel and he hates the Jujutsu world?

Imagine that after killing Riko and just narrowly escaping Gojo and Getou, promising to kill every Star plasma vessel just to spite them, he has a daughter- you, and its revealed that you're the next star plasma vessel, a perfect match for Tengen to merge with and prevent forced evolution, and now Gojo and Getou are sent put to capture you and bring you to Tengen.

And they go, not because they want to bring you to Tengen, but because they want to protect you from Toji, only to find out that you're his daughter that has him wrapped around her tiny finger and oh oh THE HYPOCRISY???? So as long as you're his daughter, TOJI WONT KILL THE STAR PLASMA VESSEL?????

Ans Toji's all like- "ohh you guys don't need to worry about Y/n, I'll take care if her and protect her from anyone and everyone. Yall better leave rn unless you want to have a horrible death." Meanwhile, toddler reader is just in her own little world as she's spinning around in circles because it's fun when the world is spinning and makes her stumble.

Anyways, Gojo and Getou don't believe him, and even if they did, they won't just let him go that easily because fuck that guy, he killed a teen and now has the gall to stand there like he didn't kill an innocent kid.

And Gojo is all like "fuck that, we gonna kill your kid too bitch." He's not, but he's gonna make sure Toji feels scared and doomed before dying.

Immediately, Toji has whipped out all of his weapons, pushing you behind him, and just then, out of thin air, the entire Zenin clan appears to Toji's aid because yes, they hate Toji too, but they adore you and they eint letting white haired bitcha and his emo Buddha bf take you.

As the battle begins, there's someone from the clan who's keeping you safe, moving you away from the battle ground so that you don't end up getting hit, and obviously, they put some headphones and sensory videos on their phone to keep you distracted from the fight. Meanwhile, there is absolute chaos on the field, Getou and Gojo being merciless as they kill one clan member after another.

Eventually, one of the attacks ends up blowing away your "bodyguard" and you're just there alone, unattended and unsupervised, so naturally, you look to the ground and see Gojo wielding Hollow Purple, and you don't know what that is except for a purple orb and since your dear uncle Naoya had been forcing you to take tutoring from the best teachers in tge world, you had learned color theory and immeadiately, without knowing the consequences of your actions, you throw out a yellow orb directly at the purple orb because you were taught in art class that "yellow cancels out purple", but now everyone is looking at you like "did a kid just- neutralise the most powerful Jujutsu technique???? Without so much as breaking a sweat?" And you're just giggling nd jumping up and down, calling out to Naoya "see uncle Naoya??? Those classes were not a waste of money!"

And that's when everyone noticed-

You're alone.

Naobito is immediately yelling at Toji to "collect your chaotic child before she reveals more of her powers and becomes everyone's target!" And Gojo is like "??? Um wtf?? Did a child just beat me???", while getou is springing into action to get his hands on you before Toji can.

Toji beats him to it, grabbing you with one hand while the other pulled out his sword. Getou summoned his own curses to help him attack Toji and simultaneously save you. As the two began fighting, Gojo sent another attack to Toji, who in an attempt to save you, shielded you with his body while taking the impact of hit.

As Toji was down, you were taken away from him by Getou, and while you didn't understand just what happened to your dad, you were becoming distressed as he didn't respond to you. And with your distress came a change in your cursed energy, which Getou recognised and he knew sooner or later, you will have an outburst of energy and hurt everyone in the process, because you're just a kid who doesn't how powerful she is.

So, yanking on Gojo's shoulders and telling him to leave the other members of the clan because they need to leave right now, the three of you teleported out of there.

Anyways, Gojo and Getou decide to take you in because there's no way they're giving you to Tengen, and taking you back to the Zenin clan was also out of the question, AND not to mention, they want to discover more about your cursed energy and help you control it. I mean, Getou wants to help you learn your powers and also give you a normal childhood, Gojo is slighted that he got beat by a child who didn't know what she was doing and he's low key concerned if you're gonna be a threat in the future. So... why not just take you in, and act like your parents because you're a gullible child who'll believe anything, and really has the attention span of a goldfish.

And at first, things were great because Gojo was like a chaotic parent who adored bullying you, while Getou was the calm and collected parent who helped you calm down as you swore you were gonna Hollow Purple Gojo if he kicks the back of your knees one more time. But everything changed when Getou parted ways with Gojo because he wanted to "kill humanity because they're all selfish and cruel🥰" and Gojo was like "babe, no, it's my job to be the sadistic one as a joke and you're the one who's supposed to laugh and say no, humans need us to protect them🥺" but Getou is like no, fuck that. And then Getou is like, well you can give Y/n to me because I love children and I love taking care of her, and Gojo is like "no." While holding a very struggling child that wants to scratch his face off, and Gojo only said no initially just so that there's something for Getou to come back. He knows how attached and fond Getou has grown over you. But Getou just sighs and goes "aight. Shared custody it is then. See you in 8 months, Y/n! Give your papa a kiss🥰" and you do.

And yeah, everyday since Getou departure, you can see the changes in Gojo's behaviour. It's not bad exactly, he's depressed for sure, and he's doubting his principles every step of the way, BUT he's kinder to you and to humans in general now. Meanwhile, whenever you do meet papa Getou, with Gojo's supervision cause my man doesn't trust Getou to not take you away and turn u into a killing machine, you can see the changes in Getou's personality too. He may still have that same kind, noble, shaman facade going on, but you see the way he looks down on the weak and on the non sorcerers. You see how he uses people as means to achieve his ultimate goal. Sure, you can also see that he still adores you, but you... dont know if you still love him with his view of the world.

Then one day, it happens. Gojo has finally killed Getou, not because of any ill intent, but because he simply threatened his students and the innocent people of Japan. And even though you knew this day wold eventually come, you still didn't forgive Gojo for a long time. You cried and fought against him, until Gojo had to eventually knock you out just so that your breakdown wouldn't unleash cursed energy and endanger everyone.

After Getou's death, Gojo's behaviour towards you and in general did a whole 180. He became the kinder, softer, gentle parent towards you. The empathetic teacher who pushed you but also consoled you when you failed, instead of the previous Gojo who would ridicule you for failing to master a technique.

Getou's death had definitely changed Gojo in other ways too. He had become more protective of you, always keeping you around because he couldn't bare the thought of losing someone else (Riko, Getou, etc). He keeps a close on you, watchubvvyour development and progress like a hawk because he knows you will soon be wanting to help him on missions, or worse, go solo. He doesn't want that, he can't have that. So the more you push Gojo to let you be independent, the more he tells you to sit down and practice more because you're just not ready yet.

Then one day, you reach your braking point and just- leave when Gojo is busy with his students. And this turned out to be a big mistake because the moment you had left Jujutsu High, it seemed like you were surrounded by thousands of enemies. Everyone wants to either kill you or capture you, and you don't even know why (because Gojo never revealed to you about your family or you being the star plasma vessel). Fortunately, you had trained enough to fight these assassins, and by the time you were done, you were tired and wanted to return back to Jujutsu High, but before you could, someone knocked you out.

When you woke up, you were lying in bed in a traditional Japanese home. Soon, a man with blonde hair came in, introducing himself as your uncle Naoya. He revealed who you were, how he was your family, how he saved you from Gojo, the man who stole you and killed his family members.

Of course, you call bs because why wouldn't you?? Naoya gives major prick vibes without trying so yeah, you didn't trust him at all. Then he pulled out pictures of you, of Toji and everyone else, and you vaguely remembered them, but not enough to believe him because Naoya could just be manipulating you to be compliant for human trafficking.

And then he takes you to another room, on the way you see a lot of other people who are looking at you fondly and have tears in their eyes, they seem like they want to say something or touch you, but Naoya glares at them to move away. Eventually, you reach a door and on opening it, you see a man sitting on a wheelchair, looking away from you.

"Who's that?" You asked as Naoya gently pushed you in. He walked towards the man, turning his wheelchair around and your breath hitched-

"Y/n, meet Toji, your-"

"Dad?" You whispered, recognising him as memories flashed through your mind. How- how could you have forgotten him all these years?

Tears began flowing down your face as you saw his miserable state- his face emotionless, the man was missing an arm, and he looked pale and weak.

"Gojo did this to him." Naoya began. "While your father was fighting, Gojo tried to purple Hollow you. But Toji took the hit instead, protecting you. He almost died that day, but with a little cursed energy, we were able to save him." He sighed, patting Toji's shoulder. "Unfortunately, he is paralysed. The cursed technique we tried to save him, has sent him into a vegetative state. He can't move, can't speak, doesn't even react."

More tears fell as you began questioning if Gojo really did this. Then again, if he was so innocent, why did he never tell you who your father really was.

"Why- why did you bring me here?" You asked.

Naoya scoffed. "Why wouldn't I? I had to save you from that monster. Look at what he did to your father! How could have I just leave you with him? You belong here, with your family, with your clan!"

"I cant- I can't stay here." You said, tearfully.

"Why not?"

"Because Gojo will find me. And when he does, he will hurt you all. I- I can't have that-" but Naoya pulled you into a hug as you began sobbing into his chest, heart heavy with guilt at the sight of your father.

"Shh, its okay. This is not your fault. You didn't do this, Gojo did. Which is precisely why you must stay here, with me and with your father. Besides, you don't need to worry about Gojo. I'm not a weak sorcerer, yknow? And not alone either. Plus, I remember you neutralising Gojo's attack pretty easily as a child. I'm sure you're better at it now. Obviously, not better than your uncle, I mean who are we kidding? No ones better than me-"

Yeah, you're remembering Naoya alright now.

Meanwhile, Gojo is losing his mind and is on a murder spree through Japan to find you. He doesn't even know who fucking took you, and Naoya may not be as strong as Gojo, he is pretty good at hiding, like a rat.

Besides, Gojo isn't the only who's looking for you.

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probablybadrpgideas · 3 months ago

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I feel like this is the right place to share the story of Post Apocalyptic Macho Man Randy Savage, the one time where my bad idea was telling a player "Hey, that might be a bad idea for this campaign"

Maybe 10 years ago I dusted off d20 modern for a Fallout-inspired post apocalyptic two-shot, a lot of what I'd DMed to that point was your typical D&D and I wanted to start trying different settings. I'd imagined this to be a pretty gun-heavy few games, so when my buddy decided that he wanted to make a grappler, I told him that I didn't think that was a great idea. My buddy took that shit personally.

Now, I was used to silliness at my table. I encouraged it, in fact! This campaign also had characters based on Squidward, Shrek and the Sanik meme (to anyone that knows Fallout lore, imagine Sonic hooked on Jet), so when my friend came to me with Macho Man Randy Savage I tutted a bit, but didn't bat an eye. What I hadn't realized was that my friend had spent the three days in between our conversation and the actual game building the perfect character to make me eat my words. The Post Apocalyptic Macho Man could grapple, he could evade and he could talk his ass off and that's it, but with these three ingredients- plus the bounty of the Dice Gods- this character derailed everything I'd had planned.

Band of raiders that have a caravan held up? Suplexed into each other before they could even get their guns. Super mutant? Nothing that can't be solved by suplexing a propane tank into the mutant (plus a well timed shot from Sanik). Mirelurk? More-a graps! Wave of bullets flying towards him? That's okay, just do the trademark Randy Savage tippy-toe walk to the nearest cover, then wait for the earliest opportunity to throw cocaine in their eyes and suplex the son of a bitch that thought they could snuff out the Madness (Oh, I forgot to mention that he spent literally all his starting money on cocaine, which he used in much the same way that Dale Gribble used sand). I really go out of my way to stop one character from becoming the capital-P Protagonist of the game, but my other players quickly figured out what was happening and they leaned into Macho Man's bullshit HARD, so they'd started setting up bad guys to get suplexed! By the end of the evening, my friend sat me down, flashed me the most shit-eating grin I'd ever seen to this day, and asked "So is the grappler still a bad idea?"

