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gh0stly-pages · 27 days ago

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Out of Our Minds (Part 1)

Ledger! Joker x f!reader (18+)

CW: just swearing for now :)

Summary: You’re a psychiatrist at Arkham, and have now been assigned to the most recent of Batman’s enemies, the Joker. You’re already barely getting by, but this new patient poses a challenge. If you can get him to show progress he’s getting better, then you might get a raise. If he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere, then you’ve lost your job. You’re prepared to work extra hard to help him but the Joker is nothing like what you’ve expected. Everyone warns you how he’ll get inside your mind, crawl under your skin.

They might be right.

Next part

Notes: I’m not sure if there’s an audience for this, this is lowkey kinda just guilty pleasure for me, but I hope some other people will enjoy this series :) I’ve always wanted to see a Harley Quinn in the Dark Knight universe, so in this fic, you are Harley (well, similar to her, lol). Obviously there’s no cannon Harley-type character in the Dark Knight trilogy so this is all made up, and I’ve taken bits and pieces from different DC Harley’s, plus their relationship with Joker, so look out for that :) So, just have fun with it, hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time seems to move slower at Arkham.

You adjust your coat, having barely swiped in just minutes ago but already it feels like hours and you’ve only just gone to the main office space and grabbed a cup of coffee. The coffee tastes disgusting, but you’re running off little sleep, so you down it quickly. Even from the office, you can hear the screams, cries, and rambles of the Arkham patients in the distance. You’ve been working here for two years already and still haven’t grown used to the constant roar of madness. You’re not upset over it though. You’re here to help these people, to help make sure the people in your city of Gotham are well. So, in a way, you welcome the noise. But that doesn’t mean you're fond of it, nor does it mean it lets you sleep.

Most people you talk to (which is very few, considering you’re always working) tend to judge you for choosing Arkham of all places to work. And, you’re honest with them, it certainly wasn’t your first option, but they pay well enough so that you can rent a decent apartment and you’ve quickly grown to enjoy the challenge it poses. It’s the higher-ups and the fear of being fired at any minute that makes the job truly a chore at times. But people will be assholes, and you’ve come to accept that.

When you’re done with your coffee, you toss the cup in the trash, grabbing a folder from out of your bag. It holds all your notes and the files of all the patients you deal with. You’ve got quite a few patients to meet with today, each with their own unique problems, their own unique story. You look over your notes, leaning against a wall when one of your bosses enters the room.

“Hello, y/n,” says Robert Dale, hanging up his coat on a rack to the side of the room. He’s a squat little old man who helps manage the asylum, keeping track of all the psychiatrists. He certainly isn’t the kindest of bosses, and you’re sure he only keeps you around because you’ve learned to just go with whatever the hell he and the other big Arkham bosses say. Sure, you can be easily submissive, but it’s that or the streets. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

You frown. That can’t be good. Everytime Dale talks to you, it’s either to demand, critique, or complain. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Dale,” you mumble.

He takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’ve been watching the news, I presume?”

You nod. Who hasn’t? You live in Gotham, for crying out loud, and there’s almost too much crime to keep track of as of recent. Especially ever since that Batman showed up, some kind of masked hero who you never got the hype over. “Of course.”

“You see all that stuff about…the Joker?”

The Joker. The Clown Prince of Gotham. Chaos incarnated. A rowdy clown criminal facing up against Batman. He had just been caught by the Bat a week ago, and the news had been all over the case, wanting to know where he was sent next. Where he was being held. If he would ever come back… “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“See, he’s been being held up in Blackgate, but he is now officially joining our little…family.” He said the word darkly, snorting. Your breath hitched in your throat. The Joker? “Anyways, he is a bit of a, and I'm sure you know this, tough nut to crack. He arrived here yesterday, in a solitary, high security cell and we’ve been looking for a proper person to… attend to him. We sent in a few of our other psychiatrists as a sort of test, seeing who he fits well with.”

“Right,” you bring yourself to say, even though your whole mouth feels like it’s filled with sand. The Joker. Here. At Arkham. “And?”

He sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “Every single one of them left that room different. Some were crying, others looked shell shocked. Batman told us Joker was going to be hard to deal with, but we weren’t quite expecting something of this level. He bends the mind, tries to break you. Twists the way you think until you don’t even know who you are. Gets under your skin. So, let's just say, we’re looking for someone strong enough to take on our special little patient.”

You know where this is going, and even when Dale says the words, your mouth still drops. “I’m assigning you to the Joker, Miss l/n. You’ve always been up for a good challenge, and are very good at listening to our orders.”

Right. So I don’t get fired and end up homeless or working for some crooks. “Mr. Dale, I have other patients I need to attend to today and I have no room to fit in-”

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “I have already swapped your ten o'clock appointment so you can meet with the Joker. This is very important, Miss l/n, and you wouldn’t want to fail us, would you?”

As easy as you find it to work with your patients, the higher-ups are much harder for you to manage. “No…”

“Then it’s settled, you’ll be meeting with Joker at ten today, every other day, or more if necessary. You’ll file reports after every session on how your patient is doing, and if we see any progress, well, we may just have to raise your salary.”

Now that catches your attention. You didn’t even know a raise was possible. Especially not for you. You’ve been working so hard your whole life for what feels like nothing but now? Now, maybe all that work will finally pay off. “Mr. Dale, thank you. Thank you so much-“

“Don’t get too excited. If our patient doesn’t show any progress, well… we might have to let you go.”

At that, your entire face falls, your shoulders slumping. “What…?”

“Well, we’ve been needing to make a few cuts on psychiatrists and anyone might be subject to getting kicked.” He smiles and pats your shoulder. “But don’t worry, I have full faith in you.”

His words do nothing to soothe you as your heart pounds heavily in your chest. The toughest patient, all your responsibility, and you have to make him better under a certain amount of time or else? Shit. They were practically setting you up for failure. No. No, you can’t think that way. You’ve dealt with tons of patients, and every single time you’ve managed to get good results. This will be the same thing… “It- it’s a wonderful opportunity, thank you. I won’t let you down.”

He laughs and walks off. “I sure hope not.”

___________________________

“I’m here to see the patient.”

The guard looks up at you through his sunglasses and smirks. He uses the gun in his hands to point at you, and you step back. “Ah, so you’re the one they decided on to fix up this lunatic?”

“We don’t refer to them as lunatics, sir. And, yes, I’m Doctor y/n l/n.” Digging into the bag on your shoulder, you pull out your ID and hand it to the guard.

He glances at it once, bored, before grabbing his walkie talkie. “It’s Doctor y/n l/n you’re expecting, correct?”

The garbled voice on the other side responds back. “Correct.”

The guard looks back up at you. “Gimme your bag, please.”

You’re a bit startled, but give him your bag. Already, before even getting to this checkpoint, you’ve been through two whole security checks, and were definitely not expecting another. This Joker guy really is trouble. That just makes you panic even more. Trouble is hard to tame. The guard rummages through the bag a bit before nodding and handing it back, clicking on his walkie talkie again. “Doctor is clear for entry.”

A click noise sounds, and the door opens, leading to yet another room with another door with two more guards standing beside it. You jump as the door behind you clamps shut, and the two guards hardly flinch. The one to the left moves forward, holding something out in his hand. “This is your panic remote. See the green button right there? Press that when you’re done with your session or you need to get out. Got it?”

You grab the remote, looking at it closer. “What about the red button?”

“That’ll set off a gas that’ll knock the Joker out cold.”

Oh. That doesn’t sound good. You’ve dealt with some pretty nasty people but nothing ever this intense, nothing that needed this level of precaution. “Okay… Wait, won’t the gas get to me too?”

The guard shrugs. “Eh, yeah, but you’ll be fine. The doctors will fix you right up.”

You tuck the remote away in your coat pocket. “Right. Thanks…”

The other guard who hasn’t spoken a word until now enters some kind of code into the pad on the door and it swings open. “Good luck, sweetheart.”

The nickname makes you cringe but you step forward and bow your head. “Mhm.”

As soon as you step inside, the door slams closed, and you’re left to face the man everyone has been whispering about.

And there he is, sitting behind a table, looking up at you. The first thing that strikes you is his face, which lacks any makeup, and you don’t know if it shocks you because you’ve only ever seen him with his makeup on or because he appears human. Not quite the monster he’s made up to be. His skin is slightly tanned, his eyes brown and dull, his hair curled and askew down to his neck. Although he doesn’t have his makeup, there’s faded green hair dye still at the tips of his hair. His signature purple coat and suit has been swapped for a straitjacket. You try to look only into his eyes, but instead you flush and look at his mouth. His mouth, gosh. Without the smeared red makeup, you can see his scars so clear, the mangled flesh titled up into a smile on either side of his lips. Whatever caused those was nasty. Always smiling.

Bringing yourself to move, you carry yourself to the table, sitting down in the chair across from him, and you try and pretend your heart isn’t hammering. As you sit down, his eyes trace your everything. It makes you feel like some kind of animal. Is he studying you? Plotting your death? Horrible, but who knows with a man who is all unknowns? You clear your throat. “Uh, hello there, Joker. Can I call you Joker?”

He frowns and licks at his lips, smacking them together. At first, you don’t think he’ll talk, but it just takes him a second. “Well, what else would ya call me?”

You’ve heard him speak before, on the television, in those frightening hostage videos, but it’s more chilling in person, his distinct voice causing you to shudder. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “R-right. Joker. I’m Doctor y/n l/n. Feel free to call me y/n, though.”

“Y/n,” he says slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. You resist shuddering again. “You’re the one they assigned to, ah, fix me up?”

You nod. “That’s me. But please, don’t think of it as fixing you. Think of it as helping you.”

“Help,” he spits out the word. “Whatever ya wanna call it. Sure. What ever happened to those other people they sent to see me the other night? They were all just so fun to play with.”

His words have a lot of bite behind them. Dale warned you about this. He was going to mess with you, and have fun doing it. “I believe they weren’t prepared to attend to you.”

“Awwww, did I hurt their feelings?” His voice is dripping with pure sarcastic sadness. He even feigns a frown. Then he breaks into a wide grin, giggling madly. “Well, if words are gonna hurt them that badly, maybe, uh, they’re in the wrong work field, huh?”

You make sure your face doesn’t move a bit. Play. It. Cool. Besides, progress doesn’t come from backing down. “We all have our strengths. It doesn’t matter what happened to them though, what matters is that I’m here now.”

“They really threw ya to the wolves, Miss l/n.” His tongue traces across his teeth. “Lucky for you, I won’t bite. Yet.”

You try very hard to ignore him. He probably does bite. “Today is gonna be a short meeting. Testing the waters. Now, we’ll be meeting every other day, so don’t feel like you need to open up to me immediately-”

“Me? Open up? If ya wanna open me up, you’re gonna need a big knife.” When your face falls, he leans forward and laughs harshly, a laugh laced with insanity. “Ha! Tough crowd, it seems.”

Already, he’s testing your patience. But you’ve faced worse. Or at least, you’ll pretend you have. “Mr. J, please-”

“Mr. J?” The Joker sits up straighter. “Heh, I like that. Makes me sound, uh, all fancy and stuff.”

“Mr. J,” you say again, this time harsher. “Today, I just want to get to know a bit about who you are. This is our first session so I’m not expecting too much. We don’t have to dive into the crimes, or your past, but I just wanna get to know a bit about you.”

He snorts. “Why?”

“I’m trying to help, Mr. J. I can’t help you if I don’t know… well, you. Not to mention, we have absolutely nothing on you. No files. No previous history. You’re a bit of a mystery.”

“Ah, a mystery.” He licks at his lips a few times before licking at the inside of his cheeks, no doubt tracing along his scars. “And you wanna solve me.”

“No, I just want to learn a bit more.” You reach into your bag and bring out your clipboard and a pen, clicking it once. “Now, where would you like to start? Maybe your childhood? Your job before your crimes?” His face contorts, and his nostrils begin to flare at such personal questions, so you try and tone it down. Before he lunges at me and chokes me to death. “It’s okay, we can start small. What are your interests?”

His shoulders drop a bit. He rocks back and forth in his seat, humming in thought. It’s weird, really, to see him like this. Not blowing something up, or filming himself raming about some kind of new evil plan he has. “Hmmm, well, I like, uh, a good joke every now and again. I like, hm, ah, a good tussle. Blades. TNT.”

You scribble it all down, right with a question mark and a frowny face. None of that sounds promising. “Right…”

“What’s wrong, doll? You seem…” He smiles gleefully. “Upset.” His T’s are pronounced harshly.

Doll. You should definitely correct him, to tell him to call you by your name, but you decide to let it slide. “No, I’m just… taking it all in. So you like weapons. Jokes. Is that how you decided on your name?”

He smacks his lips. “More or less.”

“Okay. Right. And the whole clown thing, your persona-?”

“Persona? Ha! This is aaaallllll me, dollface.”

“Right. So, the clown thing, how’d that come about? Your makeup, what’s the reason for it?” As you say it, your eyes fall to his scars, the way his lips lick along the very edge of them, and when he catches sight of this, he glares.

“Ah ah ah,” he coos darkly. “We won’t be getting into that today.”

You swallow hard. “Okay. It’s fine. One day at a time.”

He nods and leans forward, and it’s like his eyes can see into your very soul. “Ah, enough about me, huh, doll? Tell me about little ol’ you.”

You frown. “We’re not here to talk about me, Mr. J.”

“Oh, you’re not, but I would like to hear a thing or two about the person I'll be spending lots of, uh, personal time with.”

The way he says personal time, with an almost ferociousness to it, makes you break out in goosebumps, and you’re thankful for the coat covering your arms. “Hm, fine. What do you want to know?”

“Oh, ya know, a bit of this, a bit of that.” He tosses his head around. “How’d you end up in a shithole like Arkham?”

You take a deep breath. Does he seriously care to know? Or is he messing with you? Knowing what you know about him, you’re sure it’s the latter. “Well, it’s always been my passion to be a psychiatrist. I love Gotham and I wanna help its people.”

Joker leans back. “Hmmm, you’re one of those little doctors, huh? Wanna get everyone all fixed up so you can feel like a little saint?”

That takes you aback. You resist the urge to glare. Stay calm. You’re trying to help. “No, I don’t want to be a saint. I just want to-“

“Make yourself feel better? Wanna, uh, be able to give yourself a pat on the back and say ‘look at how amazing I am’? Puh-lease. Nobody really wants to help because they’re selfless.” He leans in. “We’re all selfish, every last one of us. So don’t lie. Nobody likes a liar.”

If you were anyone else, you might have wavered. So this is what they meant when they said Joker was a tough case. He had flipped the tables and started trying to analyze you. Well, you were tough enough, and you weren’t going to back down. You look him right in the eye. “You have a very interesting world view, Mr. J. But if I was just doing this for myself, we wouldn’t be seated here today.”

“Oh, but you didn’t choose to be here, they stuck ya in with me.” His eyes widen. “Seems your bosses aren’t too fond of ya, doll. Or are you just so stuck beneath their boots that you didn’t even question them?”

Now he was really reading you. How could he tell? Was he just that good at digging into people, or were you just too much of an open book? Whatever it was, you pushed it aside. Don’t give in. You’re not doing this for your bosses, you’re doing this for you. “You’re very observant. But again, we’re not here to analyze me. We’re here to talk about you.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you wanna say, doll. But don’t worry,” he says, licking his lips, “I’ll figure you out before you even get anywhere with me. In fact, I think I’m already getting a good guess.”

“Please, Mr. J, I’m the psychiatrist here. Now, our session is coming to an end-”

“Pity.”

“-but I have one last question before our session ends.”

“Go ahead, doll.”

“If you were to describe yourself in one word, what would you use?”

“Ha! Easy. Chaos.”

“And, why does this word define you? Why do you want to be chaos? What do you get out of it?”

He shakes his head. “Ah ta ta, that’s more than one question, doll face. Now, before you leave, lemme, uh, ask you the same thing. What word would you use to describe me?”

His question takes you slightly off guard. There were tons of things you could say. Insane. Wild. Crazy. But those would describe the Joker he was outside, the man that fought the Batman. Whoever you were looking at now was clearly more than that. “Intriguing.”

With that, the Joker's face split into a wide smile. “Ah, now that’s a new one. I think I might actually come to enjoy these, ah, little sessions.” He tilts his head. “I expect you’ll be going now?”

You reach into your purse and grab the remote. “Yes, Mr. J. Thank you for your time. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

He’s smiling so wide now, the tips of his scars almost touch his ears. There’s something about his smile. It’s not horrible, not at all. It’s mesmerizing.

“I can’t wait.”

___________________________

That night you can’t go to bed, but not for the same reasons as usual.

Most nights, as you settle down, you’re pulled from sleep by the phantom echoes of the screaming of Arkham patients. Other nights, you’re up for hours thinking of different ways to help your patients. But tonight, you can’t be bothered to think about anyone but the Joker. Dale was right. Already, he’s creeping into your mind, settling beneath your skin. You should be frightened, really, but your mind just wanders with fascination. No, you definitely will not be getting sleep tonight. Instead, you grab your laptop and type in your patient's name. If he won't tell you anything himself, then you’ll get to the bottom of it.

You end up reading about him for hours. Intriguing, indeed.

End notes: see you next time ;)

#dc joker #joker x reader #L! joker x reader #ledger joker x reader #heath ledger joker #ledger joker #dark knight joker #dark knight joker x reader #Heath ledger joker x reader #dark knight #dark knight fanfic

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing.

