#perhaps i will have to write a little something for this idea

[wendichester]

Hello! Could I perhaps request the winchester of your choice (whoever you feel fits this situation best) x reader with an established relationship, where maybe it's an anniversary so he wants to make something special for you, like a special dinner in the bunker, the bedroom filled with candles and a bouquet of flowers, that sort of thing, because for once there isn't a case

EXCEPT: you haven't left the bunker all day, there's no reason to! You three finished a case the day before so you took this as a resting day since there wasn't any other case found, so! The brothers have to find a way to get one to keep you out till the evening, while the other rushes to get everything set up

I hope this isn't too detailed/unclear?? Tysm anyway if you write this!! I love your blog a lot <3

⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡ anniversary surprise,

summary. dean wants to do something special for your anniversary

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 963

notes. though i would also see sam doing something like this, it just screamed like dean behaviour. he's the softess little thing to me ‹𝟹

The bunker is unusually quiet for once—a rare luxury in the hunting life. After wrapping up a tough case yesterday, you've taken full advantage of the downtime. Still in your pyjamas, you've spent the day curled up on the couch with a book, refusing to even glance at your laptop.

Sam, however, hasn't been able to sit still. He keeps pacing the bunker, glancing at his phone like he's expecting bad news. It's distracting enough that you close your book and call him out.

"You trynna dig a hole in the ground or something, Sam? What's wrong?"

He freezes mid-step, looking at you like a deer caught in headlights. "What? Nothing! I'm fine."

You squint at him, unconvinced. “Sam, if you’re trying to avoid telling me about a case, just spit it out. I’m not leaving this bunker today unless something’s on fire.”

He stammers for a moment, clearly scrambling for an excuse. Then, his eyes light up like he's just had an idea. Oh, boy. "Uh, there's this event in town. A... a book signing. By an author I like. I thought it might be interesting, but I, uh, don't wanna go alone."

The confession catches you off guard. "A book signing?"

"Yeah," he says quickly, nodding like it's the most logical thing in the world.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. Sam Winchester, shy about attending a book event? It doesn't quite add up, but you decide to let it slide.

You glance toward Dean, who's pretending to be engulfed in his phone and beer, but is clearly eavesdropping. He doesn't even look up, clearly uninterested.

"Alright, Sam," you say with a sigh. "I'll go with you."

Relief washes over his face, making the situation even more weird. "Great! Thanks."

The book signing ends up being more enjoyable than you expected. Sam is in his element, geeking out over the author’s latest release and chatting animatedly with other fans. You find yourself wandering through the bookstore, skimming through titles and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere.

Afterward, you grab coffee at a nearby café, the conversation flowing easily as you and Sam talk about everything and nothing. It’s a rare, peaceful moment—one you don’t take for granted.

By the time you return to the bunker, the sun has long since set, and the air carries a cool, crisp chill. Sam walks ahead, fishing in his pocket for the keys.

“Shoot,” he says suddenly, patting his jacket. “I think I left something in the Impala.”

You shrug, already halfway to the door. “Alright. I’ll meet you inside.”

The moment you step through the door, you stop in your tracks.

Rose petals are scattered on the floor, forming a delicate path that leads toward the kitchen. Soft, flickering candlelight spills into the hallway, and the faint scent of your favorite meal wafts through the air.

“Dean?” you call out, your voice trembling slightly.

“Over here,” he replies, his voice warm and inviting.

You follow the trail, your heart pounding in your chest. When you step into the kitchen, you’re met with a sight that takes your breath away.

The table is covered with a white cloth, set with actual plates and silverware instead of the usual mismatched collection. Candles are arranged in the center, their golden light casting a romantic glow over the room. Your favourite store-bought meal sits neatly plated, steam rising in the air.

Dean is leaning casually against the counter, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He’s wearing a button-up shirt instead of his usual flannel, the effort not lost on you.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he says softly.