To tl;dr the rest, I furiously re-wrote the plot for the second night (again, two-shot) to make the bad guy Hulk Hogan, and the final encounter boiled down to a wrestling match between the two with the other players electing to "sit in the crowd and boo the Hulkster", before ultimately the two settled their differences and decided that the easiest way to rebuild society (and get decent blow again) was to reform the WWF and found a city called WrestleMania. Sanik was on board for the blow, Squidward was convinced to join them when he was told that the wrestlers would need entrance music and, so long as they kept away from his swamp, Shrek promised to help them find a suitable place to build Wrestlemania (though it totally ended up in his swamp). Anyway, that's how I learned to never tell a player that their idea for a grappler won't work, a grappler will work in any setting if you've got enough spite in your heart

#not an idea

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punkpandapatrixk · 11 months ago

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🌈Would You Marry Me, Honey? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Ideally, we’d hope for our Future Spouse to be the only person we would ever be married to🎎Having said that, this reading isn’t catering to a Future Spouse aenergy; this reading is entertaining the idea of a dharmic Soulmate who’s destined for our Highest Intended Good.

Our Destined Person—he or she whose soul essence lights up the whole world after we’ve learnt to light up our own world with Love towards ourselves🥰

To those of you reading this who had been married before or are currently bound to a weird loveless contract, please know this reading is still for you in whatever way it resonates for you🌷We all deserve to be happier and happier still at whatever stage of Life we’re in. It isn’t greed we’re talking about; it’s knowing everybody deserves to find Love in the end💝

And aaa~ happy holidays, Witches~!🎄

SONG: I’m Glad There Is You by Julie London

MOVIE: How To Marry A Millionaire (1953)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Making A Soft Bed of Flowers with You

VIBE: Schatze Page & Tom Brookman

why I was attracted to you – 9 of Pentacles

Umm…you’re kinda giving off this coldass bitch boss aura that sends news to the entire town that you ain’t needing nobody in your Life. You’re so ULTRA independent it actually scares the living shit out of normal people XD You’re too powerful; too resourceful in your aloneness; too successful in your solitude; damn, are you sure you haven’t got an army of jealous bitches wishing ill upon you?? There are IT girls whom all girls want to be and guys want to be with, but you’re a whole different game, hon.

Girls know they can’t be you however much they pay! Guys know they can’t ever bend you however much they hate that you won’t pick them! Your aenergy is weird…you’re too happy…too authentic. The wrong people can only shake their heads in disbelief, gossiping that there must be something shady you’ve done in Life for you to be this real, this successful without being an ass-licker.

At the top of your game, you make the news go round and round you’re making them money from talking non-stop about you. That’s when your Destined Person hear about you and fell in love with your character. You’re swag, or something. You’re savage and honest. They fucking LOVE that you’re an unbreakable bitch boss. You can be a bitch boss to the world, but to your Destined Person, you’re a Goddess of Realness! And that’s rare AF. You’re a true gem. Finally, an equal to them!

how I fell in love with you – King of Cups

Well, in spite of how you appear to the world, your Destined Person was able to see beyond the façade. You act tough and all that but you have a kind and generous soul. People can’t be strong all alone for so long. If anything, the way you appear strong and unshakable incites your Destined Person’s protective nature LOL Your Destined Person has a big heart and wants to nurture. I think their love language might be gifts and attention just because they really like to give. They will give you all their money and attention LMAO

The main reason they fell in love with you is that you’ve inspired them to get even more in touch with their sensitive side. When your Destined Person sees or talks to you, their minds are opened to new ways to express their emotions. It is because you’re eloquent and you have a great library of words to impart your thoughts and feelings. Your Destined Person thinks you’re inhumanly intelligent and so new wave! Whatever that means XD

They also see that you, too, have a big heart. That you’re more understanding than anybody they’ve ever met. Below the iceberg castle you’ve built to protect yourself, you have an entire flower kingdom of kindness and care. It is your generous nature, your heart your Destined Person truly fell in love with. You’re gutsy and talented; you’re honest and courageous; but most of all, you are a genuine Lover with a divine heart and your Destined Person wants that for themselves…

Umm…with this King aenergy…I think your Destined Person is a possessive and territorial style? ^_^;

when I knew you were The One – Ace of Pentacles

Buhahahah… I think your Destined Person knew you were The One from the very beginning. From the moment they were intrigued by you, they already knew you were made for them! Not saying they never had moments they doubted themselves, especially when it comes to whether or not they are deserving of someone mega awesome as you, but they were head over heels from the get go. They couldn’t deny this attraction and they thought, whether or not they’re the marrying type, if they ever want to spend the rest of their days with someone that would have to be YOU~

When they met you…or got to know you (before meeting)…your Destined Person had been wanting to have a new beginning of sort. I think their Life was already secure and they’d achieved quite a great deal in Life. But that security felt fleeting. They wanted to offer all this greatness to someone. Your Destined Person is undoubtedly a lover LOL They want to be in a loving relationship. They want to share their Life, their riches, their comfort with someone. Obviously, it’s YOU~

With this Pile, rather than the idea of your Destined Person needing time to decide on you…it’s more like they actually had to stop themselves from creeping you out by not proposing to you on your first date! LMAO This is a Ted Mosby saying ‘I LOVE YOU’ on his first date with Robin kinda vibe. Something along those lines. Just pretend you didn’t know they already wanted to marry you from the beginning, hon XD Your whole courtship might feel awkward but cute because your Destined Person struggles a lil with behaving like they’re not crazy about you LMAO

I LOVE YOU🔻💙

in sorrow and in sickness – Gold Historian (Raphael Holinshed)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Patience

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – I Could Tell You Were So Much More Than Your Silence

VIBE: Pola Debevoise & Freddie Denmark

why I was attracted to you – 3 of Pentacles Rx

When your Destined Person first saw you, they noticed that you were distant, rather aloof. Not sure if it was shyness or something else. Depending on your Destined Person’s base psychology or the environment they were brought up in, your Destined Person either thought you were a bitch, unfriendly, or they simply wondered by you were THAT shy, THAT quiet. I think it’s possible the day you met them you simply weren’t in a jolly mood, so you were rather uncommunicative.

Be THAT as it may, your Destined Person ain’t a bitch and if anything they were attracted to your coolness. There is something in your aura, your vibe, your body language, that tells them…you were so much more than your unfriendliness. Perhaps it’s in your gentle gesture, perhaps it’s in the way you gaze at someone else, but your Destined Person could tell, you’re a sensitive person who’s careful with who you get friendly with.

Your Destined Person saw…felt, rather…that you must be a compassionate, empathetic person who would make them feel safe. They could tell that you were society’s outcast of sort, that you were not generic, and that because of this you weren’t the type to quickly judge somebody without knowing their story first. Your Destined Person admires that about you. They think you have high morality and that although you aren’t always smiley or anything, for the most part, you’re really a polite person who’s such a delight to talk to once you feel comfortable with someone.

how I fell in love with you – 8 of Pentacles

Your Destined Person could tell that you’re somebody who’s battled your own inner demons. You’ve worked hard on yourself to be the superior version of yourself. And because you’re naturally kind and very keen on human psychology, your Destined Person saw that you’re the type that can easily understand other people’s crazy. That’s why you’re kind, quiet, and for the most part, patient with other people. You’re cool because you understand the world—you’re based. But you’re also aloof because you understand that most Humans are a waste of time LMAO

Your Destined Person thinks you’re the coolest person who’s ever walked on Earth! This is kinda telling me either your Destined Person is a few years younger than you or they could’ve come from a rather easy background so the maturity of their psychology is behind you XD Do you have significant Scorpio placements? Anyway, your Destined Person is charmed by your maturity, deep knowledge about uncommon things, and that once they get you talking, like whoa, your knowledge and perspectives are SO interesting. They could hear you talk for weeks on end.

Obviously, your Destined Person feels inspired by you. They also feel you’re the safest person they could talk to. If anything, you help them overcome their own demons or pains from the past. When they talk with you, they understand themselves better and they love that your perspectives on people and things are genuinely rooted in your desire to comfort and heal. They think you’re deeply spiritual but based, realistic and pragmatic, and before they could put words to it, they’ve already fallen in love with your character🥰

when I knew you were The One – Knight of Cups

I do see that it takes a bit, juuust a biiit, of time for your Destined Person to know you were The One for them, forever. Personally, they themselves are quite wary of people so just because they were curious and subsequently friendly towards you, didn’t mean they wanted to marry you immediately. Which, all things considered, is very sweet because when you met your Destined Person, when you noticed they were trying to get to know you, they were genuine! They weren’t just trying to get into your pants or wanting other superficial things from you.

Your Destined Person, I feel, is a very charming and handsome person. They’re likely popular, too. I think they know a lot of people, have a large family or perhaps have multiple large circles of people they know, so in that sense, they’re not the type of person who’s needing people just to fill in some kind of emptiness inside. They’re very genuine with you and in trying to get to know you, if anything, they’re the one who wants to offer you something precious: their attention and affection. There’s something poignant about you that makes them feel ultra-protective and they genuinely love that feeling of becoming a true romantic in your presence.

I LOVE YOU🔻🧡

in sorrow and in sickness – Green Magus (John Dee)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Inspiration

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Oh, Dreamy Beauty, You Elevate My Dreams

VIBE: Loco Dempsey & Eben

why I was attracted to you – Page of Wands

‘Okay, I’m not trying to be creepy or anything but damn you’re SEXY.’ Your Destined Person was first and foremost attracted to your beauty—your sex appeal, to be precise. They find you incredibly sexy…but why the goddamn hell are you cute?? Is that allowed? Little did they know that this appeal is actually your authentic soul. You’re actually a lot more honest than you give yourself credit for. You live Life quite honestly and you’re just being yourself. You don’t really give a damn if people find your essence offensive. ‘I’m not everybody’s cup of tea and that’s perfectly acceptable to me—so what are you gonna do about it?’

Though you’re strong like that on one hand, on the other you’re also quite stupid because you trust people too easily! At least your Destined Person sees you this way. They think, because you’re always honest you could fall into the trap of believing everybody is just as honest, as straightforward as you, which, most people aren’t! Plenty of people are sneaky and dangerous! And your Destined Person noticed this and felt a pull towards protecting you… *why don’t we have a melting heart emoji?*

Your Destined Person felt a pull to be there for you, protecting your Light, your innocence, your joy and happiness. I feel your Destined Person is actually quite a thinker, but when they were drawn to you, as if falling into a trance they couldn’t follow logic anymore. They were drawn in by your passion and delightful personality and before they knew it, they felt like they’d been swallowed whole by your flame🔥

how I fell in love with you – Queen of Pentacles

You’re a wholesome character and that much was apparent to your Destined Person right after they’ve got to know you a bit better. How quickly your Destined Person fell in love with you varies with this Pile, but some digging, some getting to know each other, and some learning is definitely required with this connection. Essentially, the moment your Destined Person learns that you’re so much more than how you look, they couldn’t help but develop genuine feelings for you. It’s a Soul-based kind of Love that transcends human ego.

I feel like your Destined Person could even shed a tear from realising just how much they care about your wellbeing. It’s pure like that and I promise you they’re not so used to feeling that typa feeling for just about anybody! As much as they see you as this very unique, very strong character in your own right, they want to be there to protect your heart. If your Destined Person is a masculine person, they will also want to protect your body and provide for you. They want to make things easier for you! They’re willing to make sacrifices to give the whole world for you, simply because you’re worth it.

Your Destined Person loves how you’re essentially the main character of your own world and…they want to be part of that world? XD They don’t mind being a side character in your world whom you fall for. I think this person could be younger than you or they’re simply not that mature yet emotionally or spiritually! What they love most about you is how you’re literally the most unique, resourceful, strategizing character who knows how to build your own world from scratch! You’re literally the most wholesome character they’d ever known throughout their Life. And they want a part in that world you’ve built with so much love and care. Now, they want to care for you…

when I knew you were The One – 10 of Wands Rx

Let it be known that your Destined Person is quite an intense bitch LMAO When they love, they love with all of their being and their devotion is no joke. This ain’t a playa over here. Or at least…when it comes to YOU, they ain’t got no game. Trust me. You must’ve done or said something that completely changed your Destined Person’s entire view on love and relationships. I betcha you’re the type of intense bitch who’d never settle for anything less than real Love. And that literally brushed off on your Destined Person. In the beginning, they went to war with themselves over this notion of real Love with a capital L.