You don’t know how you got here.

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud.

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression.

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal:

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light.

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white.

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole.

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is.

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt.

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend.

It tends to go something like this:

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself.

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it.

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm.

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place.

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you.

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father.

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses.

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is.

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb.

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed.

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today.

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but…

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand–

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you.

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.)

So, you try.

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand.

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good.

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah.

He’ll understand.

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00.

You’re pathetic.

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead.

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried.

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was.

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart.

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.)

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time.

Where’s that progress now?

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence.

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better.

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later.

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if.

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that.

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth.

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again.

Christ.

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door.

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked.

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched.

So–

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him.

Is he checking up on you?

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time.

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern.

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient.

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace.

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours.

In the complete opposite way.

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that.

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.”

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs.

You just blink in acknowledgement.

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.”

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.”

“Sick?”

“Something like that.”

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.)

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper.

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another.

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.”

And then he leaves.

He just… fucking–

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return.

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous.

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance.

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing.

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things.

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch.

And, really. What were you supposed to think?

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this.

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment.

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger.

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.”

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?”

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.”

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat.

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.”

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt.

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going.

As it stands, you’re blind.

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.”

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.”

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.”

“Remind me of the other half of it again.”

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway?

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash.

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look.

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?”

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak.

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties.

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.”

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all.

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out.

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further.

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…” Your nerves spark. “For this–”

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out.

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer.

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly.

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro.

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control.

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now.

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves.

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless.

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to.

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.)

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core.

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement.

Fuck, he’s good.

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go.

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow. Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.”

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips.

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board.

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.”

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help.

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command.

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak.

Growls, actually. “Hold on.”

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both.

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut.

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so.

You can’t last very long, anyway.

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise.

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace.

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there.

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face.

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash.

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity.

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed.

“Are you married?”

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow.

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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wildissylupus · 29 days ago

Text

Just watched a playthrough of Rot in Paradise and holy shit. People have started coming to me for critiques on Australian characters (mainly overwatch), their writing and designs, and that is Australian rep done right!

Starting with the character designs, I have seen variations of all of those outfits on people here, not only that but the designs all communicate where the characters are actually from;

Carmen, McCoy and Vonnie are all from an urban area, likely a city. The characters never change clothes during the game so I'm going to assume these are their swimming clothes. All three of them are actively wearing swimwear covered by things you would typically wear to the beach if you aren't planning to immediately change clothes afterwards. Not only that but they are wearing a lot nicer clothes then June and Ryan, they are clothes specifically bought for swimming. Not only that but you can tell the they are from different cities or at least different parts of the same city, Carmen is more inland, her coat is think and the way it falls communicates that it's not really made from beach safe material, it's also very obvious that her swimmers are underneath her clothes and are not just her outfit. Meanwhile with McCoy and Vonnie they live more costal, they're outfits are made for the beach, McCoy's actively being just his swimmers. Vonnie is a little more complicated but though she is wearing clothes over her swimmers, they aren't the same as Carmen's. Vonnie is wearing loose fitting clothes specifically designed for the beach something that can easily be tied on and off again.

Meanwhile Ryan and June are dressed more rurally. Ryan can't swim and is implied to be afraid of the ocean, which communicates to me that he's from somewhere that is pretty land locked. That and his clothes are something I've seen worn by Aussie farmers (Aka my dad) wear on their days off, that and his tan lines indicate that he's in the sun a lot, possibly in an old button up considering where his tan lines are. Not only that but his drinking habits and taste in beer are very rural Australian coded. While June is dressed more as a person who grew up rural but has moved into a city later in life, she's wearing old looking shorts with a belt on them which signifies that they're not going to be taken off to get in the water, while her top is an actual swimming top and she's wearing a beach top over that, both look in good condition and fairly new. There's also June's dyed hair which is honestly common for people who grew up rurally to do once that move to a city. Also Ryan still living in a more rural area would also explain why his hair does seemed dyed but is a lot more faded and less maintained. In all honesty it wouldn't surprise me if June and Ryan grew together considering the similar dye jobs and the way June greets Ryan at the beginning of the game.

Also THANK YOU studio investigrave for not making all the characters white, it's such a common problem when people are writing Australians or Australia in general that they make everyone white. It feels so gross to me when I see that.

Next up in the language used and holy shit was the dialogue well written, "mate" was used in the correct context, "bloody hell" and "dickhead" where the most used slang and that is fully correct, Ryan bringing an esky (cooler, as everyone else says) full of beer on a vacation is such a relatable experience to me. In general I felt seen by the way that characters talked and acted, which is rare when looking at Australian characters.

Also the story involving the environment as the horror, and the environment explored being the water is so important to me. Australia is dangerous, but when that is explored in media it's usually just the outback. Meanwhile the bush and our oceans are usually never touched on, despite them being just as dangerous. Not only that but they used the theme of isolation without using the outback too, which again, is very rare for me to see.

Anyway this game was great and is going up there as one of my favorite games.

#rot in paradise #rot in paradise june #rot in paradise spoilers #rot in paradise ryan #rot in paradise carmen #rot in paradise mccoy #rot in paradise vonnie #studio investigrave

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readingcoco · 10 months ago

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Mood board credit: @rivetingrosie4

So after months of reading everyone else's work, I finally got round to finishing this one shot inspired by the wonderful @rivetingrosie4! It's the first thing I have ever written so any critique will be highly cherished. This is hopefully a good practice run for a longer story I will be working on for the rest of the year.

Taglist: @photo1030, @rivetingrosie4, @redwritr

🍑PEACH FLESH🍑

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI | 5067 words | Ao3 Link TAGS: Plus-Size Reader, Oral Sex, Fake Marriage, Internalised Fatphobia, Squirting

The door almost swings off its hinges as you and Arthur stumble into the second-best suite Strawberry’s Welcome Centre has to offer. Despite being a dry town, you were both half cut and giddy from the two bottles of brandy shared over dinner with the newlyweds you hoped to rob blind first thing in the morning.

The room is womb-like, lit dimly with low wooden ceilings and dark red baroque wallpaper lining each wall, in the centre stands a grand four poster bed adorned with more blankets than you know what to do with, set diagonally facing a little wood burner that radiates out heat that stings slightly against your mountain chilled cheeks. You haven’t been around such finery in years, the excess of it all feeling somehow grotesque when compared to the simple pleasures you’d now learnt to love.

“My Lady”, Arthur bows as he raises his arm, gesturing to the empty room.

“Husband”, you giggle, door closing behind you. The ridiculousness of that word still not losing its novelty.

“I’ll be sure to let Hosea know we’ve got a regular little con artist on our hands.”

Your body is vibrating with energy, the thrill of the past few hours still coursing through your veins; how you’ll sleep tonight, you don’t know, even with the promise of such a comfy mattress to lay your head on. You’d been terrified of letting everyone down ever since Dutch had summoned you to his tent to inform you of the job he had lined up for Arthur and the role he expected you to play. You were sure there must have been some mistake, but when he explained that your upbringing made you the ideal candidate, you couldn’t see a way to protest. So now you were here, just you and Arthur, and things were surprisingly going to plan for a change.

“I can’t believe how naive they were. Was I really so soft when you first met me?”

“A little”, Arthur smirks as he sits on the oak trunk at the edge of the bed, pulling roughly at the puff tie around his neck, eager to free himself of the restrictions of such formality. You had been shocked at how naturally he found getting into character after spending half the ride there grumbling about it. “Suits you, though, a bit of softness. Glad we ain’t fully sullied that good name of yours just yet.”

You bristle a little at the mention of your name, all the good it had done you when you’d drifted from town to town, relying on the goodwill of others to keep you from starving. Your name hadn’t saved you then, but the Van der Linde gang had. It was them to whom you owed a debt, not your family.

“We best get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

You nod as Arthur moves to hang his dress coat in the wardrobe, and you catch sight of him over your shoulder in the large cheval mirror that stands to the side of the bed. He looks different somehow, here away from camp, more at ease maybe, less burdened by thoughts. This was the longest you and he had spent one-on-one, and you had found it surprising how quickly you had both fallen into an easy rhythm. You had always got on well in camp. You shared a closeness with him more akin to one of the girls than any of the other men; he’d bring you fresh peaches whenever he could, knowing them to be your favourite, and you would craft tonics and bitters for him to take on his travels. A trade between friends. Truth be told, if it wasn’t so implausible, you might have wanted to take advantage of the sleeping arrangement that now presented itself - Karen or Mary-Beth wouldn’t have given it a second thought! But as it was, that was a delusion, and Arthur had already courteously agreed to sleep on the floor.

Your reflection distracts you then as you compare the neat up and down of his form to your own inelegant roundness in the mirror. What was the word Grimshaw had used? Fleshy? And more on display this evening than you had ever elected to show to the gang.

When Trelawny had taken you to the dressmakers, your eyes had almost bugged out of your head when you saw the mannequin donning the dress he had selected for you. An off-the-shoulder, deep emerald gown with a swan-like bust made from velvet. Quite possibly the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. You begged Trelawny to allow you to wear something, anything else. But he would hear nothing of it. To con an heiress, you would have to look like one. The ridiculousness of that notion forces a snort of laughter to escape your mouth. Arthur turns to you, lips preemptively curling upwards, expecting you to share your private joke.

“Somethin' tickle you?”

“Nothing, it’s silly.”

But his face doesn’t let up. You hesitate, trying to find a way to make him understand without sounding foolish.

“It’s just, I didn’t expect any of this to actually work. I went along with it because… because I wanted to be useful. I didn’t actually think anyone would believe that we were married.” You laugh, but Arthur looks confused.

“Why not?”

You giggle, gesturing back and forth between you like it’s the plainest thing in the world, but he still stares at you blankly.

“Don’t play dumb, Arthur! Look at me, and then look at you!”

“I’m lookin'.”

Your smile falters a little, realising that he is going to make you state the obvious, that unspoken truth that you have been biting your tongue not to scream out loud since Dutch revealed the con two weeks previous.

“Arthur, please…” Your voice is quieter now, traces of humour all but evaporated. “There ain’t no way a man like you would ever take someone like me as a wife. It’s just not the way of things.” Your eyes are now firmly rooted to the ground. Shame coursing through your body for putting such a dour end to a fun evening. Wishing desperately to go back to the teasing and lightness of moments before. “You're deserving of a fine woman, not a stout, plain thing like me.”

Arthur rears back on his heels as though slapped.

“Ought not to speak about yourself that way or judge whose hand is or isn’t deserving of mine, calloused and scarred up as it is.”

You laugh quietly at that and lift your head back up at him, where he hooks you in with a look so serious it catches you off guard, brows knitted together like he is weighing up some great debate. He sniffs-

“You looked beautiful tonight, Mrs Callahan.”

He steps towards you slowly, as one might approach a spooked horse, head tilted and low, looking up at you with sparkling pools of tranquil blue. You feel the overwhelming urge to bolt, but something about the assured look he has on you keeps you tethered to the spot, unable to move as the space between you grows smaller.

“Don’t tease me, it ain’t kind.”

“I’ve not been able to take my eyes off my pretty wife all evening.”

You search his face for some small hint of insincerity, half expecting him to rear back at any moment and mock you for not seeing his obvious joke. But he doesn’t pull back. Unyielding in his approach until he is close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your crown. The smell of brandy and tobacco smoke wafts deliciously in the air. You hesitate to look up, not sure you could withstand the heat of his gaze without melting into the rug.

“You know, I’ve not seen you wear anything like this before,” Arthur gently raises a hand up to your exposed shoulder and fingers some of the lace appliques around the rim, his chapped knuckles lightly grazing your skin. Your eyes close, and a faint sigh escapes your lips as you lean into his touch. “Caught myself thinkin’ about how much more of your loveliness you’ve been hidin' away.”

You are still unable to lift your eyes higher than the buttons on his shirt. But then he’s tracing a line up your throat, resting his thumb on your chin and gently manoeuvring your face to meet his. To be invited to view him up so close and personal this way is a delight you want to savour. The white lines around his eyes from squinting in the sun, the crook in his nose, badly set, smattered with freckles, the chip on his frontmost tooth, the face of a man who has only known hard work and fresh air. But the exchange of looks goes both ways and suddenly, you are reminded of the indolent, dumpy girl he must view.

“Arthur-”

His lips press into yours so keenly that your overthinking brain only has room for the sweet sensation of his insistent kiss, opening you up to him, coaxing you deliberately with his brandy, rich tongue. A needy whimper is spilled from your mouth into his, which he drinks from you, like a man parched, tasting your lips and then deeper, lapping you up. Your shaky hands find purchase on the plains of his broad chest, and you fist at his shirt to pull him closer.

As though that were the signal he was waiting for, Arthur grunts out a low groan before dipping his head to kiss at your neck and cushioned collar bone, hands running along the stiff shape of your corset, reaching around your sides, your back, searching blindly for some hidden opening. You have never seen him this feral.

You pull backwards, struggling to catch your breath, lips swollen, hair all but falling down.

“Wait,” You gasp. “You’re drunk, you don’t really want-”

“Woman, if you don’t stop tellin' me what I do and do not want.” He laughs, but there is a seriousness that underpins his tone. “Now, if you don’t want it, that’s different.” He lifts an eyebrow in question.

“It’s not that. I just… I don’t want to disappoint you.” He offers you a look that could almost read as exasperated if it wasn’t so filled with fondness. Your chest is pounding, you're not sure that you have ever wanted something, someone, so much in your entire life. Your eyes dart around the ornate room and land on the glowing gas lamp behind Arthur’s head. “Maybe if it were dark?”

He laughs dismissively. “You’re still not gettin' it,” He pulls his hand down his face before interlocking your fingers in his as though trying to work out how to explain something simple to a small child. “You think I would be here kissin' on you, actin' a fool, if I weren’t attracted to you?”

You don’t know how to answer him, so you remain silent. Chewing a loose strip of skin on your lip.

“You think I ain’t noticed you're bigger than most?” Your cheeks burn red at the acknowledgement of your body, something you have taken great pains to draw attention away from for as long as you can remember - modest clothing, intricate hairstyles, humour and helpfulness. His thumbs rub soothingly on the pulse point of your wrists.

“Ever considered that might be something I might like?” In truth, you hadn’t because how could it be? You had never seen images of women who looked like you in catalogues or advertisements unless it was to market some magical cure for the ailment of looking like you, never read about them in books unless they were some wicked aunt or old crone. How could Arthur be attracted to such a thing?

“Turn around.”

A command given so soberly that you find yourself spinning without thought. He pulls your back flush to him as he scoops the fallen tendrils away from your left ear, lips pressing into newly revealed skin. Your eyes find each other in the mirror as he trails a path of wet kisses down your neck to the tip of your shoulder. Unfolding you in his arms as if to show you off to the two figures staring back longingly, enjoying their own embrace.

“You see?” He traces the length of your arms with his rough fingers, ghostlike as they make their way down the curve of your arms, one wrapping tightly around your waist while the other seeks out your breast. He finds you heavy and full in his palm, and your bodies roll together in a languid moan released in unison.

You observe Arthur’s eyebrow hitch momentarily in the mirror, and his eyes darken as you feel a tug from your side and realise too late that he has found the opening of your dress. He wastes no time unhooking each clasp one by one, your breath coming in heavy as you watch him work, peeling the right side of your wrapped bodice away from your corset, the swell of your breast revealed, covered only by the thin cotton of your chemise.

You lift your hand to help with the clasps on the other side, but Arthur nudges you away as though this is his solemn duty to bear alone. He reaches around to your left-hand side until you are fully enveloped in his arms, and you can feel his heart pumping in his chest. Your eyes flutter closed, and your head falls back to meet his firm shoulder as you feel yourself going weak at the knees, like it has been the rigidity of your clothing holding you together this entire time; one more loosened clasp, and you are liable to break.

“I want you to see what your body does to me”, Arthur rasps out as he unwraps the left half of your bodice, leaving your chest fully bared, apart from your underthings. You watch as his fingers delicately trace their way up your corset, and he takes each of your full breasts in hand, rolling your beaded nipples with his thumbs. The sensation courses through your veins as your arms shoot behind you, grasping blindly in an attempt to ground yourself for fear you will float away. One hand meets his left hip, while the other finds the tight muscle of his thigh before something more protruding grazes the pads of your fingers. Arthur lets out an involuntary grunt as he bucks into you.

You run your fingers along his length more deliberately then, and the fire it ignites in him is enough to rival the sun. Eyes still locked firmly onto yours in the mirror, he pulls your bodice from your arms with two rough jerks before throwing it to the side to begin work on your skirts.

“Face me.”

You turn, as he pulls you into a deep kiss, fingers hooking behind you to undo the ties at your waist. His hands glide down your back, over your ass and hips, skinning the fabric away from you until it bunches up and falls to the ground. Catching his breath, he steps back, panting, taking in the curves of your now semi-exposed form. You have never been looked at this way, hungrily, like your ripened flesh is the only thing that could save this starving man.

“Goddamnit”, He hisses, more to himself than you and backs away from you further.

Without the solid touch of him to reassure you that the last few minutes haven’t been some momentary lapse in sanity, a wave of self-consciousness pulls you outside your body like some sort of uninvited voyeur, looking down at the scene, struck by the implausibility of it all. Here is this man - Adonis, even, who could have his pick of women, not just in camp but in polite society too; you had seen how the newlywed wife had looked at him over dinner, and then you, dimpled and misshapen like a bruised peach.