Your stomach drops as guilt washes over you. You completely forgot.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes welling up. “I… I didn’t—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, pushing off the counter and walking toward you. He cups your face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy. This is my gift to you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you stare up at him, his green eyes filled with nothing but love and understanding. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m the lucky one to have you.”

You bite your lip, emotion threatening to overwhelm you, but Dean tugs you toward the table before it can. “Come on. Dinner’s getting cold.”

The meal is perfect, just like everything Dean does when he puts his mind to it. Between bites, you and Dean fall into easy conversation, laughter punctuating the air as you recount memories from the past year. The stress of the world melts away, leaving only the two of you in your little bubble of happiness.

After dinner, Dean takes your hand and leads you down the hallway. When he opens the door to your bedroom, your jaw drops.

The room is softly lit with more candles, their gentle glow highlighting a small table set up in the corner. A rich chocolate cake sits in the center, accompanied by a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The bed looks impossibly inviting, piled high with plush pillows and fresh sheets.

“You really outdid yourself,” you murmur, turning to him with wide eyes.

He shrugs, but the pleased grin on his face betrays his pride. “Only the best for my girl.”

Your heart swells as you step closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too,” he says, leaning down to kiss you.

The rest of the night is spent wrapped in Dean’s love and care, the perfect celebration of the life you’ve built together. For once, the world outside doesn’t matter—all that does is the warmth of his arms and the steady beat of his heart.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas

[areyoudreaminof]

Biscuits

Nyx didn’t have much of an idea of just how long he had been laying there. He wasn’t aware of anything. Not his limbs, or his wings. Not of the bed beneath him, or his room at the House of the Wind that he had escaped to. He certainly didn’t register his feelings. Nyx just lay there numbly, staring at the blank wall before him. The sun had begun to set and the last vestiges of light crawled back behind the heavy curtains that he had drawn shut. Perhaps he had slept, he couldn’t be too sure. He was so tired. The moods crept on him slowly the past several weeks. He was angry at first, lashing out at everyone about silly things, getting into stupid arguments with his father. Then the anger twisted into anxiety and sadness, suddenly. Panic balled itself up into sobs in his chest that threatened to release at any time, which they did when he was alone in his room. 

Tired of his mother asking him constantly what was wrong, Nyx found the sadness gone one day, like a soap bubble popping. Instead, a buzzing numbness had settled into his head and chest. Letters from his Day Court cousins sat unopened on his desk, he couldn’t seem to stomach their happiness and he had stopped writing all together.  He had slogged through the past several days in a blur, but today his father confronted him about his countenance. Nyx sat and stared blankly at the wall as his father lectured him. When it was over, he got up and flew to the House without a word. The afternoon sun was still high, and he dragged his body towards his room at the back of the house. If anyone knew he was there, they hadn’t disturbed him. 

The trim moulding along the ceiling didn’t move as Nyx stared at it. Somewhere, very far away, the door behind him creaked. Nyx squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep so whoever it was would leave him alone. 

Something soft landed on the bed, while the smell of chocolate and the sounds of soft breathing crept towards him. The bedside lamp flicked on. Bracing himself, Nyx cracked one eye open. Ori, his four year old cousin, stood in front of him with a soggy chocolate-chip scone in her hand and a concerned look on her face. Her cat, Pudding crept down from his shoulder, his green eyes wide. 

“How did you know I was here?” Nyx mumbled. 

“House told me,” Ori climbed her way up onto the bed with one hand, crumbs scattering all over the duvet as she sat in front of him. “What’s wrong, Nyxie?” her voice was hushed. 

“Dunno, just sad I guess. House talks?” 

Ori nodded, “House said you went in your room. I got you somefing to eat ‘cause you missed dinner.” she held out the scone, misshapen and melted in her stubby fingers.

 Nyx wasn’t hungry, he hadn’t eaten much in days, but he ate the scone anyway. It made Ori happy. He reached over her, gulping down the water that the House had now provided. 

"Does anyone else know I'm here," Nyx asked.

"Mama knows, but Papa doesn't yet. Mama will tell him in a little bit. Why are you sad?” Ori asked, her owlish blue eyes were soft and riddled with concern he didn’t deserve, “Are you in trouble?” 