They never really knew what Love was all about or if they were even deserving of Love. Just like everybody else, they had a very silly take on romance—this is especially the case if your Destined Person is a masculine being. Because of you, now they understand that money ain’t it; sex appeal ain’t it; status ain’t it. Aesthetics comes after real Love. You taught them that. And they’re grateful and they realise you’re the only person they want to love. It’s kinda possessive like that…I think your Destined Person could have some Taurus or Scorpio placements??

Anyway, in some way, your Destined Person could’ve been so embarrassed about their own childishness and felt super lacking as a person. Like, they don’t really know what to offer a divine being such as you…but they vowed to better themselves and grow up as quickly as possible so they could become worthy of your Love LMAO Gosh! It was around this time they realised they wanted to grow up as a person that they knew you were the ONLY one for them! Umm…like they just knew they could and would never be able to feel this way for any other person that’s not you. It had to be you~

I LOVE YOU🔻💛

in sorrow and in sickness – Silver Magus (Merlin)

I vow to be there for you – Priestess of Innocence

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

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scramratz · 2 months ago

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Rant abt your Cds I'm curious

OK HERE GOES SCRAMS 2024 CD COLLECTION TIER LIST

(Disclaimer: these are just my personal opinions and if yours differ from mine, fine. It’s not a sin to be wrong)

S TIER-

Goo-Sonic Youth: Straight bangers all the way through. Girls love it when you show them your Sonic Youth cd. Extra points cuz the pamphlet unfolds into a sick poster

Midnight Vultures-Beck: Good album to clean the house to. Every song a banger. Beck as a person sets off alarms, though 🤔

Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot-Sparklehorse: Genuinely my favorite artist and album of all time. Fall asleep to Homecoming Queen often.

Siamese Dream-Smashing Pumpkins: Fire straight though. Good when you’re in a depressed 20-something mood. Better than Mellon Collie in my humble opinion.

Gorillaz-Gorillaz: The start of one of my favorite bands and objectively one of the best bands in the world don’t fight me on it I’ll kill you.

A TIER-

Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots-The Flaming Lips: Solid album. Iconic cover art. “Do You Realize??” always got me feeling feelings

Violent Femmes-Violent Femmes: Top 3 favorite band. Every song went platinum in my household. Would have been higher but reminds me of my mom too much.

Dig Me Out- Sleater-Kinney: Got it because the name sounded familiar. Ended up loving them! Doesn’t sound right if it’s not played loud, though, and considering I live in an apartment, I don’t play it often.

Fear Yourself-Daniel Johnston: Got it because I love “Hi, How Are You” but haven’t been able to find it anywhere. Was pleasantly surprised! Hits the same melancholy spot but slightly more upbeat.

Figure 8-Elliot Smith: My favorite sad boy that definitely DIDN’T kill himself. Not my favorite Elliot album but every one of his albums is A tier personally.

The Diary of Alicia Keys-Alicia Keys: WENT QUADRUPLE PLATINUM IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. Prime cleaning the house on Sunday music. Dragon Days is seriously underrated.

Garbage-Garbage: Don’t know how to say this without sounding insane but this album sounds like the color #DC007F and I like that color a lot

2-Mac Demarco: The CHOKEHOLD Mac Demarco had on us artschool bitches in 2016 OMG. Was gonna change my name to Viceroy

B TIER-

Money for Nothing- Dire Straits: Top tier dad music.

Lumine fever- The Adrenals: Got it cuz the cover looked cool. Was pleasantly surprised! They rock the adequate amount

Rocket to Russia- Ramones: They’re good but I don’t get the hype honestly. They’re the Flavor-Aid of Punk

Starfish- The Church: Only love one song on it, the only song anyone likes tbh. The rest are your standard 80s deal

Crooked Rain-Pavement: I really love Pavement but there is a thing as too much Pavement and I think I’ve reached it

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot-Wilco: Honestly should have been in A tier but all the pretentious music dudes I’ve met has soured this album for me so it goes in B outta spite. Jesus Etc my fave song tho

An Evening with Silk Sonic- Silk Sonic: Nice, short, gets me in a happy mood. Does what it needs to do!

Prolonging the Magic- Cake: John McCrea don’t really be singing, do he? He just fancy talkin

C TIER-

Gigantic, Fuel, and The Nixons: I got all 3 on sale and they all sound the same and that sound is…ok? Like it’s alright background music

Blind Melon-Blind Melon: What was with 90’s bands putting random kids as their album covers? Decent listen, though.

Summerteeth-Wilco: Good background music. I can’t remember any songs off it.

Los Angeles/Wild Gift-X: I like X but I hate that fucking album art omg it’s so hard to look at. I like their songs individually but as a cohesive album, eh.

D TIER-

Throwing Copper-Live: bought it on sale with the above 3 but liked this one substantially less. Only redeeming quality to me is the album art.

Ben Folds Five-Ben Folds Five: Misleading considering there’s only 3 of them. He sounds like my ex boyfriend from highschool before I realized I liked girls

F Tier-

The Ragetones/Fall Apart-The Ragetones: Saw them play at a shitting basement show. Everything sounds better when you can barely hear yourself think.

F Punk-Big Audio Dynamite: Found it at the thrift and rehomed it outta pity. Sounds like the 80s in a bad way.

#ok that all folks goodnight #that’s not even all my cds just the ones I felt like talking about #scram rantz

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sicklyseraphnsuch · 7 months ago

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I think the other thing to note about Jamil and Azul in general is their leadership styles.

Both are prone to micromanagement. We know Azul takes into account every detail in his lounge. And Jamil also must know everything that is going on at a given party at any moment.

But Azul can delegate. He's in fact fairly good at it. That's why his main payment to a contract is extra labor because he knows how to manage extra labor. Jamil has sooooooo much trouble letting other people help him. If something must be done, only he can do it. Extra labor is just extra trouble bc now more people can make mistakes.

This is also reflective of their childhoods. Kalim is a hopeless, helpless dear and only succeeds through sheer, willful luck that cannot be replicated by anyone else. He can help but you have to trust in his lack of a process. Jamil has like negative trust. He wants a goddamn process please!

Whereas, Jade and to an extent Floyd are pretty dependable. Moooooostly because they find Azul hilarious and decide helping him is more fun than not. And for the most part, they have capabilities. They can wait tables. They can shake people down for money. They can do things that can be replicated by other people. (Maybe not to the same level - but workable at least). Azul can trust them because they do have a stable contract of mutual benefits.

Also, I do believe Jamil prefers to coast. It's part of how he acts outside of Kalim who is basically his personal pressure cooker. If he can get away with things using only his natural talent and minimal effort, fucking go for it. One of the reasons he resents Kalim so much is that if Jamil had a choice, he wouldn't work a day in his life. He would travel around the world, free as a bird.

Azul would die if he isn't managing fifty projects at once. He likes work. He likes effort. Given the option between a vacation and a business conference, Azul already has a badge and three meetings with shareholders. Azul is the hustle culture.

Of course, Jamil will work given the necessity (again Kalim). Or if his own natural talents aren't enough, he's spiteful enough to put his back into something and really go for gold because silver is for quitters. But... He's gonna bitch about it the whole way.

#twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #jamil viper

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arctrooper69 · 6 months ago

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As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 14:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Canon violence

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

The trip back to your small shuttle seemed to take twice as long.

“... yeah the shuttle’s still there…”

The subtle echo of voices and gear drifted across the rocky terrain and you froze. For a moment it disappeared and you’d almost convinced yourself that once again this moon was playing tricks on you.

A haggard, hacking cough sounded from around the corner where piles of slag leaned and stacked over each other creating some sort of natural shelter beside the mouth of yet another cavernous mineshaft.

You dove behind a large boulder. Kriff. Cid had said the planet was uninhabited.

Is someone else after the jewels too?

Cid hadn't mentioned that either. You were going to have a serious talk with her when you got back.

If I even make it back in one piece. You rubbed your aching shoulder. From the way this mission was going, you weren't sure just how intact you'd be.

This place is a death trap. At least I have the jewels. Hard part’s over.

The roving light of a headlamp flickered against the rocks before blinking out.

“Karabast!” came a growling curse, “Those kriffing rocks better be worth as much as you say they are, woman!”

“Relax, Nakan.” a female voice snapped, sounding exasperated. “You’ll get your money.”

Two other voices squabled further away.

“Enj! Rico! Get your asses over here!” the female shouted. She sounded human, or at least humanoid.

Crawling slowly, you peered through the cracks of the boulder, to get a better look.

A human woman paced the ground and a large Nikto crouched a few feet from the edge of a mineshaft beneath the craggy overhang of shale. Nakan, the woman had called him.

The ones she’d called Enj and Rico were Weequay - male and female. The female spat on the ground. “We’re wasting our time out here, Boss. There’s nothing here.”

“There will be!” The human crossed her arms, “You just have to trust me!”

The male Weequay said something that you couldn’t quite hear and she nodded. The Nikto got to his feet and followed the others as they continued to search for a different mine.

The voices faded off into the distance, but you waited a little longer before coming out of hiding.

Dust floated through the air, forcing itself deep into your lungs and you choked. Eyes watering, you instinctively reached, pulling the fabric of your shirt to cover your mouth and nose.

Even the air is getting worse. It burnt your lungs. Almost there.

A brief flash of alarmed confusion was the only warning before you found yourself violently acquainted with the ground once again, head forced into the dirt and arms wrenched painfully behind your back, drawing a pained squeal as air was forced from your lungs.

“Hey, boss! Look what I found!” Scaled hands dragged you to your feet, maintaining the iron grip that trapped your arms painfully behind you.

“Get off, asshole!” You spit dirt from your mouth, throwing your shoulders forward to try and yank yourself free.

A sudden click and your jaw snapped shut. The hot dedlanite barrel of a blaster burned into the skin of your forehead. Muscles stiffened as the woman from before brought the blaster down your face, resting it just below your chin, forcing it up so that she could see your face.

“Just when I thought my luck had run out!” she chuckled, “You look like shit and you know what that tells me?”

You glared.

She continued anyway, “That tells me that you’ve been spelunking around here. You find any shiny rocks?”

Any fear left in your worn out mind hardened to a spiteful anger.

Get your own shiny rocks, bitch. These are mine.

Despite the dryness of the air or how your lips cracked and screamed for relief, you spat. “Kriff off!”

Pain exploded from your cheekbone, radiating down your neck as she whipped the blaster without warning.

She slowly wiped the spit from her cheek. “Fine. We’ll do this your way then.”

She turned to one of the Weequays. “Search her. Take what you want then get rid of her.”

The Nikto merely grunted as you kicked your foot back, struggling to gain some semblance of control as he pulled already screaming shoulders ever tighter, binding your hands behind your back.

Nausea flooded passages already inhabited with the adrenaline fueled struggle. It made you dizzy.

A hand jerked the pouch from your belt, renewing the fight to aching muscles. You threw back your head, connecting with the face of the Weequay who’d stolen the stones from your belt. He cursed, dropping the stones, hands flying instinctively to his broken nose.

You reached desperately for the bag of jewels, fingers just barely brushing the fabric.

If I can’t have them, then you definitely can’t.

Another tremor rattled the ground and you watched with numb satisfaction as the small bag tumbled from the ledge into the abyss below.

The woman slammed your head into the ground once more and your vision went white.

“Go in there and get those damn stones!” she snapped over her shoulder, “I’ll take care of her myself!”

The ground began to rumble. A larger quake this time. Stones and dust were violently tossed into the air.

“Shit, just go! Get out!”

Everything was silent then, so slow that it felt as if you were floating - propelled from the edge not by a boot, but by a gentle wind.

***

The Marauder lay so peaceful after that mission.

The memory came to you suddenly as if you’d slipped into a dream, mind desperately grasping to cushion a cruel reality as you tumbled down into the dark.

Omega and Wrecker were laughing because a stray piece of Mantell Mix had landed directly in Tech’s unruly curls and stayed there unmoving. Tech had moved on into the cockpit, yet still that sticky sweet stayed put. It was only when Hunter could no longer keep the grin from his lips nor the laughter from his eyes, that he’d noticed.