Sensing the sudden shift in your demeanour, Arthur quickly steps back to you, resting his forehead on yours, blue eyes burning intensely, cupping your cheeks with both hands.

“You still don’t believe I want ya?”

You stare back at him, his lips so close you must hold back the urge to nip at them.

“I’m sorry” you whisper. Softly, Arthur removes a hand from your cheek and finds your own covering the curve of your stomach. He hooks his fingers into yours and guides your hand lower down to the hard line of his trousers.

“My whole body’s achin’ for ya, Darlin'.” His arousal is undeniable now, and for a moment, you start to believe that he could be true to his word. Perhaps certain tastes are only acquired by a few. Your thumb reflexively works up and down the solid ridge of him as he presses his lips to yours and lets out a groan.

“Now-” He’s struggling to maintain his focus as your fingers continue to stroke him. “I’m going to sit down right here, and you are going to show me what I’ve been wantin' to see.” He huffs out and pulls himself back from you again and sits at the edge of the bed, eyeing you eagerly in anticipation.

For a moment, you stand there, tethered to the spot, brain failing to remember the motions one must go through to undress, as though this was something entirely new and not the most ordinary of tasks.

You close your eyes and breathe deeply to gather yourself before loosening the ties of your petticoats and allowing them to fall to the floor like the heavy skirt before it. A rumble of approval from the bed forces your eyes to open. When you are met with a look so full of adulation, it’s hard to stop the grin from spreading across your entire face. You step over the crumpled petticoats with a little skip before marching to the bed and lifting your heeled foot to rest between Arthurs's legs.

“Care to do me the honour?”

“My pleasure.”

Arthur takes your stockinged ankle in his large hands, pressing a flurry of kisses to your knee as he peels the silk down your leg before unbuttoning the pointed-heeled boot and tossing them aside. As you lift your other leg up to him, he hooks your knee and carves his hands upwards underneath your bloomers, fisting a handful of the meat of your inner thigh.

“Patience,” you say, fully enthralled by this new sense of power you feel in your core like you could tell this man to walk through hot coals, and he would thank you for the privilege. You flick the point of your shoe towards him to undo.

Heels removed, you step backwards again, fingers tracing the shape of your body slowly, tantalisingly, noting how each swirl of your thumb, each flick of your wrist registers like a shockwave on the gunslinger’s slack-jawed face. You press your clothed breasts together, lifting them experimentally and letting them fall. And then once again. Arthur lets out a hiss.

“Woman, you don’t know what I have planned for you.”

Your fingers ghost the eyelets of your corset, the moment you have been dreading. The barrier moulding your shape into something deemed acceptable by society. You feel without it, you may fall apart. But if his face isn’t goddamn begging you to take it off. Who are you to disappoint him?

You pull the top clasps together, and then the bottom and your lungs fill with air as your body relaxes in kind. You stand there in only your chemise and bloomers, near transparent, backlit by the light from the fire. You hitch your chemise to your waist, inch by inch, as Arthur leans forward, almost salivating. Your fingertips slide under the waistband of your bloomers as you shimmy them down to your ankles with a wiggle, exposing the thatch of hair at your sex for a split second before your chemise falls back into place.

A thought comes to you then, and you're not sure if it’s in part to delay the inevitable shame of baring yourself to this man so completely or if part of you is starting to have fun, but you realise the power you hold stood before him in nothing more than your chemise. What would he give up to see your exposed flesh? What trade might he offer now? A peach for something saltier perhaps? You toy with the frill at your hem.

“Planned? You sound like you’ve been dreamin' on this for a while, Arthur.”

You step towards him again so that your scantily covered breasts are now at eye level. He reaches out to touch you, but you shoo him away.

“You ‘been having indecent thoughts?”

“The worst”

You cock your head to the side in mock outrage. The giddiness of dinner, playing dress up, and make-believe comes flooding back with full force.

“What thoughts?”

“Takin' you in my tent… spreadin' you out… all pretty for me.” He can barely get his words out as your finger lifts the corner of your chemise.

“You ever done anything about those thoughts, cowboy?”

The rush of crimson to his cheeks surprises you as you imagine him alone in his cot with only daydreams of you to keep him company. You have so many other questions: When did this start? Why has he only chosen to act now? But they will have to wait. You glance down at his lap.

“Show me.”

Like an eager puppy, he springs from his seat, towering over you, but you don't step back. Arthur’s disrobing is a much more efficient affair; suspenders are shrugged from his shoulders, shirt unfastened, trousers kicked haphazardly across the room until he is in a comparable state of undress, left in only his union suit. If you’re not mistaken, a similar wave of trepidation pumps through his veins, too. You eye the proud ridge of his length, straining the stretched cotton as Arthur unbuttons his union, first revealing the coarse blonde hair at his chest, which darkens with each new release, lower and lower. At the juncture of his groin, thick brown curls frame the base of his shaft, and as he steps out of the suit, cock springing free, filling the space between you, you're not sure you have seen beauty like it.

“Show me.” Your voice is a whisper now. Arthur takes himself fully in hand and slowly strokes himself while holding your gaze. You watch him intently: artful and precise like every other task his expert hands carry out. You almost lose yourself watching him before you remember your own throbbing need and push him back to his seat on the bed. You are ready now. Confident.

You raise your chemise up your strong thighs, the curve of your hips, swell of your belly, higher still to meet your heavy breasts that fall as the fabric catches them momentarily; you pull the cotton above your head, over your plump arms, until you are stood naked as the day you were born, goosebumps adorning your skin, like velvet. They prickle as you smooth your hands across your belly, as though touching it for the first time. Maybe you are touching it for the first time with gentle hands? You smile at this private realisation and then towards the cowboy, who is near cross-eyed with want, stroking himself vigorously at the sight of your unveiled form.

“Am I what you expected?”

“Git over here already. I’m tired of just lookin'.”

Before you can protest that you don’t want to crush him, Arthur is pulling you onto his lap, the ripe head of him grazing your clit and pressing between your stomachs. You try to hold some of your weight from him by awkwardly balancing yourself where your shins meet the mattress, but then he’s grabbing two firm handfuls of your ass and lifting you up with him. Reflexively, your legs wrap around his waist as you are suspended in the air. It feels like flying. You have not been picked up like this, cradled, since you were a child, and even then, by the time you turned 7, your papa had started to groan that you were too big. But Arthur lifts you effortlessly, kissing into your mouth as he spins you round and lays you out on your back, his body curving over yours.

His knuckles tenderly graze the shape of your cushioned ribs, rising and falling in time with his own. He slowly lowers himself down your body, taking care to kiss an open-mouthed trail down the centre of your sternum, between the valley of your breasts, palming each on his journey. Your body arches up hungrily in anticipation of each kiss, eyes drifting shut as you feel the warmth of his breath waft against the moistened curls of your pelvis, already sodden with want.

A flash of ecstasy pulls the air from your lungs as your eyes spring open, and you grasp wildly to pull him back up to you. He can’t. It’s too much. But the cowboy holds firm. You peer between your legs in horror as Arthur begins to feast greedily at your cunt. From the depraved sounds from his chest, you intuit that this must be another of this man’s acquired tastes. Still, the sight has you scandalised in such a wickedly licious way you find yourself biting your lip as a drawn-out groan rasps itself out of you.

A wave of impossible pleasure builds first in your chest. Then it permeates outwards, sending vibrations down your arms and neck, catching in your cheeks, forcing you to huff out pathetic little pants. You begin to writhe and wriggle under the pressure of his tongue, brazen as it dances along your slippery folds. Long, languid licks, lapping you up.

“Ohh-”

Your legs pull together reflexively in a vice-like grip, ensnaring his head. Still, if Arthur fears suffocation, he shows no signs of stopping, sucking you wholey on the clit until your body is quivering like that of a bow fully drawn.

“Arthur…” You beg as another wave has your head rolling back into the mattress. “Please… I can’t.”

“You can.” He rumbles as he pushes a finger inside you, and your legs start to tremble violently, loosening their grip around the cowboy’s head. Jesus Fuck. You jut your pelvis forward involuntarily as your whole being seeks out a deeper penetration. Sensing your rising need, Arthur slides a second digit inside you and curls them in an upward motion as if coaxing your climax to come quicker, harder. Don’t be shy, it’s alright. You're doin' so good for me.

You feel it then, pressure, unlike anything you have experienced from your own hand. Like you are a jug being filled from a fast-flowing river, you feel yourself reaching the brim and then spilling out, overflowing. Water gushing from within, swirling you up in its current and washing you out to sea. Clear liquid streams from your cunt, coating Arthur’s face and neck. As your body resurfaces the only way you know you have not drowned is through the heartbeat you feel pumping in your ears.

“I’m so sorry” You gasp, as you pull off him and quickly try to cover the sodden evidence of your release, fisting desperately at the blankets, distraught by all the new and mortifying ways your body seeks to humiliate you. But then you hear Arthur’s chuckle as he wipes his face with the back of his hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“I ain’t never made a girl come like that before. C’mere.” Arthur takes hold of your frantic hands and pulls you towards him, scooping you up in his sturdy arms, resting your cheek against the soft curls of his chest and looking down at you adoringly. “You got nothing to apologise for. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You silently shake your head, certain you will never be able to look at the man in the face again. He frowns then, trying to work out how to bring you back to him.

“I hope you're not ashamed on account of me? Ain’t nothing prettier I’ve seen, lettin' go for me like that.”

“But I made a mess.”

“Just as well Grimshaw ain’t here to scold us about laundry then. ‘Sides, if we hang them by the fire, they’ll be dry by the mornin'. No harm done.”

You feel his rough palm tenderly cup your cheek, angling your face to his and placing a light kiss at the end of your nose. “I hope you won’t see me different now, Arthur.” Your voice is shaky as it suddenly strikes you how exhausted you feel, body totally spent, laying heavy like lead in his arms.

“I sees you for who you are; that ain’t changin.” He says earnestly, “We should rest, though; we've got an early rise.” You can still feel him hard as a rock against your hip and wonder if it causes him discomfort. As your eyes trail downwards, he lets out a knowing laugh. “Plenty of time for that after tomorrow.”

After tomorrow?

He lifts you up to sit on the chair in the corner of the room, wrapping one of the unsullied blankets around your shoulders, another around his waist as he strips down the bed. Thankfully, your release has only soaked through the quilted throw, leaving the linens underneath untouched. He pulls back the sheet and beckons you over.

As your head hits the pillow, you feel the pull of sleep dragging you towards it, but then you realise Arthur has yet to follow suit. You sit bolt upright, eyes searching around the room for him needily.

“Hey, I’m just here. I weren’t sure if you’d want me in the bed or not. I didn’t wanna assume nothin'.” You practically roll your eyes at his honorableness, as if he wasn’t buried tongue-deep in you no more than five minutes earlier. You reach out a sleepy hand towards him.

“I couldn’t rightfully allow my husband to sleep on the floor now, could I?” you smirk as Arthur finally makes his way over to the bed and tucks himself in tight beside you, wrapping you up underneath his chin. It’s not long before you are drifting off into a deep sleep, with thoughts about what happens after tomorrow filling your dreams. 🍑

#Peach Flesh #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #red dead smut #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

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delimeful · 8 months ago

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be unbroken or be brave again (3)

warnings: threats, fear, arguing, cliffhanger

The first obstacle to their little road trip was convincing Roman to dress appropriately for the journey.

The armor itself wasn’t all that stand-out. Patton had seen plenty of well-funded mercenaries out there who could afford an enchantment or two for their greaves. The coat of arms stamped on everything, on the other hand…

In all fairness, they had kidnapped the guy. He’d already been uncertain about, well, just about everything in the situation so far, and now he was being told that he couldn’t even wear his favorite accessories.

Patton would have had a little bit more sympathy if the accessories in question weren’t all emblazoned with the decorative sigil of Faerin, a kingdom that had personally victimized his best friend, as well as frequently seeming to make trouble whenever and wherever it pleased.

Plus, the other thing was—

“If you walk into town with that on, we’re all gonna get jumped,” Virgil said bluntly, waggling the blade of Roman’s dagger at the coat of arms brightly emblazoned on multiple pieces of the knight’s armor. “Seriously, ditch it.”

Roman huffed, holding a scandalized hand up to his chest as though Virgil had told him to strip down to his trousers and jump into a briar patch. “We will not get attacked! Faerin isn’t currently at war with any of the nearby territories.”

“Wow, real gracious of them,” Virgil replied flatly, and Patton jumped in to prevent the tensions from rising any further.

“Roman, kiddo, it’s not really about the war,” he explained, holding his hands up peaceably. “It’s more about all the taxes. People really don’t like the kingdom’s policies, so as soon as you get clear of the enforced territories, well. Folks out here tend to atax first, ask questions second when it comes to Faerin.”

Virgil snorted, leaning back against the wall and twirling the blade in his hand smoothly. He had flatly refused to give the dagger back to Roman even when Patton asked him in private, which was how he knew this little venture was really putting his friend on edge.

It wasn’t fair of him to ask Virgil to do this, not really, but he couldn’t help but ask anyhow. To meet another survivor of one of the worst days of his life and find that they’d developed a hatred of the very one who’d saved him that day… it was too sad to bear, so Patton was going to fix it! Or, he was going to try really hard to, at least.

The fixing process would have gone much smoother if the pair of them would stop jumping like startled cats every time one or the other did anything, but Patton had no say in that. Virgil was twitchy by nature, and Roman had proven rather reactive himself.

“These could have perfectly useful applications as well, you know!” Roman huffed, running his fingers over the embroidered underlayer he’d been about to put on. “Imagine if we run into a fellow Faerin knight out there? My kingdom’s symbol could grant us an ally, as simply as that, giving us more protection from malignant forces!”

Patton resisted the urge to grimace at the very idea.

Less restrained, Virgil reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, and then huffed out a disbelieving exhale, sheathing the dagger. “Okay, sure, let’s imagine that. After you get done exchanging obnoxiously overdramatic greetings with this imaginary knight who somehow survived out there without getting robbed, what then? What do you think your fellow knight will have to say when you let it slip that I’m a dragonwitch, infamously the number one enemy of your kingdom?”

Roman immediately descended into sputtering, his shoulders hunching at Virgil’s sharp critiques. “We— Obviously I would inform them of the specifics of the situation, and let them know that despite what it may look like, there’s no reason to worry and nothing to fear, for I have everything well in hand!”

At the words, Virgil went still for a moment, a sudden edge of danger seeping into his rigid posture. Pushing off the wall, he stalked closer to where Roman stood, gaze flinty and mouth slanted. For every step closer he got, Roman’s shoulders bunched up further with tension, his hand dropping to his hip as though to draw a blade that was no longer sheathed there.

Patton thought about getting involved, and then decided that he couldn’t step in every time the two of them started bickering. He had to let them do some olive branching of their own! Virgil wasn’t the best gardener, but anyone could wield a spade if they tried hard enough! It would probably be fine.

… Emphasis on probably.

For his part, Virgil leaned forward slowly until he was practically looming over Roman, and let his leathery wings slowly rise like the mantle of a bird of prey, the early morning light reflecting off his scales like oil gleaming in a lantern’s glow. He tilted his head with a menacing, narrow-eyed smile, sharp teeth on full display. “Do you have everything well in hand, Princey?”

Roman swallowed, lifting his chin to meet Virgil’s gaze head-on. “As far as anyone needs to know, yes.”

Despite his bravado, his hands were clenched into shaking fists at his sides. Virgil’s malicious smile eased into something harder to read, and he rolled his eyes before backing off.

“Just get rid of the sigils. We don’t need the trouble.”

Roman’s brow furrowed for a moment, his expression hard to read, but this time, he didn’t protest.

—

The second obstacle to their road trip was convincing Roman to actually get on the road.

Or, rather, on the dragon.

“There is absolutely no way I am literally placing my life in the claws of a dragon,” Roman stated plainly, expression dour. He was trying to look aloof, but the effect was ruined by the way his gaze kept roaming back to rest on the large footprints Virgil had left in the dirt when they’d first arrived back home, unconscious knight in hand.

“That’s probably the smartest thing he’s said all day,” Virgil added unhelpfully, picking dirt out from beneath aforementioned claws with his pilfered blade. “Give the guy a prize.”

“Virgil,” Patton said, exasperated, before turning to Roman. “There’s no need to worry, Virgil is a very safe flier. Plus, you’ve already done this once before, remember?”

“You know, I actually don’t recall! How strange,” Roman retorted, re-adjusting his pauldron in short, jerky motions. “It’s almost as though someone clubbed me over the head with a big rock or something. Imagine that!”

Patton’s cheeks went a little hot, and he cleared his throat pointedly. “Well, I was there, and he was very careful to make sure neither of us got hurt! To be honest, I was pretty darn nervous being that high up, too. Really, heights like that aren’t always fall they’re cracked up to be!”

“Don’t add pun-based insult to my injury, I beseech you,” Roman replied, grimacing. “And I’m not afraid of heights themselves, I’m afraid of being dropped from them!”

Virgil snorted, finally sticking the sheathed dagger in his boot and ambling away from them. “If you want to avoid assassination attempts, maybe stop giving out free ideas, Princey. Not that it matters. If I was going to kill you, I’d do it human-shaped. More fun that way.”