Nyx shook his head as he sunk lower into himself, curling his wings behind him and drawing up his knees. “I’m not sure,” he repeated, “it just came one day and hasn’t really gone away.” 

“Mama calls them down days, she says they come and you gotta be ready,” Ori nodded sagely, “lots of sleep and treats. And a baff, to get the sadness off." She checked off an invisible list, like a little winged librarian. 

Nyx gave a half hearted laugh which turned into a sputter of surprise as Pudding began to work and knead his paws into Nyx’s stomach. “What are you doing?” he mumbled, scratching the fluffy cat under his chin. 

“Makin’ biscuits!” Ori giggled, “he’s trying to get comfy. Scoot over, I wanna get comfy too.” 

Nyx moved as Ori wiggled her way next to him, grabbing his hand tight. “I’m sorry you’re sad, I hope you feel happy soon.” 

“Me too,” Nyx swallowed a lump of tears back into his throat, but they escaped out of his eyes anyway. He began to sob softly, and Ori reached out her hands and roughly wiped away the tears on his cheek and hugged him, while Pudding curled up between them and purred.  The vibrations and hug began to calm him.

“Love you Nyxie,” she whispered, as she grabbed his hand tightly. “It will be a happy day soon.” 

“Love you too, Ori.” and sleep took them both into its embrace.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

Bachelors reacting to a farmer who is a famous author with plenty of books under their belt?

Sure thing :D Thanks for your ask, dear anon!

_________________________________________

Elliott:

Elliott had recognised Farmer as soon as they first met near Willi's shop. And how could he not - a famous writer in the horror genre, whose lines skilfully present anxiety and intrigue to the reader, had come here to Stardew Valley! On top of that, it was Farmer who was the one who inspired the ginger writer not to give up on his writing path despite the comments of others. Naturally, the two will find quick common ground, exchange ideas and advice about their work (if Farmer continues to write novels in addition to their new job), or just relax over a mug of strong ale. Elliott is delighted to meet them and hopes that the Valley will become a home and a place of inspiration for Farmer, just as it has become a home for Elliott.

Sebastian:

At first, Sebastian couldn't believe his own ears when he heard Farmer's first and last name during their meeting, but then, upon asking Farmer again a little later, they confirm the local emo's speculation. The new farmer who has taken over their grandpa's old house is the author of all five volumes of Cave Saga, his favourite books! Sebby loves science fiction and sci-fi, and Farmer's works in this genre are bestsellers in the Republic and a gem in Sebastian's personal collection of his books and comics. He will be a little awkward at first to approach them due to his shyness and reluctance to show himself like an obsessive fan or something. But Farmer turned out to be a very chill and nice person, with whom Sebastian became friends pretty quickly.

Shane:

After Shane had replied to Farmer upon introduction in a not too polite manner, he wondered if somewhere he had heard their surname/name before. Not the chatter of townsfolk who were intrigued by the new resident of the Valley, much earlier. The realisation came when he started reading Jas her favourite bedtime story (which Shane also secretly loved) in the evening. "The Brave Little Sapling. Author-" !!! No way... Could it be a coincidence? But overheard conversations of others confirm that Farmer is the same author. Sigh... Though it's a children's book, it raised some pretty adult issues, and helped Shane to not give up and to appreciate what we have. He doesn't know how to address Farmer now, after a not very great first meeting, but he thinks it's worth apologising at least.

Alex:

Perhaps Alex would have reacted to the news that Farmer was a famous writer more surprised or enthusiastic. The thing is - and he's ashamed to admit it - he hasn't read very many books in his entire life. Athlete, however, wants to catch up, and has been blowing the dust off some of the books on his shelf since last week. Most of them were as boring as integrals, to be honest, but 'Jack Be Nimble, Jack Be Thick' has become his favourite. Easy to understand, lots of pictures, some puns, and very cool tips for him - no wonder it's the most popular according to reviews. "This is my first volume, I already wrote a second one." Wait... Farmer is the author of this book? Hey, there's so much great advice in there! That's awesome! Now Alex is super excited.