That’s the part that played like a holofilm over and over again. The subtly raised eyebrow at Omega’s joyfully hidden giggles. That spark of laughter in eyes that had been serious for too long. The muscles that rippled along his neck and jaw as he held back laughter that soon broke loose and the way he breathed so easily again - momentarily free from the weight of an ever changing galaxy. He was happy.

Oh, what you would do to give him that once more.

I’m sorry, Hunter.

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

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If you want to be on my taglist, feel free to send me a message! Also, asks are open! Reblogging is very much encouraged and it makes me do a happy dance every time any of my writing gets reblogged 😂❤️

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homunculus-argument · 1 year ago

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I found a collection of clipped images of vintage ads, and let me tell you these are hilarious with no context.

Dude on the left doesn't give a shit about what you think of him. "Whatever, I'm still going to drink my coffee with my breakfast ass-pastries." Dude on the right is offended. "Really? Right in front of my heroin?"

All your mental health troubles can be cured by having a talk with the drunk girl sitting on the floor of a dive bar bathroom. Like the modern oracle, she dispels wisdom.

Do not cut off your nose to spite your face! Let us do it for you! Experience the highest end quality of plastic surgery that the 1930s technology can offer! If the war didn't blow your nose off, we can make it look like it sure did!

Are you too refined, sophisticated and dapper? Would you rather have the rough and manly, beastly airs of the salt trade sailor you sucked off behind the town market three days ago while he called you his pretty little slut? Our doctors can help you.

This is also a good way to get not only your nose, but your entire face professionally fucked up.

Trust me bro this is a different strain. It won't happen again this time bro trust me I swear.

Dude if she gives you that look you better zip it back up before she figures out how to politely tell you how disappointed she is. She came here for the thrill of her life and that's not it.

Nevermind, she was too polite to break it to you.

Live footage of the last coherent thought escaping my brain when my meds wear off.

Have you lived your entire life woefully lacking of dandruff? Fear not, for relief is here! Finally, you can have the same alluring scalp snow as the heinous bitch your husband left you for.

FALSE! I literally never shut the fuck up.

The money-eating giraffe will fuck you. That is a promise.

Successfully fucked by the giraffe, evidently.

Another satisfied customer. He won't even mind that the beast ate all his money.

This poor guy just missed the giraffe. By a thread. He was out of town already when this poor man got the news. His entire year is ruined.

Do you crave the chaotic rush of a manic outburst, but do not have the inherent mechanisms of naturally mania-inducing mental illness? Try AMPHETAMINE! You will be full of ideas, and know for sure what you're going to be doing for the next three months! Disclaimer: The ideas you will have on amphetamine are not guaranteed to be good ideas. And you're probably spending the next three months in jail.

You know you're sick you dirty little bowlcut slut.

"Fuck. This. Shit."

This one came in-built with a weirder fucking caption than I could come up with. Nothing can top this. Not even the giraffe.

#long post

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 year ago

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AITA for not going to my brother's wedding?

I (35F) and my brother (29M) have always had a bit of a rocky relationship. Like, don't get me wrong, I love him, always have, always will. That said, we've been at each other's throats since he was capable of speech, and probably will be until one of us dies of spite.

My brother, let's call him Carter, has been in an on-and-off relationship with Taylor (29F) ever since they were in middle school. Personally, I hate Taylor, and I'm fine keeping it that way. She treats Carter like shit, she's cheated on him more times than I can count, she steals money from him, she is just an awful person to be around. Like, don't get me wrong, Carter's also an asshole, but can you really blame him considering what he has to deal with?

Now, a few months ago, they broke things off after Taylor stole his car to go and hook up with a guy in another state. He got the car back, told her to go fuck herself, and that was that. In the meantime, he ended up moving in with his best friend since high school (28M), let's call him Tim, and they have been no contact with Taylor ever since. About a month ago, I was talking to Carter, and he sheepishly told me that he had realized he was bisexual and was now dating Tim.

Honestly, I was ecstatic. Like, he and Taylor have been a thing for forever, and despite all of their breakups, I've never seen Carter actually date someone other than her. Also, Tim is someone that has a really good head on his shoulders. He can be a dick, but honestly, so can Carter, and he's really smart and down-to-earth. I was super accepting, of course, and I told Carter how happy I was for him, how glad I was to see him moving on and living his best life with someone that actually respects him.

Fast forward to last week. It's my day off, and I'm hanging out at my house, getting some chores done, when I get a call from Carter. I pick up and ask him how he's doing, and he tells me that he's doing good, but he wants me to come down to the courthouse. I ask him what for, and he tells me he's getting married! I'm kind of in shock, like--yeah, I'm glad he's with Tim, but isn't that a little fast?

That is, of course, when he drops the bomb on me: He's not marrying Tim. Taylor came crawling back yesterday and proposed to him. He's marrying Taylor.

I lose it a bit, I ask him if he's lost his mind, and we get into a shouting match over the phone. He tells me I'm being a bitch, I tell him it'll be a cold day in hell when I just stand there like a dumbass at his and Taylor's wedding. I don't go, they get married, that's that.

Yesterday, I went out to get lunch at my usual spot, and who do I see but Tim. I sit down with him and ask him how he's doing, ask him what's going on in his life, and so on. I tell him I feel so awful that things went sideways with Carter, and tell Tim that he's always a part of our family, even if Carter's lost his mind and dumped the best thing that's ever happened to him. Tim gives me a weird look, and asks what I'm talking about. I tell him that I heard about Carter and Taylor getting married, and that's when he drops the bomb on me that he's still in a relationship with Carter.

At first, I'm pissed at Carter for cheating on Tim, but Tim reassures me that he's into it--something I wouldn't have expected from him. I mean, I'm glad Carter still has Tim in his life I guess, but I still feel like he's being a dick to Tim. I don't tell Tim that, but I do tell him that I can't accept my brother marrying Taylor.

He tells me that he knows, but that Carter's been miserable since the wedding after I didn't show up. Tim tells me that Carter misses me, and that he's really been hoping I reach out. That's a surprise to me, because he's been saying he's not going to talk to me again until I apologize.

I really do care about my brother, but I can't pretend I support him marrying someone that's just going to keep being a toxic presence in his life. I don't care about how many people he's in a relationship with, or whether he's straight or bi or gay or whatever. I just want him to be safe and happy, and I know this relationship is really bad for him. Tim seems to think I should have just sucked it up and gone to his wedding anyways for the sake of my relationship with him. I'm starting to have doubts--I know I hurt him. But I also don't feel sorry. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole #the dj crazytimes saga

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makeyoumine69 · 5 months ago

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My Lovely Detective VI

— PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Detective!OC

— CO-WRITER: @iron-flavored-lipgloss

— CONTAINS: Dub-con smut, accidental voyeurism, fingering, choking, blow jobs, manhandling, degradation, dirty talk, pet names.

— WORDS: 2.4k

— A/N: Hello dear readers, here's a new chapter! We hope you enjoy it and please feel free to share your opinions with us! Big hugs

— LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

Loosing Myself

Nothing had ever stopped Patrick from getting exactly what he wanted; the little boy who had always owned every new shiny toy and whose pets had disappeared under mysterious circumstances had long since become a man who now bathed in the shallow pleasures of endless luxury, drugs, sex...

It was true that most women only slept with him for the power of money, a purely transactional affair, or in the hope of siphoning off his wealth and status. 'Although that's not to say that these sharp features and the size of my cock don't help in attracting these whores,' Bateman mused briefly, his hand running down his flat stomach and stroking his hardening length in self-indulgent fascination.

"No" doesn't exist in his world, because "yes" is usually just a matter of payment, and so he finds a certain satisfaction in taking what wasn't even part of the deal. Those materialistic sluts screaming underneath him, realizing that they made a miscalculation, that he will rip and rape their bodies, because nothing is worth anything to him anymore, and death is the real price of a night with him. No woman has ever come close enough (or lived long enough) to know the real Patrick Bateman. But Andrea, who he kidnapped and brutalized, and who was now begging him to fuck her...

'Is she losing it? Are there now two lunatics living on the 11th floor of the American Gardens building?'

"You're a stupid fucking bitch," Patrick groaned, confused and yet aroused by the desperation in her voice, her body writhing and shaking with what seemed to be a serious need for him. "I guess I already fucked your brain out, Detective," he muttered, emphasizing her profession with a certain mockery as his hand wandered between her legs. She was so wet that his fingers slid effortlessly into her this time and Patrick couldn't help but laugh in disbelief.

"You really are a dirty, filthy whore to me," he realized as Andrea took one finger after another inside her, more than ready for him, but now of all times he was dragging things out. All this in spite of the fact that Patrick was aching for her at this very moment, rubbing his erection against the silk sheets to take the edge off.

He was creating a special kind of torture for both of them with the way his thumb kept teasing her clit, his mouth instead attacking the sensitive area around her inner thighs, leaving bruising kisses on the plump flesh. Andrea's skin was so warm to his touch, a heat that radiated not only from her body but also from the look in her eyes as she met Patrick's gaze.

"Not satisfied with my fingers, huh? Then I need you to be more specific. I need you to tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you."

No, that was not her, it was simply not possible. Andrea, she always knew, wouldn't act like a fucking whore in heat, but... but what if that Andrea was already gone? Lost in the chaos of pain, filth and depravity?

"Ah," the woman gasped as Bateman pulled her hips toward his groin, the leaking head of his cock slipping teasingly between her pussy lips, now so swollen they literally blossomed with arousal. "I want...I want to feel you deep inside me...all of you-aahhh!"

The moment Patrick began to thrust his hips against her rear, all of her insides were already on fire, it was like a fucking torture to be stuck in the middle between being so empty and so full.

Whimpering, Andrea wanted to bite the blanket to stop herself from crying. Although her pathetic condition could be seen in the mirror on the other side of the bedroom. "Please, just, take me," the woman turned to face him, his prominent eyebrows knitted together as the man was so focused on the process before his hazel eyes; the sight of Andrea's moist, tight cunt enveloping his veiny dick with such eagerness. "Patrick, mmm-Patrick!"

Did she just moan his name? Did she? Or was that not her?

Trapped in her own internal conflict, the Detective fell limp on the sheets under the weight of Bateman's muscles, and that one move gave him the perfect opportunity to bury himself as deep as he could until his balls began to slap her curvy butt.

A low, almost animalistic grunt erupted from the man's chest as he thrust into her, then again and again. Each time was harder and more savage, Andrea had to push the fabric of the covers into her mouth, using it as a gag, her pussy struggling to take him all in, even though it was quite difficult.

"Mmhm," she murmured, almost screaming, while her hands raked around the bed, not knowing what to grab on to, but the next second Patrick fixated them in front of her face and lowered himself even closer to her, so that now his hot breath fanned around her neck, scorching her tender skin. "Big...so big, a-awww." Andrea convulsed several times as the man grabbed her hair with no mercy, forcing her to look up at him.

Those dark eyes, they were the eyes of the devil, nothing more, nothing less.

It had been days since Detective Donald Kimball had last heard from his assistant, and considering her last assignment had been the interrogation of Patrick Bateman, it was obvious what must have happened.

Now Kimball had to admit it to himself—letting her go alone had been a miscalculation. He had simply assumed that Bateman would be more rational.

Because even though the serial killer had taken the trouble to cover his tracks this time, Kimball knew where to look first.

He had been skulking around the American Garden building for days, fully expecting not to be greeted with a single sign of life from Miss Moore. He was ready to expose Bateman for what seemed to have cost his colleague his life - until he saw Andrea Moore through the window.

Very compromising, not well, but obviously alive.

For some reason, Bateman must have taken a liking to her, because why else hadn't he killed the woman who was sitting next to him like a ticking time bomb?

Was this man just waiting for his luck to run out? Was he longing for Kimball's punishment?

Which he could have given to Bateman.

He should have called for backup to storm the apartment immediately.

But after 20 years of service, he was motivated by more than honor and a handshake. The government paycheck didn't reflect his excellent work, Kimball had decided.