Ignoring Patton’s exasperated look and Roman’s squawk of offense alike, Virgil walked over to the middle of the clearing, taking care to circle around the daffodils Patton had planted as he went. He stopped once he had a wide stretch of space between him and any potential obstacles, glancing back over briefly with his lips pressed tightly together.

Patton gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, mostly to encourage and support him, and a little bit to remind him that no matter what happened with Roman, Patton would always be there at his best friend’s side.

Virgil offered him a slight upturn of the lips, more grimace than smile, but he seemed a bit more relaxed when he closed his eyes and turned away from them, hand lifting to press against the little purple stone set between his collarbones.

“Wait, he’s not actually going to—,” Roman started, only to be cut off by Patton flapping his hands at him in a shushing gesture, eyes still locked on his friend.

Virgil rolled his shoulders, drew his wings close around himself, and then began to stretch the leathery appendages out, wider and wider. There was a thick crackling noise, like bones snapping or lightning running through an old tree, and with a twist, Virgil shifted into his largest form.

It only took a few moments, the air around him warping strangely, and then, there he stood, tail brushing the ground as he shook himself like a very, very oversized dog after a bath. The dust stirred around them from the intensity of it.

Roman had yelped and skipped back a fair few steps, but Patton didn’t bother even shuffling out of the way. Sure enough, none of those huge claws even got close enough to think about grazing him.

He knew his friend, and so he knew that Virgil was a worrier like no other. Frankly, Virgil’s pinky finger probably held more caution in it than a grown man or three had in their whole bodies. His human pinky, not the dragon one, to boot.

Patton was probably the safest he’d ever been, standing in the shadow of Virgil’s wings. He sure felt that way, at least.

“Hey, kiddo!”

Virgil perked up at the call, shuffling around a bit to lower his big scaly head into closer range. He was rumbling low in his chest, not necessarily loudly, but still definitely big enough that Patton could feel the noise in his bones.

He reached out and embraced the surprisingly soft snout as Virgil nudged it lightly against him, huffing lightly and waiting patiently for Patton to get his fill of impromptu dragon cuddles.

Patton smiled to himself. This was a far better sight to see than the nervous, flinching way that Virgil had acted that first time he’d shifted, when he kept sneaking glances at Patton like he was waiting for him to realize what he was and run screaming for the hills.

When he finally pulled back and turned to grab their bags, he found Roman standing only a few meters away, looking more strung out than a ball of yarn rolled down a hill. His hand was once again hovering near his side as though seeking a weapon to draw, a nervous tell.

“Is he still… He’s kept his mind?” Roman asked, eyes flickering down to Patton for the briefest moment before returning to the intense stare he was directing at Virgil.

Patton reminded himself that in Roman’s eyes, the only reason a dragonwitch would take this form would be to wreak havoc, and managed to keep himself from frowning too overtly at the knight.

“Virgil is Virgil, no matter which form he’s in,” he replied, forcing some pep into his step as he scooped up the first of their bags. “He’s just a little more… caught up in his instincts, when he’s in this form.”

That was how Virgil had explained all the happy rumbling and gentle nudges the first time, at least. Patton had made the merciful decision not to tease him about the purring.

“Oh, so murder is still on the table, then,” Roman muttered, finally breaking the stare-off to avert his gaze as Patton sent him a pointed look. “Joking! Just a joke, much like the one our reptilian associate made mere moments ago!”

“Mhmm,” Patton hummed dubiously as he turned back to Virgil. “Well, Mister Jokester, it’s time to get moving! We wouldn’t want the daylight hours to drag-on without us!”

Apparently feeling more confident now that he was the size of a house, Virgil yawned loudly— the sight of which made Roman go a bit grey— and then settled into a resting position to allow Patton to clamber up onto his back.

It only took a handful of minutes for Patton to successfully haul up and tie down their bags, with Virgil’s ears carefully flicking back to listen to his humming as he made sure everything was tightly secured to the spikes along his dragonic friend’s spine.

It took more than twice that time for Roman to stop staring dumbfoundedly at Virgil and actually begin to approach.

Of course, the moment he got within a few meters range, Virgil’s large slitted pupil flicked over to watch the knight, making him freeze mid-step like a deer before a mountain lion.

Patton resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he slid down to stand at Virgil’s side. At this rate, they wouldn’t even get off the ground until noon.

“That’s Roman, remember?” he reminded Virgil, reaching up to pat his shoulder in the hopes of helping him refocus on the task at hand. “You looked after him while he was sick, and now he’s traveling with us for a bit.”

Virgil blinked, his gaze still following Roman’s every move, with far less irritation than Patton would have expected. His pupils had even rounded out slightly, making him look far more friendly in Patton’s opinion.

For some reason, this didn’t seem to reassure Roman.

“C’mon!” Patton gestured for Roman to approach, and Roman shook his head vehemently, as though Patton was insane for even asking.

As though prompted by the exchange, Virgil rumbled and shuffled around a bit in place, his paws creeping forward and head dipping lower in a pose that Patton didn’t recognize until he noticed the dragon’s tail swishing back and forth behind him.

Roman picked up on what was about to happen much quicker, going by the way he went pale and immediately attempted to scramble away.

“Virgil, wait—,” Patton attempted, and then sighed as his friend lunged forward like a cat pouncing, eliciting a terrified shriek from the knight they were supposed to be befriending.

Well. At least none of the bags had been jarred loose by the motion.

The screaming was a little concerning, but Patton was sure that Virgil wasn’t going to murder the guy or anything, so he didn’t bother rushing as he circled around to see what was going on.

What was going on was that Virgil had neatly pinned Roman down with one clawed paw, and was now snuffling at him intently.

Huh. That was a lot less aggressive posturing than Patton had expected, honestly. The more he watched, the more it looked like Virgil was checking Roman over the same way he had inspected Patton for injuries earlier, all gentle nudges and enquiring chuffs.

Not that one would have guessed listening to them. Roman yowled like he was being murdered for at least a solid half a minute after it became clear that there was no mauling going on. Patton pursed his lips, trying not to look too amused at the knight’s expense.

“He’s just checking on you,” he took the opportunity to say once Roman’s shouts had wound down to bewildered, rapid breathing. “He did the same to me, remember?”

Roman shot him a panicked, disbelieving glance from under his impromptu dragon-paw prison. “Yours was far less intensive than— than this!”

Patton shrugged. “Maybe he was just more worried because you were so sick for a while there?”

It made sense, when he thought about it. Virgil had always been a real mother hen whenever Patton so much as got the sniffles, and that was with a much smaller fraction of a dragon’s instinctual possessive worry. Patton had always endured his best friend’s neuroses about illness with as much patience as he could manage, but Roman hadn’t been willing to let Virgil do so much as a checkup once he’d woken up properly. Virgil’s pride wouldn’t let him insist on looking after the slayer after he was conscious enough to be kind of a jerk again, but not knowing the condition of someone he’d been responsible for had to be driving his friend crazy.

“Worried wasn’t really the impression I was getting from Virgil,” Roman gasped out, the tension in his frame slowly leaking away the longer he remained unharmed.

“Really?” Patton asked, a little surprised despite knowing his friend wasn’t exactly the open type. “Well, there’s your first lesson: Virgil’s always worried.”

The dragon in question glanced over at Patton a little sourly, and whuffled at Roman one last time before withdrawing, apparently entirely unapologetic for nearly scaring the soul out of their guest.

Roman lay on the ground for a moment longer, looking a little like he’d been struck by a runaway carriage. He sat up and patted himself down as though checking that he was still all in one piece.

He was, of course. Virgil sent him a slanted, disdainful look for thinking otherwise.

“Are you ready to give this a proper try, now?” Patton asked with an encouraging grin, reaching out to offer him a hand up.

Roman cleared his throat extensively, looking a little red around the ears, but ultimately accepted the help without much protest. He took a deep breath, regaining his composure.

This time, when he turned to survey Virgil’s draconic form, it was with more wary determination than outright fear.

“Very well,” he said, stepping forward. “Let’s get this over with.”

—

The third obstacle to their road trip was finding a place to stop for the night.

Not, as one might assume, because of a lack of safe or viable options on the ground below. No, it was convincing his companions to land at all that was proving to be the issue.

As it turned out, Roman’s fear of the flight had lasted for about as long as it took for Virgil to do his first midair spin, at which point he’d whooped with astounded delight so loudly that even folks on the next continent over had probably heard him.

“Gods above, you’re fast!” he’d gasped, clinging to Virgil’s leg as the land flashed by distantly below them. “There’s no way you could do that from higher up, though.”

It seemed Virgil was easier to goad than ever in this form, because he’d immediately taken a sharp incline, earning him yelps from his passengers. Between the two of them, the bulk of their flight was spent doing gravity-defying tricks and thrilling dives to just barely skim the mountains below.

Patton was glad they’d found something in common at last. He would have preferred they bond over a hobby that wasn’t so terribly dangerous and liable to make him so dizzy he upchucked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers!

He really was begging to reach land soon, though. Best friend or no, there was only so much strain a guy’s poor heart could take.

Plus, he’d plotted out their course with a little detour, and if they kept racing on like this, they might overshoot it completely. They were traveling all this way, it would be a downright shame if they couldn’t at least stop by and say hello to one of Virgil’s other buddies!

—

The fourth obstacle in their road trip was that Patton had forgotten just what kinds of acquaintances a Dragonwitch might have.

Or more importantly— what these acquaintances might think of the company Virgil was currently keeping.

This particular obstacle arrived at their camp that night in the form of an arm suddenly wrapping around Patton’s neck from behind, tugging him into a barely bearable chokehold as Virgil bolted to his feet and growled out a vicious warning.

Across from him, Roman was in a similar situation, but with a wicked-looking serrated blade pressed right up against his jugular, and a pair of unearthly yellow eyes visible over his shoulder.

“My, my,” a smooth voice broke the silence, making Virgil twitch. “I wonder what business a Faerin knight and his tagalongs have in my stretch of the woods?”

Uh oh. It looked like maybe their little detour would take longer than he’d expected…

#buobba #sanders sides fic #ts patton #ts roman #ts virgil #be unbroken or be brave again #my writing #writing #if i am missing tags. sory.

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cheriden · 3 months ago

Text

「オトナブルー otonablue 」。。。

The realization that he’s been gaping at you for a while hits him hard, clearing his throat as he comments, “You look stupid.” You fake a punch midair at his oh-so-insightful critique, pouting. Soobin notes the pink sheen that coats your bottom lip, feeling his heart stutter on itself.

── synopsis 。Celebrating your entry to senior high school, you decide to change your style up a bit.

pairing 。choi soobin x f! reader

.ᐟ genre 。fluff

.ᐟ tags 。high-school au, friends to lovers

.ᐟ status & word count 。oneshot | 2.59k

.ᐟ warnings/notes 。reader is fem presenting and has insecurity/vanity issues, as always i did not proofread

It’s summer; the station bustles with movement—passengers on their phones and overhead systems announcing the arrival of the upcoming train. The pathetic whirs of the overhead fan do nothing to quench heat, small children running around even as the floor is shrouded in something sticky, further aggravating you. Afraid of missing the next ride, you yank at Soobin to get his attention.

He’s busy though, entertaining a flock of girls currently plaguing him about himself. Soobin was never the type to leave a person hanging, more out of the fear of one’s judgment over pride for himself. “My type?” He ponders, ignoring your incessant curses and the gush of the passing vehicle. It takes off, only urging the brunette to stall further out of spite for your punching at his midrib. “Someone tall and pretty, with a confident personality. Preferably older.” Eavesdropping, though can you really call it that?, you glance at how the group deflates his response, even as you’re busy annoying him. He excuses himself, points at the train behind him prior to interlocking his arm with yours, and drags you away to the loading platform with your eyes still on the girls.

They’re captivating, towering and slim; you’re pretty sure you’ve seen idols and celebrities wear something similar, and you can’t help but stare down on yourself. You look homely: A plain house shirt that isn’t quite a type fit nor oversized, green cargo shorts that stop at your knees, flat sneakers that don’t do your height any favors and a hello kitty hair clip you’ve had since birth messily clamped into your hair. Lost in thought, you’re almost mauled by the door as the taller pulls you inside. He tuts, “We’re gonna be late because of you.” Rolling your eyes, you plop down onto one of the seats, Soobin following suit. “We’re late because you were busy flirting,” you retort, “late. On the first day, nonetheless.” A scowl spreads across his face, using two fingers to push your forehead, causing you to bump your head against the metal. “We wouldn’t need a review center if you didn’t flunk your statistics class.” Reaching to yank his hair, you fall short and stick your tongue out at him instead. “And why are you here? Because if my memory proves me right, you’re on the verge of failing it too.” The next stop frees up space, opting for Soobin to sit next to you. “Your mom ratted out about this place to my mom. I was gonna pass just fine” A rather obnoxious laugh falls from your mouth, earning the judging glares of random passersby. “If “just fine” is you randomly filling out your bubble test sheet, then I guess we’d all be just fine.” “Stop doing those air quote things!” He groans, swatting your fingers. “You’ll see. I'll finish all my work early and be free for the rest of the break.”

“It doesn’t work like that, idiot. You know what, it doesn’t even matter.” You lie, more for yourself than for him. “I doubt college entrance exams have it, I heard they don’t allow calculators.” Shaking his head, he presses his head on the window, trying to figure out the upcoming terminal. “Nah, you’re expected to do it mentally. Get up, this is our stop.” Mouth falling open, you try to collect yourself as Soobin yanks you up. “Are they insane?! How do they expect me to do all that in under an hour?” He shrugs, arms on your shoulders as you navigate the current of bodies. It’s summer, yet fate has you running back and forth the city studying for exams and running chores.

Half of your subconscious is listening to the instructor as she points at the whiteboard about—well, you don’t really know. The other half focuses on the magazine in your lap, free hand flipping through the pages as the other (pretends to) solve the problem in your workbook. A noise resounds through the hardwood desk, and you look up to see that the source is your seatmate’s ballpen. Relief fills your body as you pull all your attention onto the lesson, though it’s cut short when you see a notebook slide onto your side of the shared table. The sheet reads: “What are you looking at?” Nudging the pad over to you, you write back, “Fashion inspo. Want a makeover,“ with a sad face haphazardly sketched beside it. The other moves inches near the side of your face, voice small and low as she whispers. “Meet me in the women’s room after our session.”

The giddy feeling doesn’t leave your body, not as you were impatiently rushing through the activities, and not as you wait inside the washroom like a child waiting for their parent. She exits the stall, and it’s only then that you take in her as a whole. The girls from earlier were no match for her: hair freshly bleached and lobes pierced, thin shrug and loose crop top on as she strides in front of the mirror. “Sorry, had to pee.” She mutters, eyes glued to her hands while washing them. “So, why do you want a makeover?” Playing with the strap of your bag, you’re unable to give a direct answer. You aren’t even sure yourself. “Well, since I’m entering my senior year next term, so I think I styled myself more mature.” The other nods, eyes boring into yours as reflected by the mirror. “I think you’d look good with blue hair.” Blushing, you flounder over yourself, trying to maintain composure. “Thanks, but my school wouldn’t even allow makeup.” The blonde drags you over to the counters, dumping her sanitary pouch. “So, wear light makeup.” Your eyes glimmer as they scan each product, all the packages of pink, black, and red sitting prettily on the marble. “That’s a thing?” Nodding lazily, she grabs your wrist and one of her various lip balms, swatching it across the skin. “You don’t seriously think the prettiest girls in your class are barefaced, do you?” Listening attentively, you watch patiently as the other retreats her things into her tote. “You got your wallet?” You nod. “Got any cash on you?” You tilt your hand sideways, and the blonde thinks it’s good enough. “None of my old stuff matches your skin tone. Come on, we’re going to hunt for supplies.”

“Soobin! Wait up for me you idiot!” The brunette turns his head in hostility, slightly taken aback by your form. “Were you going to leave without me? Huh? You psycho.”

He inspects you from head to toe: The new barrette that shimmers in plastic gold, fitted tank top that sits halfway atop your belly button, denim shorts that reveal the plush of your thighs, platform sandals that you surprisingly don’t wobble in. The realization that he’s been gaping at you for a while hits him hard, clearing his throat as he comments, “You look stupid.” You fake a punch midair at his oh-so-insightful critique, pouting. Soobin notes the pink sheen that coats your bottom lip, feeling his heart stutter on itself.

Wait, what?

He dismisses the feeling, shooting back, “You left without me yesterday. I was just going to bike today.” Pout deepening, you clasp your hands together for mercy. “Please let me ride with you, ‘Binnie? I used all my allowance yesterday.” He laughs in disbelief, mounting his bike. “You’re so dead when your parents find out you missed a study day.” Screaming into the air, you grasp onto his shirt in an attempt to stop him from leaving. Not like he was going to, but he finds you hilarious like this. “Not if she kills you first for wearing that out.” You huff, crossing your arms at him. “It’s hot Soobin. Do you want me to die? Do you want me to die of a heat stroke or by the hands of my own mother?” Tapping his chin, he fakes a thought. “Both are very tempting.” You stare at him as if he betrayed you. With a smirk, he pats onto the seat behind him.