Sam:

Not to say that Sammy is a big fan of books, he's more of a comic book fan, but there are a couple of exceptions. One great fantasy book, based on which people created some great video games and produced a lot of comics - naturally the young guitarist, who loved the franchise, wanted to know the source material, and the book was even more interesting. When he mentioned it to Farmer, the Valley's newest resident, about it, they told him they were the author of the book. Which made Sammy's jaw drop with shock. He couldn't contain his delight and would ask questions about the fictional world, but wouldn't disturb their peace if they didn't want to. Whether they continue write or not, Sam will thank them for a great book and a cool fictional world Farmer created.

Harvey:

Hmm, funny coincidence..... The surname of the new resident of the Valley and Harvey's patient is exactly the same as the surname of the author of one of the most popular love novels, "The Apple Orchard." Yes, the doctor is a fan of this book series, he's not just into medical reference books and encyclopaedias about aeroplanes, you know. True, now he's heard that the author wanted to retire... "Well, not exactly, I wanted to take up farming and make writing a hobby again, not a full-time job." Not a coincidence, then... Harvey is pleasantly surprised that his new friend is his favourite writer, also a decent man and a calm patient during check-ups. The relationship won't change much, the doctor doesn't want to inundate Farmer with a bunch of questions about book universe. Maybe later, if they want to talk about their novels over a cup of coffee.

[lesbianherald]

hiii I’m curious : what’s your process for creating your stories? like character development, plotting, creating arcs, etc?

thank you for asking !!! i'm going to get way longer and more thorough about this than necessary I feel it in my bones so I'm going to read more this now (I included a few tidbits from my miro board for carry the blade :) )

it's such a mixed bag ! part of this is my adhd lmao, and part of it is because, genuinely, I think each story needs something different.

almost ALWAYS (with one rare exception of a sci/fi fantasy world I've been building for years) I start with character, especially in original work. Because character is everything it's who we're following it's what the audience/readership will grab onto. Usually I have a basic premise and setting already there, but I don't build on it until I get to know who we're dealing with in the story. And then after building up the premise, setting, and plot I do even more character work after.

sometimes.... sometimes I get really impatient to start and start writing half way through the planning process. But anyways.

so I come up with character. do the basics. think about what their deal is. What is the journey they need to have, the lesson they need to learn, what themes and emotions do I want to explore with this character? Why is she important to me? Why will she be important to others?

I also think a lot about relationships

i just wrote a coming of age dramatic comedy for instance, and for that one, I broke up the story into my protagonists relationships. Wrote out the arc/story of each relationship and then combined each of these arcs into the key points that made up the film. Each relationship I wanted to be relevant to her grieving process, as she had just lost her mother. IDK if that makes sense. I wish I could show you but unfortunately I cannot.

for fic its honestly similar, but we already know character, so I usually ask what about this character/these characters am I most excited to explore.

that being said, coming home came to me in the idea for what they'd be like in modern day, and then a single idea for a single scene - their first kiss in the lab. I wrote that first, then asked myself what the context I wanted to give it was. Of course, I changed it a little once I actually got to writing and fleshing out chapter eight.

but this fantasy fic i'm writing is a fun example. I'm building out a lot. I'm building out characters, the world, the themes. - using visuals to help me kind of guide myself.

but because I have adhd and get impatient. I am outlining throughout this process to keep myself entertained. perhaps ideally you'd figure out everything first then outline then write but my brain just doesn't work that way.

in fics, especially, the relationship is so important that I really like to see how the obstacles they face, both due to their own psychology and internal pressures, can reflect the themes, create tension, etc.

but i also like to reflect on side characters too - their motivations and desires. So they don't just become like - flat little reflections of the central love story.