Just as Kimball was about to leave this place, tired of wasting his time just looking at the motionless female body on Bateman's big bed, an owner of that luxury apartment appeared in the detective's vision. Patrick, naked in all his glory, moved slowly toward Andrea, who was still lying on the bed, probably unconscious. And only then did Kimball understand what all this could mean—Bateman had finally found his perfect little doll, or rather, a helpless slave.

For a moment, the man put down his binoculars, wondering if he really wanted to know what was about to happen. With a sigh, Kimball let curiosity take over, and now he was back to watching the couple, who were completely unaware of a sudden onlooker. But even if Bateman knew, he would probably enjoy it. Why had Kimball thought of this? Maybe because of the big camera that was right in front of the king-size bed, the sheets of which were so white that it was painful to look at them.

As in the pornographic movies that were quite popular these days, Patrick positioned himself over the dark-haired woman and gripped her neck hard enough to bruise, Donald could swear he could hear her shaky gasping next to him. Was he going to kill her afterwards? At some point, the detective couldn't believe that his assistant had been here all this time. The train of thought distracted him for a moment, but when he returned to the lewd performance, the man almost dropped the binoculars from the way Andrea was sucking Bateman's huge cock as if her life depended on it. But maybe it was?

Too many questions and no answers. Too much depravity and literally no shame in their movements, it all looked like they had done it so many times before. Patrick's tight grip on the back of her head, urging her to go faster, to take him deeper, until she felt the scratch in her throat, until his cum dripped from her luscious lips and down her chin.

There was something about the way Bateman bent her neck so their lips could meet, oblivious to the taste of his own release, perhaps even turned on by it. About Andrea pressing her soft body so willingly against Bateman's defined abdomen. And if Bateman had ever harbored violent urges toward Miss Moore, now was clearly not the time to convince her; they both sank back onto the white sheets, his broad shoulders almost completely blocking the view of her smaller frame to the voyeuristic eye of Detective Donald Kimball.

Andrea's legs wrapped around Bateman's surprisingly slender waist, clinging to him as if he might disappear forever if she didn't. Their bodies turned, and if this was a fight, it had to be a very passionate one...

Bateman's hand all over her, on her face, her waist, her backside.

Kimball couldn't help but make an embarrassing noise, fortunately only audible to his own ears, and he gripped the binoculars tighter in response.

He would never have expected this from a woman who dressed so conservatively every day. What surprised him even more was how a man like Bateman could be so enraptured by a single tantalizing, if not a little trashy, tattoo.

Massaging the inked skin and kissing his way lower between her legs...

Kimball couldn't say he fully understood what was going on between them, at least psychologically, because the physical attraction was clear to him even from this distance. It was evident in the way Bateman buried his head deeper between her legs, grinding against the sheets, and Andrea's body convulsed and shook with undisguised pleasure.

And Kimball felt relief of a different kind wash over him - for now there was a way for his depraved mind to justify the next step: A private offer Mr. Bateman couldn't refuse.

How many days have passed? Andrea could never know, since she was imprisoned in a golden cage on the 11th floor of the American Gardens Building. The apathy seemed to reach its limits, and the woman even began to refuse to eat, shower, or even leave Bateman's bedroom, hiding under the covers like a frightened animal. Such an attitude only made Patrick more cruel and brutal, Andrea's skin was like a canvas for his marks, such as bruises, scratches or even bites, which he left each time they fucked, but he always took care of them meticulously, applying some balm and bandage.

Why couldn't he just let her die? Why did he keep dragging her out of bed day after day to give her a bath, as if she were his dear pet that he loved to take care of? Well, maybe she really was? The meals Patrick gave her were extremely nutritious and healthy, they were deliciously cooked, but Andrea could never really enjoy their taste. Colors seemed to leave her current life as well as her former self. She was like an empty, broken phial, and all of Bateman's attempts to fill it up were unsuccessful, to say the least; the fact that he was possessively pumping her with his seed didn't count. Though, it was a fucking miracle that the woman hadn't gotten pregnant yet.

'If I'm really stuck here forever, there's only one way out,' Andrea thought to herself as she watched Bateman cutting an apple for her in the kitchen, the knife so sharp that Patrick didn't even have to use any pressure to cut the fruit. 'I should try to kill him,' she jerked away as the man appeared in front of the kitchen island and offered her a slice of apple with a wicked glint in his hazel eyes.

"I'm not hungry," Andrea muttered, turning away and crossing her arms. The only thing she could think about now, besides the constant plotting of her possible escape, was the upcoming party Bateman was going to take her to. Even though she still couldn't believe that he was actually going to let her go out with him. It was so weird. "Am I really going with you? Or it's just another evil joke?"

There was an undisguised challenge in Andrea's voice that only fueled Bateman's interest in her. This woman was like an unruly element, a force he wanted to tame so badly, and he knew that one day he would eventually do it.

"No jokes, honey," Patrick sneered, leaning against the kitchen counter, the apple slice still in his hand. "But," the man suddenly straightened up and walked around the corner to get even closer to Andrea. "This is not an ordinary party, this is a special one."

"Special?"

Smirking haughtily, the man stopped right next to her, his one hand already finding a place on her shoulder, kneading it in a relaxing way, but it only made her more nervous. "Yes, it's hosted by one of my friends from Wall Street," his soft baritone echoed off the walls, creating a strangely hypnotic vibe. "I'm sure you'll like it."

With a devilish grin, Patrick quickly popped the apple slice into his mouth before drawing close to Andrea's face and in the next second, their lips collided in a sweet but possessive kiss. The fruit was so tasty and soft that its juice spilled out and ran down the woman's chin and neck. Holding her in place with his strong arm, Bateman pulled away only to catch the small drops of sugary fluid running down her soft skin, causing Andrea to shiver, but she managed to stifle a moan.

"Does your friend know what you've done?" She asked quietly, her head tilted to the side, and even though his touch was pleasurable, there was no way she was going to show it to him.

"And what have I done?" He replied, locking his tantalizing gaze with hers. "I just claimed what was mine, don't you think?"

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and my amazing co-writer @iron-flavored-lipgloss and turn on notifications to know when we update!

#american psycho #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines #patrick bateman x oc #patrick bateman x fem!oc #slasher x oc #patrick bateman fanfiction #patrick bateman x reader

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springsylph · 6 months ago

Text

WITCHING HOUR, CH 3/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: high time for a baptism

tags: a whole lotta words, reader is so totally sexually repressed, angst if you squint really really hard, 18+ CONTENT, masturbation, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap before you tap)

word count: 9k (jesus, wren. what the hell.)

a/n: SURPRISE! (sorry this took two months?? hot damn??)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

The walls are blockades of tar when you wake.

Tangled in the liminal spider web of consciousness, your eyes crack open in hesitant increments. Movement isn’t an option—not yet. So you bide your time. Lethargic. Still tangled.

But distant bird chatter punctures your eardrums, and you’re jostled back into an awareness of the minutes sliding through your fingers with all the lenience of serrated glass. It’s with unfocused eyes and bleeding hands that you take in the reality of the dark, saturating the floorboards with promises of deep pinks and purples.

Dawn. You’d slept to the edge of dawn.

Your first voluntary gulp coats your lungs in sticky air, snags on the cotton lodged in your throat, and you fold over with a violent cough and a twinge of pain in your sides. One of Mrs. Campbell’s complaints about chairs screams when you go to uncurl your spine, and the left side of your neck is strained from where you’d been slumped sideways.

Familiar shapes and smells return to their rightful places only after the initial shock of your aches subside. And perhaps it was the framed pictures—faces unrelated yet well-learned, softened into ambiguity by youth and dust and a lack of light. Or exhaustion, more realistically. Either way, one of the two has you slouching down in your seat, blanketing your eyelids with the back of your hand despite the swampy darkness.

You find that it’s easier to focus on the little chirps this way. Easier to visualize the fattened droplets of morning dew rolling from the fogged windows to the porch, and eventually to the ground below. The acrid smell of dried sweat and rainwater is draped over your imagined backdrop as a thin screen—apparent, but not enough to disturb. Something close to serenity, you think, even with the fireplace burnt down to nothingness and still tickling your nostrils.

But when a memory suddenly flashes white-hot, you slam your hand back into the arm of your chair with an agonizing groan, the shooting pain that rattles up your forearm just barely managing to surpass the burgeoning mortification.

Stupid.

This is beyond stupid.

You’re many things. Many, many things, if you take the (societally imposed) negatives into account. You’re also perfectly capable of becoming many things. But a bitch in heat, to your knowledge, is not one of them.

Only, you’d spent the vacant space following Arthur Morgan’s departure waiting for that pang of true regret, for that honed blade of self-preservation to unsheathe itself and sever the grip of what had nearly drowned you. You’d slipped your shirt back over your shoulders and paced. And paced, and paced. Paced till you’d carved a new trench into your dirty rug and dropped, regrettably, into the very chair you awoke in.

Your gut squeezes, and you know that the grip still has yet to unwind. It makes you sick. Feverish. Confused. Like you’ve pulled a scorching pot from a frigid stove.

Discomfort spreads when you sit up to refasten the buttons of your shirt, fabric now stiff with rain and resisting the pull of your fingers, and your mind, lost to the beginnings of repetition, wanders further.

You were no prude, if only out of spite. The top button closes, and you’re brought back to your first spark of rebellion—some fresh-faced businessman looking to pawn his talents off on your father. Bright hair, stiff collar, fingernails clean but hands grubby. Not much “talent” about him, either.

Hardship was unmistakably foreign to him, old family money softening him like rotting fruit. He’d likely continue to be softened into a pulp, considering the funds your father had shelled out to keep his mouth shut after you’d stumbled your way into fucking him.

(The statement would only fall flat once his buggy had mysteriously turned over into a ditch, just outside of Saint Denis.

You never did find out what he’d planned to do with the money.)

Desperation found a way to manifest in other ways; you suppose it had worked out somewhat in your favor. You’d been granted deliverance from society. Your father.

Right into the arms of your stranger.

Your fingers are pinching air when the very thought of him surges through you. Suddenly aware of a tingly tightness in your throat, you hastily pop the first button back open before settling your hands back into your lap. The buzzing fades, and you can breathe again.

You let out a stuttering puff of air.

…Limits.

You’re aware of them. How short of a leash to hold yourself on. But you think, just before the sun is privy to your misdeeds, you can offer a little give. A simple test, just to see if the burning you feel might burn you back for once.

(You slip. Just enough.)

You’re almost surprised at the harsh sound of your hand sliding to the button of your trousers. But the metal of it isn’t hot. Not cold, either. Nothing to provoke or dissuade, it just is. And suddenly, remorse is far, far away.

It’s even further when you test the pressure of your fingers on the clothed warmth spreading over your cunt. Farther still, once the unpracticed pressure morphs into a steady roll.

Instinct rears its ugly head, and you relish in the fact that you’d only had words before—on pages, floating through hallways, locked behind a vault. Relegated to dreams, raging fires, cavernous hallways.

Now you have more. More. More. Fresh memories become markers in your search for that spark, that jolt of life you’d only seen hints of in passing.

A strangled gasp punches out of you when the pad of a finger catches on that bundle of nerves, and the inky black walls fall to pieces. But you’re still lost in the rhythm of hands, and hips, and dirt, mind glazing over at the thought of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

More than a little flustered, but still curious, you begin to paint. The colors smush together the moment they hit the canvas: blue eyes, weathered hands, weathered soul. Pink tongue darting out to catch sweat, blood, life. From a thigh. A cheek. The inside of an elbow.

Alive. Yes, that’s what radiates when you finally work up the nerve to slip shaky fingers between fabric, searching for the dewy apex of your thighs. Alive in the friction from your clothes, the isolation of your whimpers and whines, Arthur running phantom fingers along your neck.

You’re delirious enough for that rasp to work its way into your ear again. Arthur is saying something, mumbling some unidentifiable remark into the thick silence made thicker by the obscene squelch of your pumping fingers, but still maintaining that tense distance, and it dawns on you that he isn’t quite real yet.

Heat begins to kick up debris underneath your navel. Bastard. Riling you up, leaving, just when you begin to know; even in your most debauched fantasies he does nothing but watch. Perspiration fixes your back to the chair, and you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. Crush your eyelids shut. Inhale and crook your fingers almost enough, but not quite.