Upon arriving at the center, you roam around the sidewalk while waiting for the other as he locks his bike to the racks. Soobin can’t help but observe you sulk at the view of other kids your age out and about with their friends, eating ice cream and complaining about the weather, like that was the worst thing they had to worry about at the moment.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a familiar figure waving at you. As he nears you, you gasp and wave back, poking at the brunette relentlessly in order to get his attention. “Soobin! Yeonjun’s here!” You rush to hug the aforementioned, immediately patting down his pockets for anything edible. “She hasn’t had anything since breakfast. Spent all her money on useless things again.” Scoffing, you let go, adjusting the fit of your top. “All my purchases are investments! You don’t understand me.”

Yeonjun continues to ignore the two of you bicker, interjecting when you escalate to name-calling each other. “Aren’t you dolled up today?” He asks rhetorically, toying with the edges of your hair. The tallest watches you gleam at the words, linking your arm with the eldest. You fish for compliments, pressing the weight of your body against his, “Right? Am I pretty today?” Yeonjun finds endearment in your ceaseless puppy-eyes, and the brunette can all but see the non-existent tail wagging in the other’s presence. “Yes, you look very pretty today.” You squeal, and Soobin’s a bit annoyed, though he chalks it up to the fact that you’ve been outside in the heat for what it feels like hours. “See Soobin? See? ‘Junnie thinks I’m pretty today.” He rolls his eyes in response, walking through the front door as the two of you continue to trail behind him, hand-in-hand and complimenting each other like lovers.

The hours seem to slip away with surprising swiftness, feet tapping as the tutor concludes the session. It’s a Friday, and Soobin promised he’d go to the arcade with you today. Making your way through the halls in search of the brunette, you peek through each door, halting at the familiar ring of your name.

“I seriously don’t know what she’s up to. She looks stupid with that eyeshadow. It’s abhorrent.” Crouching by one of the corners in hiding, you can hear the giggling of those you recognize to be your schoolmates. “Must be seeking attention. Honest to God, it’s so unserious. Like she raids her bigger sister’s closet when she’s not home.” Fiddling with the hem of your top, you latch your teeth onto your lower lip, unable to stop the prick of tears forming at your eyes.

You suppose your interest in vanity was rather sudden, a shock to those around you and even to your closest friends. Combing the clips out of your hair, you toy with the frayed ends—a result of using an iron to style them like the models in photoshoots, the girls on the platform, and your seatmate with bleached hair. Maybe it was stupid and pointless. Why was this even affecting you so much? All you wanted was to feel good about yourself. You bury your face in your arms, cries flowing freely and silently onto the floor.

Just then, a large figure shadows you, prying your arms apart desperately. It isn’t until you hear who it is that you stop to gaze up. “Where the hell did you run off to?” Soobin asks, grasp on your sides softening when he notices the redness in your cheeks, ugly snot running from your nose.

For a while you’re just staring at him. He’s properly handsome—big eyes, tall nose, plump lips. You think it’s unfair. “Do you genuinely think I look stupid?” His brows furrow, brain struggling to connect the timeline of events that had led you here. “Where did that even come from?” In an attempt to restrain yourself from sniffling, it results in an even uglier, unhinged snort. You ignore it, as well as the look Soobin gives you. It’s not sharp, it’s not pity, you’re not entirely sure what it is. “I thought you said it was your type?” He lets out a large exhale, chuckling as he settles beside you. “Is that why you started dressing like this in the first place? ‘Cause I just said that so those girls would get off my back.” It takes him a while, but you can practically feel his body shoot up as he comes to an epiphany. “Do you like me?” Your body mirrors his shock, but in your case it’s a call to defend yourself. “I thought it was universal like!”

A genuine smile finds its way onto his face, disappearing when he clears his throat. “Well,” he starts, cupping your face as he pulls you in closer, “I like you regardless of what you put on.” Tracing the ends of your jaw, his eyes move to gaze onto your lips, then your eyes, then your nose. He connects every feature of yourself that makes you, you. Your heart gets caught up in your throat, thumping a million times per second. Eyes screwed shut, you clench your bag when the warmth of his breath mixes with yours. He seals the gap with a peck on the mouth, movement stuttering as you feel his nervousness through the action. A beat passes, but you kiss back—head tilting to slot into him. His lips taste of sugar and bread, a reflection of its plumpness as it glazes itself in your lip balm. Everything about him is warm, and you all but chase it when you disconnect, both of your cheeks flushed in pink as you falter and pant on his shoulder. “So I’m guessing you like me back.” He remarks, still unsure of himself as he toys with the strings of his sweater, eyes avoiding yours. “So what? You liked me first?” Taking it as acknowledgement, he bites the inners of his cheek with a meek smile,”Well, I only found out recently.” Your hand ghosts near his, desperate for his warmth again but too afraid to say anything. “I think… I’ve known for a while now… Just needed something to make me think of it consciously.” His fingers are the same, testing the waters when he carefully entangles it with yours. In an attempt to lessen the amount of awkward tension that holds the air, he states the obvious. “I think a kiss would do it, yeah.” It doesn’t work, not really, so he gets up to stretch the nerves off, you following suit with his hand still in yours. It’s your turn to try saying something, but you’re not really sure what to say. “My lipstick is ruined.” Of course, your main default is to complain and nitpick. “You must take responsibility! I had a hard time putting all this together.” He grins when you gander at the physical connection, inspecting it from all sides as you rotate it slightly. “You still look pretty.” He asserts, swaying them back and forth as you make your way out of the building. “But would you say it was a good investment?”

Soobin’s head swivels to flash you his pointed eyes, “Are you surveying me for a product review after I kissed you?” With a shrug, you bump your body against his with a little force. “Maybe. Or maybe you should kiss me again.”

“Maybe.”

reuploaded! because tumblr was being mean to me

thank you for reading! feedback, reblogs and tags are appreciated♡

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blorbocedes · 1 year ago

Note

Painting their nails / girlcedes ?

"Sit still, you're - you're wiggling." Nico snaps, dabbing a wet tissue at where she went over the edge yet again, second coat of the milky white gloss.

Lewis is tapping her foot, impatient. "Am not. You're just bad at it, dude."

Nico goes a splotchy pink whenever it's implied she's bad at something, something Lewis picked up on when their karting coach critiqued Nico's admittedly shit start, and her face went the same shade of embarrassed. This close, Nico's nose red and freckly from all the time they spend in the sun.

Why the hell you go and make things so complicated is blasting from Nico's CD player. She's the one who got the idea to do their nails, after the rain meant their race got postponed. Nico's are always painted, and sharing rooms with her -- Lewis knows the work behind keeping that French manicure pristine. Lewis herself doesn't care, they'll get chipped from the gloves and when they race anyways, so what's the point? Nico groaned something about how looking at Lewis' naked sad nails were giving her a headache, and Lewis called her a bitch. And then they were at the sole desk of their shared room.

"Shut up, Lewis." Nico's back to work, frowning and shiny blond hair falling over her face. Nico's just so... girly. Lewis knows the comments the boys make about her, daddy's a world champion so she gets a free ride while looking pretty. Nobody makes those comments about Lewis because she's here to win. Nobody cares what she looks like, with her cropped short hair and sports bra -- hell, they think she's a boy and it's always fun to see their faces when they realise they've been beaten by the only black girl. Nobody thinks Nico's a boy. With her pretty nails and makeup and face. The boys, when Keke's not around, try to ask for her E-mail before Lewis' withering glare shuns them off. That's for the best, she tells herself. Lewis doesn't want to be liked, she wants to be respected.

She doesn't have time to sit around and do her nails, when she needs to be more than the best to simply make it. Nico has all the time in the world.

Sometime in 2016, Lewis is a three-time world champion, fighting for her fourth. She shows up to races in expensive extensions, bejewelled nails done to the nines, to be taken off before practice and an entirely new set done by the time she's ready to party on Sunday. Nobody can tell her anything. She's made her place, here. Marked her name on the sport.

It's during a boring post quali interview, Lewis impatiently tapping her foot when she looks at Nico beside her, hands on the mic. Nails trimmed neat, short. No polish. Wedding ring.

#girlcedes #forgive my girl lewis it's 2002 she's 16 and has the worlds worst not like other girls complex #f1 rpf #my fics #prompt game #blorbocedes ask

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soft-mafia · 1 year ago

Text

Buzzsaw [Buggy x Reader]

Part 1: Introductions, Troublesome Girl

warnings: fem reader, oc insert, slow burn, age gap mention(reader is 20), blood/injury, reference to violence and murder, set before the events of One Piece, not completely proof read

a/n: I decided to go through with the idea of making my own series since I’ve been inspired by all of the fics others have made! I hope you guys like this loollll I’ll try to make sure to update as frequently as possible. Also there’s this part where Y/n introduces herself with her last name first, I only did that because in OP a lot of the characters do that too. Tbh I don’t think I’ll continue this if you guys don’t like it😭so please feel free to send in any opinions or critiques!! (This fic is about anime/manga Buggy btw)

“What do we think, boys?” Buggy asked as his men kneeled down next to the unconscious body of a woman. She was still breathing, but was bleeding out slowly. Her clothes were drenched in blood, more noticeable on her white coat.

“She’s loosing a lot of blood. Should we take her back to the ship?” One of his crew members asked.

Buggy squinted, rubbing his stubbled chin for a moment as he looked up in thought, “Hmmm..” he looked back down at the woman.

“Oh what the hell, I am feeling a bit generous today.” Buggy said before kneeling down to gently pick her up. She was light, extremely light, he knew that she had to get medical attention fast before she died.

“What the hell was she even doing out here anyway?” Cabaji questioned, “This island is desolate, there’s no town here and judging by her clothes it doesn’t look like she’s apart of a tribe of some sort.”

“It is a bit peculiar. We can ask her questions once she gets fixed up.. well erm, if she doesn’t die on us, that is.” Buggy looked down at the girl in his arms. [H/c] hair fell over her face, her lips slightly parted, there was blood dripping down her face from a head wound. Buggy held her firmly in his arms, carrying her back to the ship.

•

When she awoke, her head was pounding. The smell of musk and sea air filled her nose and made her cringe upon consciousness.

Faint sounds of seagulls could be heard from outside. She sat up and looked around; she was in a dingy make-shift nurses office, but all of her wounds were perfectly bandaged and wrapped up.

She swung her legs over the side of the cot, then looked around some more until she caught the glimpse of a window. Where the hell am I? She stood and made her way towards the glass to look out at her surroundings; there wasn’t any land. “Shit..” she mumbled under her breath before stomping out of the room, wanting to get a better look at where the hell she was.

When she stepped out of the room she was met with a long corridor of other doors, but at the end of it was a bright tunnel of light that she followed. It led her to the main deck, she looked up, holding an arm over her eyes to block out the morning sun. The girl was met with a Jolly Roger with a big red dot where the nose should be. What the hell?

She ran over to the edge of the ship, putting her hands on the railing as she looked down at the sea, she saw her reflection in the water far below, her face was clean, and a huge bandage was placed on the right side of her hairline, where her injury once was. The girl looked out to the sea for a while longer, a small wave of relief fell over her, until she remembered what happened.

She stood there for a moment, her breathing shaky as it all played out in her mind once again, her hair blowing through the wind.

“Look who finally woke up! Sorry toots but we had to toss that coat of yours, there’s no way you’d be able to get all that blood out of it anyway.” A deep chuckle emerged from behind her, followed by creaking footsteps against the deck. The girl turned around to face the voice in both shock and surprise. She looked like a ghost at snuck up on her, making the man put his hands up innocently, “Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

The man was tall, broad shoulders and an even broader torso; he practically casted a shadow upon her, making her feel slightly intimidated. The most noticeable feature about him though was right in the center of his face.

At first glance she thought it was fake, but the texture of it, and the fact that his nostrils molded into it made her eyes widen slightly.

“You should be thanking me, my crew found you basically half dead, if it wasn’t for us you’d probably be eaten by the crabs.” The man said, his voice was hoarse but deep, and has a menacing undertone. She looked into his eyes, a deep ocean green, his brow bone casted a shadow over them that just added to his chiseled features. Rough looking stubble painted his jaw.

She felt a warm feeling in her chest, she stood there in awe, not even realizing he was speaking.

“Hm?” The man grunted, confused by her lack of response.. she looked like a stunned possum, “Are you listening to me?!” He growled, “Stop staring at me like that and show some appreciation!! It’s rare for me to be so generous, especially to brats like you.”

“Oh- uh.. are you a pirate?” The girl finally spoke, slowly taking her arms off of the railing and turning her body towards him. The way she moved interested him, soft movements, but careful and wary, like a cat.

“I’m not just any pirate.” The man chuckled and crossed his arms, the sleeves of his red striped t-shirt squeezing against those muscular arms, “I’m Captain Buggy!” He said with a grin, surely this girl knew who he was. He was the most feared, flashy pirate around!

She just stared at him again, with those same big bug eyes. “Eh-.. Captain Buggy the pirate clown!” He frowned at her, narrowing his eyes a bit, “The flashiest, most feared pirate captain in all of the East Blue?!”

“I don’t-.. I don’t really follow pirate stuff.” She replied, making him grumble and press his palm to his forehead for a moment before looking down at her again, “Well remember the name because I’m the reason why you’re still alive! What the hell even happened to you anyway? What causes a little girl like yourself to just.. wind up on a desolate island, half dead?”

Buggy raised a brow as he noticed her demeanor change, she looked to the side nervously, suddenly becoming scared again before she whispered, “Buzzsaw.”

This made the clown’s eyes widen, “What?”

“I was.. kidnapped by Buzzsaw. Me and my friends.”

“Buzzsaw?! The serial torturer that not even the marines mess with?!” Buggy felt a cold chill run down his spine, “It’s rare for someone to survive a run in with him.. he’s gonna be coming after you y’know?”

“He killed all of them.” The girl said, looking back out at sea. Buggy was really starting to regret his decision of saving this girl.. “Your friends?” His voice cracked. What the hell was I thinking?! That maniac is going to come back looking for this girl and I don’t think I’m strong enough to take down someone like him!! Buggy panicked in his mind.

“When I escaped he- didn’t try to fight back. He just let me leave.” She whispered again, not actually speaking to Buggy, but she was trying to make sense of it all. Why did he let me leave?

“Yeah yeah that’s nice. Uh, where do you live exactly?” Buggy laughed nervously, clasping his hands together, “Just tell me, I’ll tell the navigator and you’ll be back home in no time to mommy and daddy!” He grinned, breaking a sweat.

“I can’t go back home.” She turned back towards him, “I have nothing left— I don’t have parents, and now that all of my friends are dead I have nothing.” Tears pooled in her waterline, making Buggy’s heart clench.

Don’t look at me with those eyes..!!

“Well um.. you can’t stay here.” Buggy swallowed, “Sorry kid, but I can’t have you here. You being here just put a huge target on my ship!”

“But you can protect me, can’t you? Like you said, you’re the most feared pirate ever. There’s no way Buzzsaw would come after me if I’m with you.”

Buggy cursed himself for trying to impress this girl moments ago.. Damn it!! Why did I say that!! “Umm. Yes, but.. as a captain I have the duty to keep my crew safe!!” He stood up straight, hands on his hips, “Sure, I can fend off that guy without a problem.. but my crew aren’t the sharpest tools in the toolbox y’know.”

“Then let me join your crew or something! Is there an application I can fill out?” The girl looked up at him again, stepping closer to him, a desperate plead in her voice. “Eh- err.. fine! Fine! You can be on cabin girl duty or whatever..” I need to get rid of this girl!!

“Cabin girl?! Isn’t that for kids?! I’m an adult!!”

“You’re so ungrateful!! You know I can just throw you overboard right?!” Buggy snarled, “You’re lucky I’m even letting you join my crew!”

Buggy and the girl glared at each other for a moment before she huffed and turned away, crossing her arms. “What’s your name, anyway?” Buggy grumbled out, looking her body up and down, Hmm. Not too bad.

“Y/n.” She replied, “L/n Y/n.”

“Do you know anything about being a pirate, Y/n?” Buggy asked her with a smirk. After a few days she’ll be begging to go back home, she looks so weak! She wouldn’t last a day on this crew, that’s a perfect way to get that Buzzsaw off my tail! “Not really. But you can teach me right?” Y/n looked up at him, still glaring, but her voice was soft with a hint of hopefulness. Buggy hummed and put a hand on his chin, “I suppose I could..” Just for now.. until she starts crying to be let off the ship.

Buggy then stepped beside of Y/n, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and holding her firmly to his side with a laugh, “Well here, let me give you a tour of the ship! And a run down of what you’ll be doing for me.”

Y/n couldn’t help but blush. He was so strong, and the way he held her.. she chewed on her bottom lip and looked down at the deck as he led her off, rambling about pirate stuff, but she wasn’t listening. Y/n’s mind began to wander as well, what was she going to do now? Was she going to spend the rest of her life as a pirate, hiding behind this captain for the rest of her life? She couldn’t get the blood curdling screams out of her head, the sound of her friends choking on their own blood, the haunting images of their mangled corpses.

“Are you listening?” Buggy interrupted Y/n’s train of thought. She blinked for a moment, then looked back up at him, “Huh?” She then looked at her surroundings. They were in the lower deck, crates stacked upon crates, some unopened, some not.

“Your first task is simple, take stock of every thing, make sure things are in the right boxes.. shouldn’t be too hard, right?” Buggy gave Y/n a firm pat on the back which nearly knocked her over. “What?! But there’s like a million boxes in here!! And I’m still injured!”

“Well in that case it looks like you’re gonna have a lot of work to do then, huh?” Buggy laughed before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Y/n to her own devices. That should do it! Surely she won’t be able to finish all of that so easily without a slip up.. and once she makes a mistake I can just kick her off at the next town without feeling like an asshole! Perfect!