Finally, and this i learned from acting theory mostly - but I love it - is in each scene I like to think of what each character wants, what they are going to do to try and get that, and why they want it. In this fic, wants are something I also look at from a chapter by chapter basis.

side note - and i'm only saying this this far down so hopefully not too may people will see it - but I do have a secret subplot going on throughout the first half of this story that the audience doesn't know about.

in order to make this work I've been mapping out everything going on behind the scenes, and making sure they pair up well with events that people reading will see. it helps me plant little hints and seeds while hopefully not giving too much away (secret subplot in blue, actual story in red)

sorry i know this is such a ramble I just took my meds and had a double shot of expresso so I am buzzing right now lmao! Obviously I'm not the expert and there's not only one way. And also it really is so different for me every time. It's important to think about what the story actually calls for !

[we-stan-the-stans-27]

Sleeping Beauty AU?

@sixerstanley Here had this HUGE big brain idea and I immediately sprung into action to write a little something about it.

Basically, they read a merlin fic where a spell made it seem like Merlin was dead, but he was basically asleep and aware of everything going on. Arthur was not having a good time. (trauma and pain ensues) I'm going to replicate it, based on the idea alone.

(Also, I had no idea this would turn into an almost 4k oneshot, oops! Color me inspired, I guess! I can do this, but not my actual fan fiction. LMAO!)

Suffer with me. (JK, enjoy. XD )

For the first time in weeks, Ford had allowed himself a full night's rest downstairs. Why not reward himself, just this once? The rift is sealed, the universe is safe, and things are slowly getting back to normal. Or as normal as they get in the pathetic excuse for what used to be his home.

Ford still has a hard time calling it what it is, 'The Mystery Shack' is a little on the nose, isn't it? The exhibits are hardly anything close to a mystery. They're botched taxidermy projects.

Insults. That's what they are.

A slap in the face to his life's work.

Whatever, that's not his problem right now. Coffee is the first order of business.

It's early and no one else is awake, but the coffee pot is still hot with a fresh pot. One cup appears to be missing. Stanley must be awake then.

Ford takes his time pouring the life-bringing liquid into his favorite cup (it is amazing Stanley didn't break it or lose it after all these years) and adding in ample sugar, and a dash of cream for color.

He adds a single ice cube to cool it faster, listening to the sounds of the house. It's silent, too quiet.

Ford can't help that even in a peaceful environment it puts him on edge.

The TV is off and a walk through the living room reveals Stanley isn't sitting on the couch. The first-floor bathroom light is off, door is slightly ajar, but empty.

That's weird.

He really shouldn't be looking for his brother anyway since the only good that will do is start another fight. It's too early for that.

Ford settles back in the kitchen, hovering near the window and sipping his cup watching the clock on the wall tic on. Minutes pass.

The silence is no longer just putting him on edge, it's sounding alarms.

Why? There is nothing dangerous here in the house, they are perfectly safe here now that Bill has been dealt with.

What then?

To put his own stupid mind to rest he leaves the empty cup in the sink and goes upstairs to the attic, checking on Dipper and Mabel.

They are both still fast asleep in their beds. Dipper, drooling on his pillow with half the blanket on the floor. Mabel, hair stuck up in all directions, clutching one of her many stuffed animals like it might try to escape.

Waddles is here too, curled up on its makeshift bed on the floor.

He stays just long enough to ensure they are all breathing, and sleeping soundly, before noiselessly going back downstairs.

The second floor is as empty as the first, including Stanley's poor excuse for a room. It is a mess of half-packed boxes, several trash bags, and the always-unmade bed.

Soon enough the house will be normal again.

Stanley will be gone, the kids will go home- (Perhaps they'll visit again next summer? It's a shame Dipper can't stay) and the Mystery Shack business will be over forever.

This once secluded corner of the valley will be that way again, his haven away from prying eyes. And tourists.

With the interior of the house cleared that only leaves the yard and porch.

Ford makes his way out onto the one Stanley finds the most use out of and the worry he hadn't realized to be carrying vanishes. There he is, sitting back dead asleep on the disgusting couch. How old is that thing? It appears to be growing several kinds of mold along the bottom because of the constant rain this region gets.