You miss that spongy spot inside of you by what feels like a mile, and you feel it like a bullet to the chest. Fingers frantic, scraping at whatever buzz you can salvage, you press into creaking wood for leverage. Little twitches and gasps and it’s still not enough, but if you could just see him, feel him—

—and before you can stretch your work over the mold you’ve conjured up, natural warmth cascades over your cheeks. The train of your high whooshes past. You’re splitting your eyes open, ripping your hand from between your thighs, surging out of your chair and towards the lifeless fireplace before that damning sensation can slam into the base of your spine. Undecided weight and legs close to crumpling are only leveled out by the shame burning in the back of your throat.

Damn it.

The walls are back up, color crowding the suddenly cramped room. You force yourself to will the ache away, still your swimming vision, make space with steadying breaths. Try to, at least. The unresolved tremble in your thighs is still there, wetness still coating your fingers. You settle for wiping it on the side of your pants only after a stone settles in your chest.

There’s nothing to lean up against; it’s just you and the sparse furniture. But it’s cramped. Why is it still cramped?

(Something needs to move.)

Sun flush against your back, you blindly reach out behind you to pull the chair in the general direction of the table. By the angry clack, you’ve slid it a touch too far. Which was fine. It was perfectly fine, so long as it was out of the way.

(Something needs to move.)

—

You’re a little lost after that.

Muscle memory preserves you long enough to notice that Mrs. Campbell is looking at you with an abnormal amount of pity.

You pretend not to notice, crouched over the tiny green tendrils poking free of the earth, the beginnings of oats planted only a week ago fluttering under the gentle passing of your finger pads.

Mrs. Campbell’s voice whistles in from over your shoulder. “Growin’ mighty quick,” she says. Watchful over how far your fingers prod the fresh sprouts. There isn’t much experience for you to draw on, so you nod, and your knees give a muted pop when you push yourself to stand and try for a small smile.

It’s a little harder to pretend now that you're somewhat close to eye level. The unease you feel knotting just underneath your clavicle only comes to a stop when Mrs. Campbell’s face finally relaxes, and your ears catch the wet plod of work boots emerging from your left.

“Should be caught up on our planting real soon, mm?” Mr. Campbell loops an arm around his wife, Mrs. Campbell acknowledges her husband, and you’re fully convinced that the smug tilt of his mouth is an early morning test.

His tell is picked up almost immediately. She pulls back, takes his face in her hands: “You been sticking your hands in the sap again.”

“Francis.”

“Howard. Again?”

“The bucket was gooped up from the rain anyhow—”

His protests are smothered by hands wiping harshly at the corners of his lips, and you can only watch as the two of them chirp back and forth. It takes a while for Mrs. Campbell to feel that her grievances have been heard, and she steps back from him with a huff.

“Ought to ask that helper to start tailin’ you early. You make my head hurt, you know that?”

The confusion must show on your face, because Mrs. Campbell is retracing steps in her head before realizing she’s made a mistake. She says nothing, only regards you with that renewed sense of pity before removing her glasses to wipe them on a handkerchief she’s tucked into her apron.

“Got news,” she murmurs to no one in particular, and your head is spinning just enough to justify your slow descent to the ground. Legs crossed, you wait for her to find her footing.

Mr. Campbell looks almost pained, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and looking at you with that same chest-scraping pity. Pity, pity, pity. You find you’re quite sick of pity. But it seems he has enough of it to scrounge up what’s left of your death sentence.

“Your Pa rang in a couple nights ago.” Your Pa. “Says you’ve ‘repented enough.’ Tried to talk that coward out of it, but—” and he cuts off, that anger you’ve only seen a few times punching the rest of his words down.

Hit after insurmountable hit, you’re left to sink into the dirt until your grave is marked out plain as day. They look to you now. And you’re looking up at them. You’re not sure who says what. If it’s you, or the wind, or maybe one of the cows is stuck in the fence again. Maybe the barkeep has run out of tales to spin.

What now?

“We make do.”

—

The moon hangs precariously in the sky, swathing the quiet river in a soft, pale muslin. Swelling water is pushed apart—disturbed not by the breeze, or the pull of the current, but by something innately warm, foreign.

A delicate shimmer of damp skin peeks out from between the throng of maple trees. Night bathing is never ideal, never really a feasible option, but they shield your modesty as best as they can. Water slithers just under your collarbone as you wade silently, only stopping every so often to pluck a stray leaf from an arm, and the current carries away the fans of green with little protest.

The tepid undulation of the river pushes against the slight prune of your fingers when you sway your arm just below the surface. It was the shock of the chill that you’d sought out tonight, sating that need for something a little stronger than a pinch. It helps that you have an excuse: the grime you’d washed away, surrounding your naked body like a halo before floating downriver.

That was hours ago. Two, if you’re being precise. You can’t feel the cold, not anymore, but the gooseflesh spreading up and down your forearms hang onto every word of the open air.

You pass another hand over a hardened knot in your shoulder, press into it with a little more force than necessary. And for once, regrettably, your body listens. Untangles it in a matter of seconds, leaving you with nothing to do but stand loose-limbed against the steady brush of the water.

Some animals had the teeth to gnaw off their legs when caught in a trap. And yet, they didn’t. Rarely did, anyhow. But here you are, wondering if some miracle might strike your jaw and grant you something sharp enough to cut free of the numbness. To toss the dead weight into some unspecified corner where it would fizzle, crumble, or crack.

(Going home isn’t an option. Not with your father still yanking the reins. You could leave. But…alone?

No. Never alone.

Not anymore.)

Your feet skim just barely above the bottom of the river, weightless. The lapping of the water against the riverbank cradles the shells of your ears.

There’s not much left to contemplate. Nothing you have a say in, really. So it’s no surprise that you’re tipping backward, water finally laying claim to your cheeks, your breasts, the space between your outstretched arms and your sides.

You think you’ve floated once before—some distant dream pulled from childhood. But you don’t startle when the river begins to seal over the tip of your nose as you sink. Eyes closed. Breath sucked down so hard you think it burns.

True silence.

Until the drum beats.

The water is punctured by heavy footfall and you’re swaying, rocking back and forth in what was once still water before your shoulders are seized and you’re hauled upwards.

A name you think might be yours is bouncing in and out of clogged ears while your lungs make space for new air. Hacking, you look up, met with a bleary mess of a man and the moon. He’s breathing hard, so hard you can feel the cigarette smoke rattling his chest; it doesn’t occur to you that you’ve met him before, even after his heaving only slows once your eyes have begun to refocus.

Gingerly pulling you into the crook of his elbow, he dips his other hand back into the water before bringing it up to wipe at your forehead and the base of your skull. One, two, three times. His work is quiet. Fingers prodding at what might be a bruise or mud—neither of you are entirely sure. Rather than asking, you twist your head away and watch listlessly as decaying foliage floats off into the night.

More dirt. You knew there was more.

“That ugly, huh?”

Although your surroundings have solidified, your turn back is a slow, labored thing. Arthur is looking up at an owl circling just overhead. But the arm anchored under your back is a hot iron, molding itself to the curve of your spine just so. It’d be hard for a figment of your imagination to do such a thing.

“You can let go.” You choke.

Arthur’s arm stiffens around you just in time to brace the two of you against a sudden gust of wind.

“...You got somewhere to be?” You shake your head. “Then you’re fine right here. Till I know you won’t go and drown yourself in another puddle.”

Drown yourself?

But you hadn’t—

You would never—

“I think you should let go. Now.” You push weakly at his chest, but he only gathers you and your limbs closer.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

You’re going to kill him.

It’s then that he fixes his gaze on something just beyond your shoulder and hooks an arm under your knee, swallows the whole of you into his chest and begins to trudge toward the riverbank.

“Arthur.” Even through the dampness of his shirt, you can smell him. “Arthur I mean it, let go—”

“Behave.”

You yelp when he pinches the skin underneath your thigh, shock and sudden recognition of your bareness sizzling in your tear ducts. It’s enough to get you to pound a fist into his chest and kick out your legs.

“Arthur Morgan, I am naked!”

He stops. Solid ground is there, right there, but you wait for him to speak.

His voice is a tight rasp, and you think you feel his thumb twitch underneath your shoulder. “Was trying to ignore that.”

“I know it. You know it. Now put me down.”

He complies almost immediately, sliding you out of his arms and turning around the moment your feet hit the riverbank. The loss of warmth sends a shiver in full force, and you stumble over to where your clothes sit neatly folded atop a rock.

You check over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking before wiping yourself down with a dry rag.

“How often are you pullin’ women trying to bathe out of rivers?” You call out. The water continues to pulse. Arthur is silent. “That many, really?”

The sound of his hand raking through wet hair gives you pause.

“Didn’t look much like bathing to me,” he says, voice laced with a cool sort of dismissal. He’s a little right. Just a little, but the idea of you thinking you could convince him of anything otherwise stings more than his accuracy.

The rag is suddenly sandpaper in your hands, and you set it down, reach to pull a too loose shirt over your head. But just as the collar settles, you spy a separate pile of things just a few paces from your own.

You pad over silently. In the grass sits the same revolver you’d seen Arthur carrying during his last appearance, alongside his hat and a small satchel. All relatively familiar things you’ve come into contact with since you’d first met him, save for one thing. A small leather-bound journal pokes out from within the bag, the cover curiously well-kept despite the obvious wear and tear of the pages.

No. You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. But you’re drying your hands on your shirt and picking it up anyway, leafing through the pages carefully. A journal. Arthur Morgan was keeping a journal.

A smile begins to build when you catch how easily Arthur’s disposition reveals itself in his penmanship. He’s well-practiced, that much is obvious. A selfish part of you wonders how different life might’ve been if he’d been educated as you were, been just as defiant toward the circles you’d fought so hard to keep yourself from.

The drawings are another world entirely; you keep your fingers at the edges of the pages just to avoid any chance of smudging them. Birds, trees, sunrises, sunsets, and people. So many people. They’re etched with so much care that each turning of paper finds you faced with a deeper shade of envy.

You can count on hand the number of people you’ve loved. Cared for. And yet, Arthur seemed to have enough in him to immortalize these people as best as he could, smudges and all.

“If you’re robbin’ me, I ain’t got much on my person.”

You jump, thumb through just a little quicker after casting a quick glance over your shoulder. His back is still turned. “Y-Yeah,” You reply. “Almost done, I mean. Not stealing.” Cool it. “Just uh…gimme a minute?”

The end of the journal comes sooner than expected, and you’re flipping back and forth between the used pages with renewed fervor. You tuck the one in your hands underneath your arm and squat down to stick your hand in the satchel, eyebrows knitting together when nothing even remotely resembling a book finds its way to your fingers.

You’re on your second pass through the book when the slight bend of an otherwise unused section catches your attention. You pull it.

Scraps of paper have been slipped into the very back of the journal, Arthur’s handwriting filling up every inch. The blurbs aren’t dated, but ascertaining the sequence of events is fairly straightforward.

Came across the strangest creature one evening. I say “creature” only because she looked more nymph than human. Was on my way out of some farmland after nabbing a couple things, but I felt like I had to stop. Caught her talking to the cattle out in the cold like they was kinfolk. Might’ve been laughing right along with her, if I wasn’t so flummoxed. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile that irked me this bad since Micah told me what he does with his dirty socks. I ain’t in the business of prying, so I left. Hope she gets that smile fixed real soon.

Stopped by to get more stuff. Watched her try and haggle out of a deal from some pushy hoax trying to sell papers. Pulled a knife on her and I nearly came out of hiding to snap his neck then and there, but she’d beat me to it. Flashed the same rifle she’s been trying to scare me off with, so polished it nearly blinded me, and told him something I don’t think I’ll repeat. She did good. Real good. But she looked spooked.

Don’t believe I’m fit to be an outlaw no more. Ran into her after I’d sniffed around a few more times on her property than I should have. Took care of some real nasty men. But she’s awful pretty up close. Pretty and angry. So much so that I’d fibbed and said I’d had a chicken I ain’t know what to do with after I turned up on her doorstep. I’m not good with women and I’m an awful liar, so I feel a little guilty that she believed me so easy. It helped that she seemed a little happier. She knows who I am, though. That’s no good.