The next day, Buggy walked down to the storage room, Cabaji and Mohji in tow behind him with a huge smirk on his face— but when he got there.. Y/n was asleep on top of one of the crates, everything looked clean and orderly. He then bent down to pick something up off the floor, “What’s this?” He grunted, squinting and looking at it as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

It was a clipboard, Y/n had written down each labeled box along with its components, “No way! No way she did this all by herself!! It’s impossible!!”

Buggy’s grumbling was interrupted by a scream from Mohji, then a loud thud as he fell to the floor.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Y/n shouted as she jolted awake. “I didn’t mean to wake you up!! I swear!!” The beast tamer scrambled to his feet, then brushed off dust from his chest.

Buggy stormed over to Y/n, “You- you did all of this?!” He pointed at the clip board.

Y/n rubbed her eyes, then took it from him, “Oh yeah, I did. I organized everything and took stock just like you asked.. how long was I asleep?”

Buggy grumbled and looked down at his wrist, “No idea..”

Y/n furrowed her brows, sitting up on her knees while watching Buggy as he checked his bare wrist as if he was wearing a watch, “What are you looking at?”

Buggy snorted softly when he realized what he was doing, he then jerked his fist down and then growled at Y/n, “That’s none of your concern!!!” He snapped before turning away, his coat swishing behind him flashily as he stomped out of the storage room.

#one piece #one piece buggy #buggy one piece #buggy the clown #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy headcanons #oc x buggy #oc x canon #buggy imagines #one piece x reader #one piece x oc #buggy the star clown #buggy op #op buggy

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craftlands · 5 months ago

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oop sorry! i did come across one of your mor pankh posts regarding the designs and such about the characters and i do have some points to lay out on their accuracies and inaccuracies, as an indian myself, though i cannot say my word for it will be wholly accurate since again, india as a subcontinent is VERY chaotic and the cultures within different states and a lot of times, certain villages and territories vary drastically. a lot of my points could be disagreed with by another indian and if some of my points ARE incorrect, i'm open to being corrected.

i know it's also pretty late, considering this was one of your older posts but i did give it some chew time. sorry if i'm bothering you.

1) first up is kaalaa baunaa. she IS wearing a saree but the draping and style is pretty reminiscent of modernized styles of saree draping. we do have the traditional drape but the generations right now have gotten to mixing and matching western clothing and experimenting with saree drapes. her outfit, while not culturally inaccurate ( because we HAVE the short/pant combo with the saree ) is grossly inaccurate to the time and setting.

there's also the fact that her outfit screams 'bollywood' in a sense. the blouse in particular is something you'd see on actresses during burner movie shoots ( and even those were a little less provocative...but again the blouse does hold a lot of callbacks to colonial oppression and wearing sleeveless blouses back then was considered 'rebellious' ). in my opinion, if i were to change up her design, i would just omit the saree and put her in a salwaar, since that is the usual go to in northern indian states ( unless in formal events ).

but for the stuff i loved about the design? is the design itself XD. it's just grossly inaccurate to the timeline, but in a modern context, it does have a very stylish flair to it. i just wish she reserved those for festivals rather than everyday living ( because from experience, sarees are HARD to walk in depending on how you drape it which is why my college uniform is a salwaar ). unless they were trying to hammer home how alien she is perceived to be, as an arcanist, which in this case? it works thematically. just tone down the sexualization.

her second outfit is a little more accurate though and i have a preference to that. mostly because of the jewellery she uses. mh. the bollywood style outfit? the embroided saree? the baithale bottu? MH. y e s.

tldr ; the design is pretty good but contextually, for the timeline and for her occupation? it's not the most accurate. but i wouldn't call it a travesty and completely inaccurate either. in a modern setting, her outfit would have passed well in a get together or a friend's party.

2) shamane. okay so the imagery and his outfit WAS something i needed to do my research on. but the 'connection to nature' thing is pretty common here too in tribal societies. my own community, while centuries far removed from it's initial tribal roots, still worships familial sprits and natural objects alonsgside the usual practice of hinduism. i kind of liked that aspect about him tbh because it did reflect of the few vestiges that were left over in my community XD. hell a good chunk of his design was very steeped in tribal influence, though differentiating it is a little difficult ( which again is my critique, but that could also be me not being as well versed in indian tribal culture. it's probably in part because of ignorance. ).

the closes i can get to the influence of his outfit would be naga tribes in nagaland with a mix in of a few others. i'll try to do more research and get back to you on that. i'm just wondering how he got all the way to nagaland???? that's like in the far east...though if were to narrow down the locations, it would be in the few locations where it snows...HMMMM. but yeah the feather motif? tribes here seem to tout it too, depending on what tribe it is.

he does wear your typical sherwani with a large coat on top, something that is, in fact accurate to men's fashion at the time. most middle class or well to do families ( the ones who were not a part of the 60% - 70% below the poverty line ) did hold that similar style of traditional wear with western influence, or straight up turn to western clothing as a whole. its a very small nod to the fact that he was from a well to do family at least. then the eye imagery on the prosthetic arm could be a reference to the nazar, though it's not blue.

tldr; his outfit holds heavy tribal influence but i really need to do my research on which ones in particular.

3) kanjira.

okay. i'm a little upset with her. the fortune teller aspect is rooted in how astrology played a huge part in indian culture. the coffee readings could have been an aspect carried over by cultural mixing through islamic trade and invasions as well. kanjira is another aspect that is a little more of unsure territory. there are parts of her outfit that i can recognize. but together it does feel a little disjointed. and confusing. her jewelry is recognizable. her kamarbandh for one and her skirt.

the blouse though? that confuses me. for one it's more in line with 1910s fashion. the blouse was initially not a part of a lot of traditional indian dresses and were introduced by the british due to extreme discomfort ( aka they didn't like that indian women didn't cover up their chest ). the earlier blouses strongly resembles victorian blouses, with puffed sleeves and ruffles. but then there is that older the shoulder thingie and i'm like ??? HOW DOES THAT WORK-

the snake motif could be a reference to the irula tribe from south india. even her name is a reference to an instrument in south india ( which resembles a tambourine ). i don't think her base outfit is based on accuracy due to the mismatched nature of it. it seems like she just took what clothes she could and made do with that, which given her economic status, makes sense. her alt outfit does glean into what influences she took after, perhaps the banjara tribe. i will need to look into it some more. but it is admittedly, facing a similar problem to kaalaa in how it's so heavy stylized. it's not accurate save for the motifs and yes, it could do with some better work in both versions.

now for the stereotype. i'm very on the fence in this sense with how i could understand that the 'thief' stereotype is referenced. but kanjira is however, a product of some very real stuff that happened ( and still goes on even now ). the unfortunate reality is that people who are considered beneath the lower caste and obc umbrella face their share of discrimination as hooligans and thieves amongst the indian majority as well, even today. it's harmful, but she's the reflection of the struggles of a lot of communities who lived in poverty post colonial india. the british left a lot of scars and the governments after did very little to help and kanjira, as a child with no parents did what a lot of kids back then turned to. it's circumstances deeply rooted in systemic oppression, casteism and so many other issues. i've had family members in similar situations ( my mother's side in particular ).

so i do wince at the fact that she's labelled as a 'stereotype' even though i do see WHY she's a stereotype when the context is removed. her spoken english is also another wince. i know you didn't mean to be offensive and i'm sure to a lot of indians you might not be but kanjira's english is the way it is simply because she was never formally educated in it. she does refer to asking for help to read english words and it's fairly obvious she picked up on the language by listening to others speak it. matilda however, did have to learn it from a pretty young age in the foundation. she was educated in it, whether she likes it or not ( a lot like my case ).

a bit of a breakdown here. english is mostly learned in india for the sake of convenience. it's used in our parliament because it's culturally neutral and doesn't show favor to certain state languages ( and native language in itself is a very culturally sensitive topic in india ). you learn it in case you need to study in foreign firms or if you travel abroad. it also means that if you and a good chunk of other indians speak in english, it allows some leeway to communicate in other states. because again, different languages and dialects are spoken in different parts of india. i myself have a better chance of communicating with a different people from different states in english, no matter how broken it is than having to learn a separate language every time.

i know a lot of people in my college who didn't start learning english till grade 11 and speak pretty similarly to kanjira. so alluding to her imperfect english as a 'not great thing' kind of rubs me the wrong way due to personal gripes of mine, mostly in part due to how eletist it tends to be at times. the mindset of janjira not being good at english being considered 'really not great' kind of fuels into a still ongoing problem of insecurity and a lot of other issues i'd rather not clog the post with.

she's fluent in hindi and it's obviously her preferred language and she can certainly write and read hindi as well. it's kind of similar to making fun of an american for not knowing fluent french they picked up from a few classes, while they're still in america. again, i doubt you meant any harm saying that but my gripe with how learning english is so desperately seeded in some families just to appease how the west views us ( that stereotype you mentioned? yeah ) and the constant perpetuation of the stereotype, has a lot of ramifications.

i don't know how to explain it but it's kind of like this : you call broken english a stereotype, we're afraid of being stereotyped, we try to avoid being stereotyped. but there are people here who can't. maybe their medium of education wasn't english for a good few years, even if their family is well off. that leads to further discrimination from us to them and from you to them.

yes english is a neutral language, but it's also horrifically overrated due to the imbued belief that it also alludes to being educated. i lost chunks of my own mother tongue trying to learn english, simply because it was given more priorities at my home and at my school because of us moving and the imbued fear of seeming uneducated.

i know you meant no harm to that.

but on a cooler note, punji literally means 'money'. kanjira named her snake 'money' and with the drip it has? it's strangely cute XD. it's like that one meme.

also kanjira's accent, kind of reminds me of a few annoying girls in my school ( it's a very common accent in north india and my hindi speakers tbh ). she's literally the valley girl's take in india. the drawl, the lilting tones every time i listen to her, i hear that one girl from fourthe grade and i'm like "n o." because it has that condescending edge to it. i love it XD.

tldr ; kanjira is both 'it kind of makes sense' and 'fuck it we ball'. she could do with reworking. i like the thought that her outdated blouse and her clothing was a mix and match, possibly picked up from charities as well but...yeah XD.

these are mostly my takes. overall, i thing r1999 actually has some of the better depictions of indian culture compared to a lot of other stuff out there ( and there is a LOT of bad stuff ). the fact that there was variation in their accents, the casual switch between english and hindi, the story of mor pankh itself and shamane's incessant need to feed us ( which is a thing in our families btw )...i'm pretty happy with it. and yes, even we fuck up aspects of our own culture. aka, adipurush exists and i will shit on that way more.

sorry for bothering you and thanks for reading through it all ( and i hope i didn't come across as rude in that segment about language )!

hiya! sorry for taking so long to get to this ask -- i was out of town for like a week and had absolutely Zero energy on coming back for like another week afterwards. i want to head this off by saying you're not bothering me in the slightest, i'm genuinely delighted to get to be able to talk about things like this in more depth and i really appreciate you taking the time to write this out! (peek behind the curtain: i have gotten up several times and paced around excitedly in the course of writing this. i REALLY love discussion and critique and Learning Context in general.)

i think time's been pretty kind to the Mor Pankh update, all things considered -- having several months to sit on it (and also no longer playing CROB -- good god Centipede and Black Pepper are an absolute mess of racist/Orientalist tropes, and that was pretty recent at the time of Mor Pankh), it's definitely better than i initially gave it credit for. a lot of things you've mentioned here -- especially a good deal of the further context on Kaalaa Baunaa and Shamane's clothing, as well as further context on Kanjira -- is something i truly don't have much to add to other than "i didn't know that, and this makes me a lot more favorable towards them than before".

definitely Kanjira is still someone i find myself heavily split on. i think a lot of what you mentioned about the way i treated her speaking broken English very callously is probably right on the money and thank you for the correction on that end -- given the context of the story that seems to be one of the more thoughtful aspects of her overall characterization and design. the thief/fortuneteller stereotype is something i'm a little more hesitant to dismiss at face value, though; while it may be a coincidence, there's definitely a history of stereotyping Rromani people in particular as like... scantily clad fortunetellers who steal from people, and it's something that feels really prevalent in Kanjira's design for me. from an in-story perspective i think rev19 does a great job of contextualizing and fleshing her out as a character, but from an overview of the character it rings eerily similar to Orientalist tropes about both Indian and Rromani people in a way that i will probably never be fully comfortable with.

i do think it's hilarious that her snake is named Money though. that's beautiful and i can't complain in the slightest.

Kaalaa Baunaa is a delight to read about in terms of where her outfit might be drawn from. i genuinely don't know a good 90% of the fashion/clothing context when it comes to basically anything in rev19, so for a lot of it i'm definitely deferring to you in terms of whether or not her outfit is accurate. i do definitely like her second outfit better as well (it also looks a lot more comfortable. we're under a heat advisory where i am right now and i WISH i had something like that to wear when i eventually have to go out and walk the dog). i don't really have much else to say here, though

finally for Shamane i will fully admit to being woefully out of my depth and being very attuned to looking for First Nations stereotypes owing to that be a particular trope i'm very used to seeing (gods the feather thing happens SO MUCH). that said, i am absolutely kicking myself for not researching things first, i think learning more about the context of his specific design and beliefs makes me come around a lot more positively to some of the aspects of his design -- especially what you mentioned about it being historically accurate, as that's something i did not consider initially and is really cool to hear about wrt what the design process may have been! (also i love his arm design, like, a lot. no idea if connecting it to nazar designs makes sense or not, it does appear that those are almost exclusively blue though maybe in the context of rev19's worldbuilding red eyes would have developed as the "evil eye" instead? idk, but i can probably count on one hand the amount of prosthetic users in gacha games whose missing limbs are actually given thought and treated as aspects of the story rather than just visual flavor.)

in conclusion: yeah, i think after learning more about the context behind these character designs i was definitely a bit harder on Mor Pankh than i needed to be -- relative to other games that take a swing at depicting SWANA and/or Indian cultures i think rev19 is doing way better in that category than most of them. i will say part of why i am so frequently critical of rev19 is that i also love the game a lot -- i don't put much time or effort into critiquing things that are just straight up bad, and if i'm hard on something that's usually because i really want to sink my teeth into it and talk about what works and doesn't work within its story and broader cultural contexts.

(and also -- thank you again for taking the time and thought to send me this! i can't express enough how much i appreciate being able to learn more about the context of a lot of these characters and the story and just, like, talk about it openly. it rocks! thank you!!)

#Anonymous #long post #reverse 1999 #AAAAA I'M SO SORRY I'M LATE. BY LIKE A WEEK. CHEESE LOUISE IT'S BEEN A TIME #seriously though again again thank you. i was way too mean about kanjira in retrospect yikes #like admittedly a lot of this comes from a usamerican reading of these designs and noticing some iffy similarities #so i was definitely not going to get it fully right -- but i would always rather be corrected than let something that looks bad go unnotice #(if that makes like. any sense at all)

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welcometothedopeworld · 1 month ago

Text

Absolutely (NOT)! ~ *Hajun Yeon*

Summary: You're the head of a very important fashion house. Hajun is one of your top models. And he isn't satisfied with the work your designers are putting out...

Pairing: Hajun Yeon X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffyish Drabble

Word Count: 817

Warning: N/A

Masterlist

A/N: I found this again after going through some old fics. Thought I would spruce it up before reposting it.

You shook your head. No, no, no. Absolutely not!

“The colors are all wrong and the shape doesn’t fit this body type at all! Try again!” You snapped at the designer before moving on.

The rest of the designers that had assembled before you also had barely passable work. Your critiques were harsh, but you didn’t like to sugar-coat things. If there was something wrong in their designs, you were going to tell them. Besides, you still had faith in their skills. They just needed that little extra push to be absolutely perfect.

In your office, you went over numbers, designs, and invitations to different parties and shows. It was hard work being the CEO of a famous and successful fashion house. But you enjoyed it. All the work kept you on your toes and you loved being at the forefront of the fashion world. You wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“L/n?” Your secretary called over the intercom. “A Hajun Yeon is here to see you.”

You scowled, debating on whether or not to tell her to send him away. Hajun was the only thing that actually made your job truly difficult. It was always a struggle working with a diva like him.

Despite the headache you knew you were in for, you flicked your intercom on. “Alright. Send him in.”

Not even a second later, Hajun strolled into your office like he owned the place and flopped onto a chair in front of your desk. You surveyed his attire, a habit you unfortunately picked up from your career. It was a sort of street style that you wouldn’t be caught dead advertising out of your fashion house. However, he unfortunately wore it well and looked downright handsome. That still didn't mean you were going to go easy on him.

“I’d like a new designer.” He asked, completely void of sympathy or concern.

“Absolutely not.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Because I said so.” You frowned at him before returning to the papers littering your desk. “Besides, I’m the boss around here. What I say goes.”

“You know if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll quit. I’m your best model, and you know it! Without me, you’re nothing!” He snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rolling your eyes at his little temper tantrum, you leaned back in your chair. “Come up with a better line already. You use that same excuse every time I deny one of your requests.”

Hajun scoffed. “It’s the truth though. You need me, whether you like it or not. Besides, there’s nothing keeping me here. I didn’t even want to be a model.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because…” He trailed off, realizing he had just been caught in trying to play tricks. You tried your hardest to keep your smug smile off your face as he tried to think. Eventually, he muttered, “Because I like your designs, that’s why.”