Appears my intuition ain’t completely shot, after all. Even if my aim is. Nasty idiot I thought I’d gotten rid of caught me off guard near Valentine, told me his employer had a “deal” to help get the gang out of that whole Blackwater mess. I will say that the lady and her Pa look nothing alike, that’s for certain. Hard to believe they’re even related at all. He’s a real piece of work. Real slim too, like those snakes that used to nick my heels as a kid. Told me if I got rid of her he’d clear my name with the Cornwalls. Seemed like an unfair shake to me. I can see why she’d looked so hot in the face when she told me about him. Dutch and the others don’t know I’ve been sneaking off, so I’ll have to handle this alone.

Saw that lady again rushing past the saloon a few weeks after that. High noon, I reckon. Only remembered because of what color the sun was when it hit her eyelashes. Had her skirt hiked up all lopsided, so one end was dragging in the dirt while the other end was left unscathed. Uncle caught a flash of an ankle and said he’d like to take her out horse riding, and I told him I’d gut him like a fish if he tried anything untoward. I don’t think I want her to die. I just hope she don’t want that neither.

Ran into her again. Same night after an ugly tumble at the saloon. My head feels like a brick but I remember her a little too clearly. I don’t know how I ended up at her door again, but I think she might really be one of them fairies I’ve heard so much about. Even her yells sounded like beautiful music. I said some real dumb things. Dumbest I’ve been in a hot minute. Think the bashing and the rain did me in. But that spark in her eyes made me believe seeing her again might do her some good. Or do me some good. I don’t know. I’m to see her tomorrow, Dutch be damned.

And it’s a strange thing, seeing yourself reflected through the eyes of someone else. You flip the smallest scrap to find what you think is a scribbled mess. It’d obviously been done in a hurry, like he might’ve forgotten what he was drawing if he waited any longer. But the longer you look, the more the pieces begin to fit together.

The barrel of a rifle. Finger curled just under the trigger. Tense shoulders. Rickety porch. Billowing fabric at your sides and a smile so wicked your heartbeat quickens at the thought of being faced with it as anything other than a sketched memory.

It’s you.

It’s snatched from your hands the moment you’ve locked it into place. You spin, Arthur still drenched and engulfing your wrist with his hand before he’s pulling you up.

You don’t know what to say. Neither does he. So he holds you there, suspends the two of you in an easily escapable bind. The water trickles all the way down from his arm to your sleeve. Replaces the dampness that you’d rid yourself of only moments prior. But neither of you choose to move.

Until you speak first.

“You came back.”

You’re not sure which time you’re referring to. The first? The last? Perhaps all of them.

Arthur’s grip loosens. “You asked.”

“That was one time, if I remember correctly.”

It’s then that he lowers his arm, though his hand still circles your wrist. You think you know enough now to deduce that it’s more for him than for you. The thought warms your insides. But you can feel the silence coming, find that you’re a little sick of silence, and open your mouth to fill it. Arthur beats you to it.

“Just the one was…enough.”

He looks confused for a second. Then it’s washed away, leaving behind that calm certainty.

Good. This was going good.

—

You don’t know how the two of you end up back at your cabin. You don’t think you care, now that the silence is shut out. The two of you spend the next hour trading tales like schoolchildren after you’d changed into a proper nightgown. A botched heist here, a messy cow birth there, all as time slips farther and farther away.

Arthur is kind, you realize. Remember, actually.

All bark, a whole lot of bite, but kind. A little odd, freakishly crude, and a massive flirt to boot, but still kind. You won’t tell him though—not unless you want him to pop an eyeball out of his socket. For the time being you’re simply content with observing.

Arthur sits across from you in his chair (his chair), much like that first night, trying to parse through some knuckle-headed joke. You’ve migrated over to the kitchen—the pots and pans, you’ve decided, are in desperate need of organizing. You tell Arthur as much when you hastily slip the blankets off of your shoulders to stand. You don’t tell him about the embarrassment you’d felt, eying the hairs that covered his broad chest. Overheated from the fireplace, he’d said. So he’d popped a couple of extra buttons and gave his neck an exaggerated pat of a handkerchief.

The nerve.

But it was the seemingly innocuous flirting that had crumbled the last of your resistance; the cattle could pay you no compliments, and the catcalls thrown at the markets were a far cry from flattering. But this. This was exhilarating.

But Arthur’s gone strangely quiet when you reach up to hang a dingy pot onto a hook.

“…Arthur?” You hesitate. “You see somethin’?”

It’s then that you remember that odd habit of his. So you close the blinds to the small window over the sink, force a shaky breath, and return to your chair so that you’re facing him. He says it as soon as your bottom hits the seat.

“You.”

Oh.

It’s then that you notice just how quiet the inside of the cabin is, in comparison to what it’d been like outside. The sound of the howling wind is kept at bay with the help of the front door, leaving only the crackling of the fireplace and labored breathing from opposite ends of the room.

You cross your ankles. Then you uncross them, and cross them the other way.

Damn this gown.

The ignominy of your wandering eyes has produced nervous beads of sweat, and the fabric still on you anchors itself to your body with its help. Determined to give you away.

Arthur watches you fidget.

His face flashes with the same look you’d caught glimpses of when he’d first showed up on your porch. When he’d watched your lips as you spoke. Methodical. Analyzing. Eager. You thought you’d imagined it. Arthur must have been weighing something within himself, too. His words, eager to inspect yet all too happy to flee at the slightest hint of apprehension. The results of his investigation are presented to you with his bare hands.

“S’there someone I need to be frettin’ over if I touch you?”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

Then Arthur is standing. Christ, he’s standing, and he’s crossing the distance in three agonizingly slow strides—boots hitting the floor with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Till he looms right over you. He boxes you in; hands braced on the arms of your chair, hat tipped forward just so.

Maybe it wasn’t a mangy cat, or a crook, or a ghost that you’d allowed into your home.

This was a wolf.

The wolf curls his fingers under your chin and tips your face upwards, eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“Am I leaving?” The words scrape out of him. The thought of leaving pains him, but the words are a necessary evil.

You’re almost too afraid to speak—doing so means his thumb might stray from the path it’s begun to trace on your bottom lip, and you can’t possibly give that up. Instead, you consider Arthur carefully.

It’s a rather precarious situation you’ve found yourself in—lusting over the very thing that might bring you to ruin. You’d given up on misplaced hands in quiet corridors years ago, replaced them with hatred for the man who’d had the gall to call himself your father. The shame of letting your unruly desires steer you. There was doubt, too. Lingering at the far corners of your mind, wondering if maybe, just maybe, your affections might be dangerously misplaced. That you’d end up like the others.

Taking whatever it was he had to give would be the final nail in the coffin, and you knew it. You’d known from the moment you’d caught him (and him, you) that Arthur would be no good. No good for you, no good for him, no good for anyone.

But, that was then. This is now.

And how often was it that the light of a fire enveloped someone so earnestly, so wholeheartedly? You would be mad not to want him.

And oh, how you’d wanted.

But what to do, where to look?

You settle for his lips.

With a shuddering breath, you allow your mouth to fall open. His thumb goes stock-still, just before it presses past the rosy flesh and onto the top of your tongue. But just as quickly as it enters, it retreats. You chase after it with a humiliating whine, a trail of saliva marking the falter in your promise to stay away, away, away. Arthur smears the remainder of your shame on the corner of your mouth, his lips twitching up just enough to betray the beginnings of a smirk.

“I don’t play that,” he chides softly. “I need words, darlin’.”

Leave it to Arthur to make things difficult, the bastard.

You tilt your head till he’s catching your cheek in his palm. Let out a breathy whimper when he rubs his fingers at the sensitive base of your ear.

“S’not fair,” you whisper. It really isn’t, but it sounds pathetic after it bubbles up from your throat. But you can’t bring yourself to utter anything else. Arthur presses closer in place of an answer, eyes tracking every blink, every inhale, every eyelash that catches the puffs of air that leave him.

His eyes tell you that he’s hoping to pull your confessions from you like weeds—and it might feel good, perhaps. To let yourself put a name to the desire that curdled in your veins. Too big to be contained. But there was something delightfully emboldening about being “trapped” with Arthur.

He was stuck with you, just as much as you were stuck with him.

Breath intermingling, you ghost your mouth over the inside of his wrist. Teeth peek out just enough to graze him, and you keep your eyes locked with his when you go to bite weakly at the exposed skin. You mumble against the shiny spot left behind.

“I ain’t a beggin’ woman, Arthur Morgan. You know that.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles, slow and sure. “Do I, now?” He croons.

You nod, and you’re smiling dreamily right back at him.

You try your best to keep the thundering of your pulse contained when his mouth is a hair's breadth away from your own. But the steady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat is strong and stable, setting the tempo for your own to follow suit all too easily.

He speaks to you. “You feel like fixin’ that, doll?”

“Dunno. Can you fix it, Arthur?”

And like a thin branch caught underneath a heavy pelting of snow, the tension cracks—but it falls to the ground in complete silence. It’s gentle. Smothering. Freeing. All consuming. His lips are rough, and light, and a little dry, but he’s kissing you. You.

You realize a little belatedly that he’s wrapped his other arm around your middle, and he’s pulling you up from the chair to meet him. Maybe the whiskey on his lips that you’d offered earlier has gotten to you, because you stand up so quickly that the chair you’ve been sitting on crashes to the ground with an embarrassing thud. Ignoring the huff of laughter against your mouth, you snake your arms up from where they’ve gone limp at your sides to wrap them around Arthur’s neck.

The press of his body is warm—accommodating. A hand cradling the back of your head, the other a teasing warmth skimming the side of your ribcage. It’s…nice. Merciful, almost.

But you weren’t looking for mercy.

So, you do what you know best.

Piss him off.

With the precision of a skilled hunter, you nip his bottom lip with your teeth and bring him into you with the help of a hand between his shoulder blades. The reward for your efforts is a chain reaction: Arthur pitches forward, licking into your mouth with a groan. Hands clutch: hips, waist, neck, and back to your waist. You have to arch away to accommodate the sudden shift of weight, and he’s swaying the two of you backward till your hips collide with the rough edge of the kitchen countertop.

It’s forceful enough to knock the air out of you. At your exhale of surprise, the pressure against you lessens. Your pulse picks up when rough hands find your flank, offering what you believe to be an apologetic squeeze. But his hands don’t stop there: they iron past the fleshy mounds, friction intensifying the swelling heat before his hand cups you.

You break away with a gasp.

Apparently satisfied with his repentance, Arthur withdraws his hand and leaves you with a parting kiss before he noses downward to suck at the skin of your neck. The warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his beard invite an electric buzz underneath your skin.

“Been drivin’ me crazy, woman, Jesus.”

“Then quit bein’ nice,” you breathe. Your hands have grown impatient, they take the liberty of slipping between the two of you in search of the hardness straining against the confines of Arthur’s pants.

“I ain’t—ngh—nice,” Arthur clips. Score.

You swallow a moan when you feel him buck against your palm. “You lyin’ to me, Morgan?”

When your fingers go to find his belt loops, he bats them away and slams your hips back into the counter before leaving a quelling nip to your shoulder.

He’s got a hand in your hair now; it yanks your head back, and broadens the depth of Arthur’s tongue when he recaptures your lips in a scathing kiss. The parting of your thighs is almost instinctual, and you’re soon scrambling to grab at any article of clothing that might bring him closer once he slots himself between them.

Can he feel your arousal, you wonder? Painting the inside of your legs with a sloppy depiction of your poorly concealed lust, hoping that Arthur might notice, might see.

But Arthur is far from unaffected. With each mewl that escapes your lips, he rocks up into you. Swallowing your wretched noises whole and using them as fuel for the fire that would weld your bodies together. Each brush of his lips siphons the air from your lungs, though you don’t mind. It only stirs the warmth that’s begun to swirl in your abdomen. But through the heat and the haze, you can faintly register the wriggling of fingers at your hip and air hitting your bare thighs.

Spit slicks your lips when Arthur pulls away, and he peppers open-mouthed kisses down the center of your body; your neck, the dip of your collarbones, over the thin fabric of your nightgown—all while his other hand continues to ruck your hem up, and up, and up. There’s a new weight to your skull, too. It shades your tired eyes, dims your overexposed senses and forces you to focus on the mess he’s made of you.

The pads of his fingers skirt over where your nipples have pebbled underneath your chemise, but only just. It isn’t until Arthur’s fully sunken to his knees that you’re able to take in the sight of the top of his head.

The top of his head?

Wrenching your fingers from where you’re sure they’ve put indents into the wooden countertop, you tighten them into his hair and tug him away from where he’s made contact with your navel.

He’s pulled away with a dicey rumble reverberating from his chest. “What in the—”

“Arthur,” you say, still breathless, “Arthur w-wait. Your hat, where is it?”

Your knowledge of outlaws was limited, but you knew their hats weren’t to be trifled with. The very last thing you needed was to incite the wrath of the outlaw gods in the middle of…this.

And if you weren’t so blissed out, you might kick Arthur for the look he gives you: depraved and utterly devoid of remorse.

“Arthur, I’m being serio—ohh, f-fuck!”

He yanks your bloomers down in one fell swoop, pulling your hips flush against his mouth and dragging the flat of his tongue up through your slick folds with a groan. Arthur, idiot that he is, dares to laugh. Laugh in the face of the embarrassing slew of curses that follow after he just barely reaches your clit.

You’re being mapped, you realize with a shiver. Every twitch is cataloged, every gasp a lesson. If the building pressure in your gut is any indication, he’s a quick study. Firm hands rub soothingly at the backs of your thighs, though they’ve somehow managed to worsen the growing ache.

Each push of his muscle plucks at a string so deep, so tender, that your vision leaves you in bursts of white flashes. You pull the collar of your chemise up and into your mouth; the stars winking behind your closed eyelids aren’t enough to shield you from the utterly obscene noises coming from the both of you as he laps at your weeping cunt.

But a particularly electrifying flick of his tongue sends one of your hands flying to your hair, only to find that something rather hat-like sits atop it.

Ah. So that’s where it went.

You feel Arthur smile against you. “You alright up there?”

That devil.

Chest heaving, you risk a look down once you notice the absence of pressure against you.

(You’ve been doing a lot of risking, lately. But what was one more?)

If this was a test of resilience, you were failing miserably. You’re torn between wanting to hide and wanting to preen: Arthur’s stalled his ministrations, index finger now tracing lazily over the juncture where your thigh meets your sex. He’s eyeing you lecherously from his place on his haunches, hair mussed from violent fingers and jaw slick. You swallow. You’d done this to him.

But, he’d stopped. Why had he stopped?

Greed attempts to force Arthur’s hand with a buck of your hips, but you’re met with a palm pressing you back. It seems the warmth of the fireplace hasn’t yet reached this corner of the cabin. Arthur’s mouth has been what kept you warm, kept you sated, but he’s taken that away from you. You’ve been doing fine, and he’s taken it. Why?

“Arthur, what—”

The finger that’s been tracing you slides its way just above where your clit throbs. Works it underneath his finger in slow, slow circles. Your abdomen spasms, a guttural sob shooting out from your throat. The sensation makes your mind go fuzzy, and Arthur has to lean back to avoid the abrupt closing of your legs while you steady your breathing.

God, you really were going to kill this man.

Arthur, apparently, is none the wiser. Either that or he’s blatantly ignoring it—though you suspect it’s the latter. He’s knocking your legs back apart before you have a chance to shield yourself.

“Don’t go all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, voice cut with an edge of warning. He’s pressing a finger at your entrance. It’s just enough to frustrate you, just enough to entice the moisture that begins to build in your tear ducts. See what you could have, it taunts. He begins another slow circle with the pad of his finger, pride swamping his features at your sharp intake of breath. “I came to see a show.”

You don’t know how long you stare at him, watching as he molds you at his will. But it’s Arthur who detaches the hand that you’ve clapped over your mouth, guides it dutifully back to where it’d been tangled in his hair only moments before. The gentle stretch of his finger slipping inside of you only prompts a pleased sigh as your head lolls back.

He slathers your cunt with praises. “Gorgeous,” he says, nudging his nose alongside it, “this all for me, pretty girl?” The warmth returns with his admiration. Interlacing with each stuttering breath, climbing higher and higher till it’s crawling out of your throat. You welcome it enthusiastically. By the time he’s slipped in a second finger, you’ve long forgotten any shame felt beforehand in favor of the prickling pressure in your belly.

“M’gonna—gonna kill you, Morgan.”

“S’alright,” Arthur drawls. “Keep talkin’, baby.” He keeps his opposite hand poised at your wrist, ready to strike should you choose to stifle any of the sounds he’s worked so hard to coax from you.

Too tired, you wanted to tell him. You were barely keeping yourself standing as it was. But the sounds being pulled from you are gentle, yearning. Easy.

This was easy, you think. Safe. Within your control. You’d bitten off more than you had room to chew, goading Arthur on like you had. But his fingers, ever so forgiving, weigh your eyes shut with every delicate pass over your walls. You could ride the high of this warm haze forever.

Pity that “forever” hinges on Arthur’s terms.

A chaste kiss to your inner thigh is the only warning you have before Arthur is surging forward, crooking his fingers and sealing his lips around your clit.

Your legs are the first to go, knees buckling and calves straining from exertion. Unfortunately, the only things capable of keeping you upright are the fingers and the tongue that got you into this mess.

Arthur wastes no time reveling in a slow pace—and why would he? Why the hell would he, when he could keep you dancing on this rocky cliff for as long as he damn pleased. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh again, fingers still plucking at that warm bundle of strings that made you weep. “Atta girl,” he rumbles, “Y’look real pretty like this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, fuck, yes!” You curl over him with a wanton moan, taking his head in your hands and pushing him as close as he can go. You’re only half listening, throbbing with the threat of your impending release.

“You gonna give me what I deserve, sweetheart?” He’s back to lavishing your cunt with devilish flicks. You meet him there, in time; aimlessly grinding your hips down and using his soft strands for leverage. Studious monster that he is, each pass of his thick fingers gives new life to your limbs, now roused into feverish jerks and quivers. “You don’t get to hide from me, you hear? Too pretty for all that crap.”

Arthur’s still waiting for you to respond. But the praises you sing have been wrung completely dry, leaving only high-pitched squeals and chants to ricochet off the cabin’s walls.

You think you imagine the hand he’s got shoved down his pants, working over his length in short tugs before your eyes flutter shut, and you’re twitching at the bites Arthur leaves on your legs in return—rough, possessive, claiming.

You can feel it. It’s there, it’s right there. It burns. It scrapes at your very being, keeping you drawn taut against the pump of Arthur’s fingers, soaked and hell-bent on pulling it out of you.

“C’mon, give it to me.” He’s commanding you now, voice desperate. He must feel it too. “Lemme see what I came here for.” You sob, and his name leaves you in bits and pieces. Whether you nod or shake your head is a mystery, but you do know that you wrest your eyes open. Brush aside the hair blocking Arthur’s face with trembling fingers, and through the hot tears you find pools of blue. Waiting.

You slip. You fall. And it’s his.

Your orgasm is ripped from you in a scream and a violent storm. Tremors shaking your body, stomach tightening, stars exploding—it’s everything but calm, and too loud. But Arthur’s fingers are there to guide you through it all, ensuring that every last inch of your body he covets is handed over in full. You’ll have to thank him, later.

He’s pulling you down into his lap once you’re nothing more than a puddle of warm flesh, still pulsating. Your temples are warm where his lips greet them. Eyes blown wide, throat raw, Arthur sweeps an appraising gaze over your crumpled shoulders and moves the hat from your head to his.

“That’s one,” he says.

…Were there more?

Your voice finds the two of you slumped chest to chest. You look up at him to poke a finger to his cheek, and wince at the feeling of how hoarse your throat is.

“You—you pull a stunt like that again, and I’m kicking your sorry ass out.” Arthur quirks a brow. Another bluff, and you both knew it. You let him litter your forehead with kisses while you wait for your mind to reinhabit your body.

But in the interim, your hand snakes its way down his burly chest. Slip it between the waistband of his pants before you’re pulling his cock out as he hisses.

“Don’t need to,” he says, only you do need to. Want to. Have to. And you think you tell him so because he’s nodding. Turning you to face him, guiding your legs apart and sliding himself up against your wet heat. He begins to rock with you, tipping your head up to mouth at your chin. Hums, a wretched thing you’ve decided is yours and yours alone.

“You got any idea—” Arthur begins, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “you got any idea what you do to me? Hm, pretty girl?” He grunts when the tip of his cock bumps up against your clit and you arch away. But he’s quick to reign you back in with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Arthur, c’mon. P-please. I wanna—”

He’s vibrating a no into your neck, tongue rolling out to lick a stripe upwards till he’s got your earlobe between his teeth.

“You can wait. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Say what.” You moan into the open air when he bites at the underside of your jaw, hard, and you have to fight a smile when you realize it’ll likely be there tomorrow.

A light gasp leaves you when you feel his hand reaching between the two of you to position his length at your slick entrance. Almost, almost—

“Arthur, say what.”

What little control he has left is contained in the fingers he’s using to hold himself steady. His hips begin that slow roll. “I need you to tell me what you were thinkin’ about this morning.”

This morning? What did he—

This morning.

Hand caught between your cunt and the chair, fingers working through a steady gush of arousal. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

He only catches you off guard because you’re distracted.

You’re split slowly. Greedily sucking him in while your forehead taps against his so you can try and sharpen your focus.

“Easy, baby. Easy. I got you.”

You whimper. He was there. He was there, watching, just like he was watching you now.

But you couldn’t care less.

There’s no hiding that fullness you feel, the fullness that is. The two of you go quiet as he sinks further and further in. Warmth is flooding your body, circulating between your joined bodies as an inescapable circle of fire and need, and you can’t help but feel that this was how things were supposed to be from the beginning.

Arthur doesn’t have to remind you not to stifle any noises. Not when he’s unsheathing himself for barely a second before he’s got his hands on your hips to guide you up and down his length. You clench and Arthur’s hips give a stutter.

He slides his hands up the back of your sweaty chemise and he eases you to the floor. Slides the fabric off of you, looms over you like an unwavering mountain. “Jesus, you’re perfect. Too good, you fuckin’ hear me? Christ.” Arthur’s control is wavering, you can feel it. So you take his face between your hands and kiss him hard enough to get him to move faster, damn it.

It’s a gradual start. But his rhythm begins to pick up just as that brightness begins to hurtle around your gut again. His mouth is tasting everything it can reach: the salty sweat beginning to collect on your brow, the poke of your nipples, each time finding himself eagerly gulping down the noises spilling from your mouth.

And too suddenly, his cock brushes up against that spiral of light and you arch with a cry. Arch so hard that you think you can see your climax right before it’s pulling at your abdomen with such heated vehemence that the tears spilling down your cheeks only make the sparks brighter.

Arthur isn’t far behind, and you sigh at the feeling of him sliding out of you before he takes himself in his hand while you’re still a jolting pile of bones on the floor. It takes one, two, three strokes in quick succession before he’s coming in thick spurts over your belly with a grunt.

He curls over you then, pulling you into his arms and pressing kisses back at your temple, atta girl, you did so well.

Your heartbeats are pressed together and you realize that he’s still clothed.

But—you’re giddy. That felt good. Feels good. You didn’t think you got to feel good anymore.

So you look at Arthur, really look at him this time. The rise and fall of his chest. The hair curled at the nape of his neck. The blacks of his pupils, still blown wide and dark as the night. You close your eyes, and he’s hung the moon.

When you open them, you’re in your bed. Tiny, creaky, but a welcome opposition to the floor. There’s light spilling in from a crack in the door, and the wind howls just outside. Arthur has already wiped you clean, tucked you under the blankets (just a little too tightly). He sits in the corner with an ankle crossed over his knee and arms folded. He smiles.

And you have a thought. An idea. A terrible one, actually. So acute you can feel it cutting your tongue.

“Take me with you?”

#witching hour #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you

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