The smug smile slipped free and you didn’t even try to hide it. You knew it. He always told you how much he liked the designs that came out of your fashion house. He had practically begged to be your top model a year ago because he was so obsessed with your work. Still, it was nice to know that after all this time he still appreciated it, even if he was complaining like a diva. It was why you were so hard on your workers. They had great ideas and great work, they just needed the right kind of pressure to put forth that kind of work.

“Where is all of this coming from anyways?”

“Well I heard you talking to your designers today, saying everything they made was awful. If you don’t even believe in their work, I don’t want to wear it.” He exclaimed.

“First of all,” You responded, your deathly serious tone causing him to narrow his eyes. “Those designers I was talking to are new. I keep them near my office so if they have any questions or require assistance, I’m right here. Second of all, you've been assigned to Brigitte and Damian. They’re the two best designers here. Everything they make is flawless, so if that doesn’t sound like I believe in their work, maybe you should leave.”

He shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I’m fine with Brigitte and Damian. They’re good. Besides, your fashion looks perfect on me. Why should I leave? You need me to stay. I got a good gig going on here. I shouldn’t give it up because the new designers aren’t perfect yet.”

You shot him a cheeky grin. “Exactly. Now get out of my office if you’re just going to bitch and moan about nothing.”

As Hajun started to leave, he paused at your door. With a shit-eating smile, he added, “Also, I would like a raise.”

“Absolutely not.”

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hermit-lover · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! Could you write a romantic Mumbo x reader where the reader is Iskall's sibling? Mumbo realising that he's caught feelings for his best friend's sibling, friends to lovers type beat, inspired by Accidentally In Love by Counting Crows? just lots of fluff :))

Oh no.

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

Character: MumboJumbo X Reader

Type: Blurb (~1.5K)

Theme: Fluff, Romantic

Summary: Stealing materials from your sibling Iskall evolves into much more then you bargained for. Not that you're complaining.

TW: Innuendos, flipping someone off

A/N: I may have made reader too cocky- I just like flustered Mumbo, okay??! I don't watch Iskall much so I'm hoping this is alright, heard their character used They/Them pronouns so that's what I used :).

"Iskall!" You call, voice carrying through the warm spring air. It was excellent weather, and most Hermits were taking advantage of it by grinding out their Megabases or farms. You had joined the trend, digging into your shulkers and building as much as you could. That was, until you happen to run out of logs.

The cobblestone under your feet guides you towards your siblings base, placing your bets that they had the exact same idea as you. Buds and blooming flowers lined the path, inviting you towards the structure. You always admired their builds, but couldn't help mentally critiquing a few details. It was your relationship; advice through teasing. Helped you a ton to learn redstone. (Although there was still room for improvement). "Iskall!!" You yelled again, head tilting as voices fluttered through the space.

"Over here!" Their voice replied, and you adjusted your steps to be-line towards them. Stepping around a wooden post, you spot two figures hunched over a contraption, speaking in a low whisper. Dropping into a crouch, you take careful steps towards the pair. A smile tugs at your lips, and you have to stifle a chuckle. This was so dumb. As you draw closer you identify them, your sibling of course, and Mumbo. Perfect targets. Once you deem yourself close enough, you lunge forwards. Punching them both in one swoop.

"Boo!" You exclaim, grinning.

"OH MY-" Mumbo leaps up, straightening to his full height and then some. Nearly crashing into Iskall with the force of his reaction.

"AH-" Iskall flinches, narrowly avoiding Mumbo. You burst into laughter, doubling over from the force of it. You can hear the pair start to laugh themselves, Mumbo heaving with hand on his chest like an offended Victorian lady. The sight only makes you laugh harder. Iskall winds back and punches you, knocking you sideways into Mumbo, who struggles to catch your body, weak from laughter. "I hate you." Iskall decides, trying to push down their smile.

"I love you too." You wheeze back, clinging to the lanky redstoner for support. Its not hard to notice how Mumbo tenses up, and how he quiets down. He always seemed a bit shy around you, which was weird considering you were his best friend's sibling. He practically sees you everyday. If you said you didn't find it endearing, you'd be lying. Although it did get in the way of bonding, which was a shame considering your tiny, itty bitty, absolutely massive crush. Trying to hide it from Iskall was fruitless, they could read you from a mile away. Realizing you were still practically hugging Mumbo, you release the poor man.

"Sorry Mumbo." You grin, definitely not sorry at all. He sighs, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place. Cheeks flushed, avoiding your gaze. You wish you could reach up and tussle it, but you didn't want to give him a heart attack. Again. It always looked better when out of place in that messy, intimate way. A cough jolts you from your thoughts.

"Did you come over here just to stare at Mumbo?" Iskall asks, amusement coating the words. They have a hand on their hip, eyebrow raised.

"Maybe I did." You respond cockily, crossing your arms. "What of it?" Glancing back to aforementioned redstoner, his cheeks were even more flushed then before. A small surge of pride makes your own face warm.

"I'm flattered." Mumbo jokes, avoiding eye contact. You tilt your head back to Iskall.

"Besides enjoying the view-" you glance at Mumbo again to watch him choke on air. "I'm here to steal your dark oak logs." Iskall groans, turning back to their redstone.

"Just make a tree farm." A beat, "besides, Mumbo can give you all the wood you need." They wink with their one good eye, and its your turn to die.

"Iskall!" You screech, lunging forward to grab them and wrestle them into a head lock. They resist, plucking you off your feet and throwing you over their shoulders.

"I'm not wrong!" They assert, "All you need to do is-" You practically stick your hand in their mouth from how hard you grab their face. Iskall retaliates by licking your hand, causing you to jolt away.

"You're disgusting." You shoot back, face hot from embarrassment.

"And you-" They slide you off, "are incredibly annoying." You scoff, crossing your arms.

"Whatever. I'll just take the logs anyways." You turn sharply away from Iskall, holding your head high as you stalk away. They groan. "Bye Mumbo!" You turn to wave, shooting him a smile. He waves jerkily back, looking mildly horrified. Did you traumatize him with those comments? Once you make it to the corner, you hear a whisper. If it weren't for your excellent hearing you could've missed it.

"Oh no." Sighed from Mumbo's lips. Slipping around the wooden post, you pause. Pressing yourself against the wall and straining your ears. Spying was a bit low, sure. But you were curious! Plus, if you messed up and we was uncomfortable you could apologize.

"What's wrong?" Iskall asks, genuine concern tinting the words. There's another beat of silence and then Mumbo speaks.

"I-I" He tries to begin, taking a deep breath. "I think I like them." He sounds like he bracing for a hit. He...he likes you?

"Like?" Iskall repeats, now sounding more invested. "Like how?"

"Like-Like" Mumbo specifies, and you nearly laugh from the phrasing. But...he likes you. In the same way you like him. Excitement brings a grin to your face, pumping a fist in the air. Yes! You had a shot! Iskall's laughter brings you back to reality.

"Dude, you're just figuring this out?" They manage between pants. You can practically picture the scene, Mumbo standing too-stiffly as Iskall throws their head back howling.

"W-what do you mean?" Mumbo asks, genuine offense in the tone.

"You've been my friend how long? Of course I noticed you eyeing up my sibling." Their phrasing is more crude then you would've put it. But the point remains.

"I was not!-" Mumbo goes to defend, voice raising in octaves.

"Chill- I totally support you." Thats a relief. By now they have calmed, probably relieved they don't have watch the pining any longer

"Really?" Hope coats his words. Gosh you adored him.

"Yes. Now go get 'em. I know you're listening!" Iskall raises their voice and you jolt. Oh shoot. Rounding the bend once more, you hold your hands up in surrender.

"In my defense, talking behind someone's back is rude." You offer a sheepish smile. Mumbo stiffens, eyes wide. Iskall nudges him, and he breaks from his trance, stumbling towards you.

"I- um..." Mumbo rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked to the ground. Shoulders tense, legs locked. Poor man looked to be in fight of flight.

"Relax." You command, reaching a hand forwards to rest on his shoulder. He slowly relaxes. "I wont bite-" a cheeky grin, "unless you want me too." Mumbo sputters something and you retract your hand to cover your mouth as you laugh. His face practically glows with blush, small beads of sweat cling to his hairline. His tie is askew from nervous habit, and he has ditched the suit jacket. The sleeves of his shirt are stained red from the electric powder, some clinging to his cheek stubbornly. "sorry sorry-" you offer him a more genuine smile, admiring his features. "In all seriousness, I think you're incredibly cute, and smart, and uh-" you cant help but be slightly nervous. "I feel the same way." His eyes snap up to your own.

"Oh-" He deflates with how he relaxes, relief evident. "That's- that's good!" He smiles, nodding once. Unable to hold back any longer, you reach up to tangle your fingers in his sleek black hair. Shaking your hand vigorously back and forth to displace as much as hair as possible. It falls forwards on his forehead, creating that impossibly adorable look you hoped it would. Suddenly your stuck by how intense his gaze is, brown eyes glittering with what you could only describe as love. You lean forward boldly.

"So what now?" You murmur, staring up through your lashes. His blush turns impossibly darker.

"I um-" he fumbles only a moment. "May I kiss you?" His voice is husky, hope and affection spilling from every word. You sharply intake a breath. You hadn't expected him to be so bold. It was adorable.

"Of course." You reply, leaning impossibly closer. Your chests bump, and you link your arms behind his neck to pull him in.

Sparks fly, completion exploding in your chest. His lips are soft, and oh so gentle as they barely brush your own. Longing for more, you tug him more. Connecting them harshly. He hums surprised into the kiss, but melts under your touch. His mustache tickles, and sort of gets in the way. But its so charmingly Mumbo you wouldn't have it any other way. His arms are firm around your waist, shirt soft wherever it makes contact with skin. You want to kiss him until breathless-

"Get a room!"

You just flip them off.

#hermitcraft x reader #hermitcraft fandom #hermitblr #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #mumbo jumbo #i miss mumbo #mumbo jumbo x reader #mumbo jumbo hc #hermitshipping #atlas writes #hermitshipblr

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prophecyofwinter · 1 year ago

Text

Nemophilist

;One who is fond of forests or forest scenery

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: You are the childhood best friend of Aemond Targaryen. As children, the two of you made a promise that you two would Wed, no matter the cost. But would a war, a dance perhaps, cause issue with that promise?

Warnings: 18+, Death, Trauma, Toxic Sibling Dynamics, Cannon typical violence. More tags will be added as we go on

Notes: Finally posting the long chapters! I hope to have chapter four out by Monday or sooner!

Last Chapter - Next Chapter

Chapter 3: Vows, Goodbyes, and Promises

“And none for me? After I came all this way...”

Aemond.

Your head snapped up to make eye contact with a purple eyed shadow, illuminated by soft candle light. He only stood there as you stumbled up from the floor, tripping over yourself and your hounds.

If you were any stronger you would’ve knocked Aemond right to the floor on his ass, not that he would’ve minded.

No words were exchanged, no words needed to be. It had been, what, years? Since you’ve last seen each other? Since you’ve been allowed to see each other? Your lips melted together in a mess of lip tongue and teeth. You didn’t even have half a mind to ask how he even got up here.

Aemonds hands caressed the warm dark fur of your coat dipping his hands under the material and wrapping one arm around your waist guiding you up against a stone wall and the other going to caress your cheek. Your hands entangled themselves in his silver locks which would normally be nice and soft but at this moment they were unkept and tangled as though they'd dried from rainwater. He smelt of Dragon, not that you could really critique him. He was here wasn’t he?

You two got rougher with each passing moment as if you both feared either one of you would disappear. Getting frustrated with fabric on fabric friction, you reach down to his pants in an attempt to free Aemond from his confines. You two have never attempted to go this far, it just felt so right, it was a primal reaction.

Only for Aemond to stop you by pulling away and holding your face still with both of his hands to prevent you from chasing his lips. His one eye staring deeply into your pair, noses almost touching.

“I’m sorry my love but I fear we do not have the time.”

You were half listening still attempting to reconnect your lips, Aemond is so warm and being away from him like this felt as though you were thrown north of the wall for a year. You were so cold without him.

“Gods Aemond, I need you” You move your hands down from Aemonds hair to grasp onto his coat in hopes to reconnect. Aemond holds your face in place more aggressively bringing you out of your foggy state.

“Y/N you need to listen to me. I don’t have time, We don’t have time. I came here to take you to King’s Landing, I said we’d get married in the future didn’t I? That’s what we promised.”

Marriage. That’s why he was here, you’d come to terms by now it was just some childish promise that you’d marry Aemond one day. But, here he is. Telling you that it is true. You couldn’t believe Cregan would ever truly allow this.

“Do you Jest with me Aemond? You asked my brother? Did you come with Jacaerys-“

“Jacaerys is here?”

Aemonds eyes darkened sharply, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what emotion he was dealing with. Whatever it was, your previous excitement was warring off and reality started seeping in.

“Well yes, I walked him to my brother not too long ago-. Wait, how exactly did you get in here Aem?”

There’s no way Aemond came through the front gates. You surely would’ve known if he had come that way, he would have been meeting Cregan right this moment if he had. Guards would never allow a man into the chambers of a young lady.

Aemond said nothing, trying to gauge your current emotions to give you an answer that wouldn’t scare you off.

You could feel your heart beating in your ears, something wasn’t right about the air of the room. The adrenaline of seeing Aemond was slowing down, allowing you to come back to your senses

Needing an answer to calm your nerves you pressed on. “Aemond. What are you doing he-“

“I killed Lucerys.”

Cold blood rushed through your bones. Aemond closed in on your body, pressing you further into the stone wall.

He towered over you, you became a small pup and he was a dragon closing in on his prey. You should run, hide, scream, call to Snow and Smoke, anything; but you stood there and did nothing.

Aemond could feel you cowering into his touch and could sense your wolves behind him becoming alert to your stress.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear to you my love. I was in Storm’s End and I- Vhagar she- she was provoked and there wasn’t anything I could do.”

“I can’t hide you here Aemond if that’s what you ask of me. If Cregan heard-“

“Aegon is King. There is a war coming and I won’t allow you to stay here knowing I’d never see you again. The seven kingdoms are going to break apart and the North will not side with Aegon- I-, please, Y/N, my love. I will answer any and every question you have, but I need you to come with me now.”

Aemond pressed his forehead to yours in a show of affection. You tried to take in this information the best you could but, what? Aegon is king? Rhaenyra is Queen now isn’t she? Breaking apart? Aemond sounded like a man gone mad, did you trust him? Why else would Jacaerys if Aemond was telling the truth? He was right then, you would never see him again, not if you didn’t go with him right now. What else do you have here? Stay and be a brood mare to some cunt or go with Aemond and have a chance at something better.

You take a deep breath in, and breathe out. “This is a lot, Aemond, but I will trust you. Just give me a moment with them…”

Aemond let out a heavy sigh as though he’s been holding his breath for years and gave you a deep soft kiss. He let you go and moved to the side back into the shadows that your candlelight didn’t reach. “You won’t regret this, my beloved.”

You walked over to your greatest loves, crouching down to their level. This was the right choice, you’d see them again. It would just be a while for them to find you again, still, your heart broke a little. It had always felt that they could read your mind, knew what you wanted and what they had to do. You said nothing for you knew that they knew. You rose back up, walked for the door and peaked your head out to the guard standing out.

“Excuse me? Could you guide Snow and Smoke out of the walls? They need to do their business. Now, please.” You said with a smile to the guard, with only a nod and a ‘Yes Lady Stark’ he led your children out.

Your heart ached as they looked back to you in farewell, but not for forever.

You shut the wooden door softly, holding the door for a moment with a few deep breaths. You turned back to Aemond who still stood where you left him.

“Can I bring anything with me?”

“I fear no, nothing you can’t carry on your back anyway. Northern clothing wouldn’t be the best in King’s Landing anyway. I will see to it personally that you need and want for nothing, you will have plenty of clothes.”

“Very well. I just have a few things then.”

You went over to your bed stand and grabbed a holstered blade. It was a gift from your father when he was still alive, a Valyrian Steel sword with a Dire Wolf as the pummel, branch and leaf engravings wrapped around the handle and blade. It was the only thing left of him and you’d be damned to leave it behind.

You did one final look around your chambers, you knew that it would be a long time before you had this view again. The metal chandelier covered in melted candle wax, your bed with messily thrown around fur blankets that you didn’t need most of the time with Snow and Smoke warming you up just fine, your fireplace that definitely needed a cleaning soon.

What would become of your chambers now? Would Cregan pretend you had never existed and clear the whole room? Or would he sit in your chair and on your bed praying for you to come back because he had missed you? You fear that this is his problem now.

“Ready to go now my Lady?” Aemond came up behind you wrapping his arms around your torso and kissing the crown of your head.

“Yes, yes I am my Prince”

Aemond took your hand and guided you to the window of which he had entered through in the first place. He’d snuck in with Rope? Interesting.

With your arms wrapped around his neck and his right arm around your waist, he guided the two of you down the stone wall and made your way onto the floor of Winterfell.

———

Mirayll was a maid of Winterfell, she did her job as she was told, mainly bringing meals to Lady Stark. She was bringing a tray of Meats, cheeses, and other assortments of things for the Lady to eat for her dinner.

She kicked her foot lightly to the door, with her hands full she couldn’t use them to knock properly. No answer, normal for the Young Lady, probably napping.

Mirayll opened the door with her back to let herself in, she was met with a dead silent room, no wolves, no sound, and most importantly no Lady Stark.

Perhaps she was just taking an evening walk by the Weirwood tree, while odd, not unheard of-

Her eye caught the shine of a metal object on the window of the chambers. Placing the tray on a table by the fireplace she goes to inspect. Her blood runs ice cold when she realizes what has happened.

————-

Cregan sat at one of the dining room tables in the Throne room with the Prince Jacaerys. In such a short amount of time he’d taken a liking to the young man, having an amazing conversation with the man.

Perhaps if he wasn’t already betrothed to another he would’ve had his sist-

“Please! You have to see Lord Stark immediately! It’s the Young Lady she’s!”

Cregans head immediately shot up at the mention of his sister. ‘What has that girl done now to cause me more trouble’

“Let her in!”

Mirayll stumbled into the throne room immediately walking over to Cregan, she was red and out of breath like she had run all the way here.

“It’s Y/N my Lord! I believe she had run away or been taken! Through her window! There’s a rope-!”

Right as the maid had finished her sentence a roar had pierced through the air and through the skies. That could only mean one thing. There was a Dragon here that was not the young Velaryons…

Cregan didn’t even have time to speak before Jacaerys stood tall from his seat and bolted to the doors screaming only one word.

“Aemond!”

Gods be fucking good.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader

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ukthxbye · 8 months ago

Text

All That Glitters and Gleams

So it has been over a year since I writer Sherlolly. Thought I might be done because of my focus on my two books and trying to get an agent... life is funny.

When this photo showed up in the sherlolly discord,

the wheels started spinning and 24 hours later, you're welcome.

cw: semi-public sex, fingering, light dom/sub, begging

Glittering.

Gold and silver statues and everything shiny draped dramatic fabric in this room normally spare dingy blue white.

And he hated it.

But impressed all the same. The banquet hall of St. Barts transformed to another age. Sherlock scoffed when Molly asked him to this 1920s fundraiser, rattling facts about all the false opulence for what.

"It's fun to pretend," she'd said in the wry, sad resignation he knew like a drug. Nearly as unpredictable. She might tell him to forget it and go with someone else. She might let him rattle off facts as they walk in and still pull him along, suffering the embarrassment.

She blessed him with the latter.

He couldn't refuse anymore what she asked for. His life depended on her happiness… like a new addiction.

But he'd denied her the one thing she craved. She denied herself more.

"They shouldn't have spent so much money, you were right," she said at his side. "You've every right to hate this. It's dancing and talking to higher ups. We can go home."

"Well, at least the champagne is cheap," he said glancing at woman walking by with two green bottles in had. But home, where is the adventure in that? Can't critique and complain until we have the facts," he said, slipping off his long wool coat, handing it to the hired coat clerk… no wait, it was a boy from the cafe.

"Gerald, they roped you into this?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Ticket sir, you try to have a good time, eh?" the boy said, coats piling up on his right.

"Yes…yes." Sherlock offered him a cocked tightlipped smile.

In instinct he turned to Molly, and without interrupting her conversation with a heart surgeon he disliked, his hands reached around her shoulders, grasping the lapels on her equally long coat.

The lights, low in the room but travelling across a mirror ball, landed at her back as he slid the dark fabric down like a curtain.

Glittering.

But he liked it.

He vibrated, her scapula bones meeting like wings of an angel as she dropped the coat off her arms.

She'd not let him look at the dress until now. Beadwork in a line down the straps, down and across her waist. Shadow and bones and gold. Champagne dripped down her frame, soon like on her tongue.

She matched the room and enhanced it to a mind numbing quality.

"Come on, there's Stamford," she said with a half grin, and grabbed his hand.

Like fire on a golden pyre.

He accepted her lead, lost in the light playing off her skin. He'd mapped it before. He mapped everything. But why does it look different here?

Do her nerves jump when his hand drifted up to her elbow, gripping like a secret, waiting? Lost to the bunching pale satin, but… she responded each time, ending the conversation.

She let him hold her hand absently as she tugged him from one corner to the next. Satin gloves threaded in his fingers, robbing him of hers.

But her back, exposed, and his touch strayed there often to catch her attention, drawing her into him so he could mutter in her ear some amusing observation he'd about someone she chatted with.

Her skin cooled like a glass of cold milk. He craved it the same. But he feared his hand gave him away, warming more with every risked caress.

She flinched the first time, her wings shrugging him away.

But now she let it lay there, even as he chased a shadow up the nape with his finger.

Her shiver is not from the room now.

He smiled to himself, but the oncologist next to him took it as an opportunity to speak. I can do two things at once. Sherlock kept his fingers near her scalp, his fingernail grazing along the hairline until she quivered, and fanned herself with her purse.

They made many more rounds, each one more exhausting. The satin under his hands, the hand on her lower back enticing. Every man who tried to insult her field of study with backhanded compliments boiled his blood.

His mask slipped, and he half insulted the last surgeon they spoke to.

"You're getting rude," she said, dragging him down by his collar to her ear.

Oh, don’t do that…

The tug switched on a part of his brain he'd kept safe from her. They'd both been so good since his sister nearly destroyed everything.

Such respectable friends, open with their emotions except for…

I'm going to ruin that now.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” She searched his face for understanding in the dark.

“I thought you said all surgeons are like footballers, egotistical and overpaid,” he sniffed.

She leaned back and frowned. "You said that."

“Hmm…” he matched her frown, then smiled, running his tongue along his teeth. “Oh, yes… I did. But you might have agreed.”

He gasped. She snatched his collar again, with a curl twisted in it now, setting a delightful tingle across his scalp.

“Why is it so hard for you to behave…”

He turned enough so she could meet his stare. "You like me when I don't… why change that now?" His tongue strayed across his lips, letting his gaze drop to hers.

In the dark and flashing light of the room, it hit perfect timing for the scarlet of her lips to show. Her teeth parted and her tongue licked her own lips as well.

“Come with me,” she said, low, releasing him when someone glanced their way.

They reached the bathroom on the front left corner of the room, with no one around. “You know what? Wait here for a moment and then we'll talk.” She stepped in and his hand caught the door as she pushed close it.

Wide-eyed, she let him push it back and close it behind him, meeting her stare.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

His finger to his lips and she clamped her mouth shut. His lips lifted into a sly smile.

"Is there something wrong?" She moved to him and glanced at the door, his hand going back behind him and clicking the lock.

“No, I wanted to talk… privately.”

She sighed out in relief. “We could have gone outside.”

“Then I couldn’t look at you in that dress.”

The bathroom decorated for the theme, feather arrangement, lights low. The cream walls normally boring matched her antique faded gold satin. He soaked in the room along with her.

One last look before you leap…

"Oh, don't be silly…" she chuckled, crossing her arms, and his eyes dropped to the cleavage.

He remained wordless, a hand in his pocket, waiting for her to catch up.

She squinted, shaking her head as she whispered, "Oh… no."

"Molly."

She ran a hand through her short cropped hair. How soon might I do the same?

“Are you really going to do this here? This dance for… god I thought we'd settled this,” she said, the plead in her tone only urged him on more.

“Oh, my sweet Molly, like ice cream on my tongue, freezing every word… until this dress.” he shifted near to her, and she stepped back near the sink.

"I'm not sweet," she said with folded arms, looking down at the cleavage, realising the effect and moving her arms, bracing on the sink basin. “We should go… before you say something you shouldn't.”

"I'll be the judge of that."

She turned toward the mirror with a scoff. “Your judgement is terrible. I don't trust it. But yes…you always thought me too sweet… is that all compassion is to you?” Her gaze went down as she said it and he counted the vertebrae in her neck, concentrating.

How did I get here? How do I get out of it?

But he was bored with ignoring the chemicals running under his skin when she was near.

He closed the distance behind her, and she stiffened. His eyes travelled from the hollow of her throat, slowly following the pink path each capillary displayed with the pump of her heart. Those lips, red and not yet swollen as he'd make them.

His gaze lifted from there up as he spoke his stare meeting hers in the mirror. "My mistake then… I do confess to the two mistakes you accused. But then I recall less gentleness when your hand stuck hard," he raised his hand, tenderly tracing his thumb along her cheekbone, and licked his lips when she shivered. “Do I deserve it again?”

The beadwork, gold and silver sparkling in the low light, entranced him. He traced down with a finger, following along its path, ending in a v, breast swelling with her heightened breath. Her heartbeat was so strong the pulse beat a rhythm under his fingertips. But he never broke his stare, and she held it, her eyes dark and shining.

Gleaming.

And he loved it.

Would she imagine him closing the gap, a canyon between what they've been… and what they will be? Never letting his lips touch, but he assured his breath and its heat performed the same duty as he spoke into her ear… and then her jaw.

"But tell me… did you know how I fought every urge and when it changed… how many times we've almost. When we considered all the possibilities and said no…was it not because you were so principled?" He said with a smirking grin.

Crack.

She’d spun around to face him and struck his left cheek. She gulped hard, and he sighed, waiting for her words to catch up with her hand.

“If this is a game… It's very cruel. You can read what I want without touching. You know every ache, every want… you…” She drew a deep breath through her nose. “Always did. Question is… will you be too high minded … or will you…” She squinted as she spoke, but the tremble he expected was absent.

But this was the Molly he'd fallen for all along, in her own power and never under his. Quite the opposite. Her lips parted, her eyes on his lips as well.

Her breath matched his, and his lungs ached for them to share the same air.

“Which one of us will break… that delicious thick tension we’d spun for years… but…” he tipped his nose against hers and with his hands on either side of her on the washbasin, holding on to the porcelain for dear life, he said near her lips, “It was always yours to take… stop asking for permission.”

Come on now, my Molly.

He let her kiss him, and answered the swell in his chest deepening until his entire mouth encompassed hers, his tongue licking the champagne sugars off hers.

“You kiss like you want me, Sherlock Holmes.” She sighed into his throat, breathless. She'd pressed her body against him when the kiss deepened. He couldn't dare put his arms around her… I might never let go.

He swallowed hard. "The easiest thing I've ever done. You'd be correct… you always were."

“Oh, yes… too sweet. Then…” she said with a huff, leaning back, robbing him of her nearness, and he missed it.

He met her knowing stare.

“You're correct… you always were.” Honesty at last. But he couldn't see if it would help or harm the mood.

She shook her head slightly. “Don't be like that. I don't know what to do with that. It can't fuck me properly.”

“Then tell me what you want. As in to say… I'm done thinking for now. It bores me.” He spoke into her neck, “Tell me the fantasy… I can only read so much from your breath and skin singing under my touch… instruct me to see how to get you there. New memories.”

"Beg me. On your knees. And make sure you say please.”

He sighed. “Now Molly… I wanted to tease you more before I have use of my knees… have you lost patience—”

Her hand covered his mouth, and she pushed him down until her knee dug into his shoulder hard, on his knees in front of her.

“Beg… it's the least you can do if you want me so much… wanted me so long. We're both ignoring our principles now…” she said, each word strong ringing in his mind. “So beg.”

Her mouth is so pretty when she says…

"So beg."

He quieted his mind, a singular focus now. Every sense dialled in to her rich floral perfume, her touch and heartbeat.

The light played on the satin before him, transfixing. “Please,” he said low, running his hands lightly along the golden sleek cloth, seeking her bones underneath like a lost road. “Teach me, tell me what to do.”

“I don’t want to ruin this beautiful dress… put your jacket next to the basin.”

He lingered his hand fascinated with the precise folds of the skirt, shining and shadowing, like the folds he’d soon… he trailed a finger along one close to her hip.

“Now will you be a good boy…and do what I asked or do I…?”

He looked up into her eyes, so far above him like a goddess’ blessing. He held her stare as he snatched the coat off and handed it to her to arrange.

“Now set me—oh!”

As he stood, taking her with him as he grabbed her hips and arse, fingers digging the slippery dress and sat her on the counter so hard she bounced.

He smiled sly as irritation on her skin coloured the same as her blush. I like both too much.

He held his hands up in false surrender.

She huffed out, “Are you going to take instruction or are you gonna improvise your own here?”

“I’ve matured, I like collaboration.” He shrugged a shoulder, leaning over and snatching an ostrich feather out of the full vase next to her. How perfect for the theme this evening. The sheen on the feathers caught the light golden as her dress. He twirled it between his fingers, waiting.

“Nothing else unless I say so,” she said. He didn't miss the gravel and struggle to breathe. Her stare unblinking on the feather.

“Then…” he held the feather out in front of her and lowered it, leaning in meeting her half lidded gaze. “Tell me what to do.”

“I think you guessed I like a tease.”

He nodded, “Oh do I ever…we've done years… little kisses on the cheek like friends,” he let the end of the feather fall across her face, moving it in time to watch the colour rise deep scarlet. “But since we remedied that… … but what's a little more?” He lowered the feather across her neck and she turned her head, opening up and he imagined her nerves jumping.

That neck was like cream he wanted to lick and bruise with his teeth.

Ah, there is the demon I've always feared.

He teased with the feather down between her breasts, and she shuddered with her sigh. Her eyes closed, and he trailed the feather up again, teasing her clavicle, the bones showing their angles in shadow and he wanted to add his own shadow there as well.

She leaned back, head against the mirror. “More,” she whispered out.

The feather up her throat, and he trembled, the tip of it caressing her lips. Now I'm jealous of a feather. He wanted to kiss her again but now bound by the agreement. She'd broken so many rules for him. I can keep this one.

Her breath shuddered as she leaned back over and looked up into his eyes.

“That's enough. Kiss me… kiss me so hard I might bleed.”

He shook his head, and squinted, “Don't ask me to do that. I'll do anything you ask… it is what you deserve, but… those demons don't need to come out yet.”

She gritted her teeth under her lips, “Then kiss me like you love me.”

I'm gonna ignore those tears. They're not here to stay.

He kissed her so tenderly he thought they both might break.

She stopped for a breath, and spoke into his ear, “I love you too… Now that's out of the way, kiss me however you want… but I want your hands to move this skirt out of the way.”

He lifted her and shoved it out of the way behind her, and she helped gather the top. He hates the skirt now. Should have encouraged her for a short flapper dress, one with a delightful fringe he could have twirled in his fingers near her knee.

No matter. The music kicked up loud outside the bathroom, the low beat thumping under his hand resetting just beside her thigh like a heartbeat.

“Tell me what you want… my touch or my tongue.” He licked his lips, drying from his breath increased as much as hers. Oh, to find out how sweet she really is.

“Touch… I think that's all I can stand for now,” she said with an unsteady voice. “Talk to me. Tell what you want… tell me what you will do… your voice is the only sound I want in my head.”

His thumbs strayed to her thighs, bare and like silk. Circles and caresses, and he leaned into her ear, “Can you please…” he caressed over her knees. "lean back to the wall, my love, I don't want you to hurt that pretty head."

“Yes… more,” she said, exposing that creamy throat again.

“Can I kiss your neck… please?”

“Yes… god yes, but… I need your fingers,” she reached a trembling hand and grasped his, setting it on inner thigh. "I need them inside me." The fire like heat pulsed against his palm. She's so wet for me…

But first, he raised his fingers up to his mouth, letting her observe him wet them, meeting her stare.

He tugged her soaked knickers aside. Two fingers found her folds. So ready for him, his knees nearly buckled. He turned his fingers and met her clit with his thumb, gently as she was so hard. She pulled and tugged on his fingers, whimpering, calling him like a siren's song.

She's always been the rock I'd dash myself on.

His lips on her throat, and she burrowed her nails in his curls and scalp. Those low moans barely reached his ears, but they vibrated under his tongue, the salt of her skin mouthwatering.

Bang bang.

The lock jiggled.

They both glanced at the lock, wide-eyed, but it held.

Oh, that will not do.

Her movement on his fingers wavered, but he pressed further, finding the spot that nearly made her cry out and he grinned into the hollow of her throat and flicked it with his tongue.

Her moan louder, but he clamped his hand tight over her mouth, every knock urging him on, his thumb playing with clit, soaking wet dripping down as his fingers curled. Her panicked peeks at the door replaced as she closed her eyes and smiled into his hand, her sigh hot and panted.

He turned her face and leaned into her ear, nipping as he spoke. “Is that adding to the effect? There'll be no mistake what I did to you when we leave together… they’ll know… shame they can’t hear the crying moan I want to hear… A shame for me. Tell me. Harder or softer… how long do you want them to wait?”

She panted into his hand. "Harder… oh god… I'm so close. Don't stop that or I'll hit you again."

The brat in him wanted to tease her. But this wasn't the time.

But his deep voice, he knew its effect, and he spoke, meeting her lidded stare with his own.

"They love our brilliant brains, don't you think? But they don't see us as humans. Never will, but we can see and feel it now. It's our little secret how human we can both be."

She whimpered and tightened but… no it's not quite there.

“Can you come for me… please?”

“Kiss me one more time… I… oh…” she said with a shudder, her legs tightening on his hand.

And kiss her he did, so hard she might bleed and she cried out into his mouth and shuddered down into her orgasm, pulsing so deliciously around his finger he almost came himself.

She slumped, and he stared, pulling out.

When she met his gaze, she whispered, “You can taste the results… and think about when we get home.”

He sucked his fingers clean, not blinking and her smile, slight, ended with a shivered whimper.

Much too sweet… I can't wait for more.

#ukthxbye is ficcing #sherlolly #molly hooper #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #angst and smut #feels #angst is their kink and they've sorted that out

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