One hand is barely holding onto Stan's coffee cup, the arm of the couch holding it up while its owner sleeps.

"Seriously, Stanley? Being old doesn't give you an excuse to sleep anywhere, much less flash the local wildlife in little more than boxers." It's a good dig, in his opinion, and he speaks loud enough to rouse Stanley despite how hard of hearing he has become over the years.

Except no quick response comes.

Stanley doesn't so much as twitch in his spot on the couch.

The fear comes back-

Oh, don't be ridiculous!

"Very funny, Stanley." He lets the door close, quietly, before moving to stand in front of his brother, hands on either hip.

He looks, really looks, at Stan.

And sees nothing good.

The first notable, and most concerning finding, is that his brother isn't breathing. He waits, watching, assuming this to be a breath hold.

A joke.

But that isn't the only concerning evidence. Stanley's eyes are also halfway open, looking over the yard. Empty.

Not funny anymore, very much NOT funny!

Ford does not panic, not yet. He moves and picks up the cup, plucking it out of his brother's hand- It lacks any strength, like taking a toy from a child.

"Stanley? Wake up. Very good joke, you got me. Stop it now." He kneels on the couch, next to him, after setting the cup aside on the porch by their feet.

For the second time since coming home, Ford touches Stanley. This time with a kinder hold, reaching up to press two fingers along the pulse point between the jaw and collar bone, off to the side of the Adam's apple.

Nothing.

'One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten-'

He could count on one hand the number of times true panic has overtaken him in his lifetime. It isn't a luxury one can often afford when coming face to face with death constantly in the multiverse-

But what harm can come of it when someone is already dead?

His hand stays right where it is, tucked into the still-warm skin-

"No, this isn't funny-" But Ford's voice shakes and he snatches the hand away quickly. If he can't feel the lack of pulse, it's not there. Simple.

How didn't he notice? When did this happen?

What happened?

No- Ford turns, looking around the peaceful yard. Dew covers the grass, the sun peaked up about half an hour ago basking the clearing in pink and yellow hues.

There isn't any blood.

Death is messy. He has seen it countless times, but it is never, ever, peaceful. Knives, guns, cracking bones, broken bodies...

Looking back at Stanley none of that is present. The skin is still pink, and warm, eyes open but- Dead.

No. That can't be. It just can't.

Stanley looks almost peaceful, asleep. His coffee, barely a sip or two taken from the looks of it. "No."

Panic takes many different forms. Initially, instinctively, Ford looked for the cause. It had to be someone, something, who did this. Who took his brother?

But there is nothing, no one, in sight. No blood.

"Stanley, who-" His feet stop, body stalling, in the middle of turning back from the yard to look at the corpse...

He had been about to ask, to question who did this. But a dead body can't answer. A dead body, a corpse.

There is a distinction between a vessel and a person, or so Ford had always thought.

Everyone dies and until then you live inside and pilot your body. Someday, it becomes a corpse and you leave it behind.

That is such a cold and callous way to look at it, in retrospect. Because this, is Stanley. He's just- Gone.

With quick hands, Ford begins looking, almost in a frenzy, for the cause.

No blunt force trauma to the back of the head. No perforations to the abdomen, arms, nothing. There is nothing.

But that's not possible, people don't just-

Except they do. Sometimes-

No. NO! Not them, not him! Stanley Pines wouldn't just die, not without a fight!

Death doesn't play favorites, anyone can go, anytime-

"Shut up! No, he wouldn't! He wouldn't leave me!" It comes out in a shout and shakes him.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

He never allowed himself to think very far into the future, how could he? Everything was always changing and it was better to live in the now anyway. So long as you were safe now, other things could be handled later-

Except later doesn't always wait for you to be ready. Time has its own plans and you have to work around it or something-

Stanley wasn't supposed to die. Isn't! he can't be-

Except-

There are no obvious injuries, but then again there don't have to be. They may not be old, but they're old enough. Brain aneurysms take hold suddenly, killing the affected almost instantly.

Leaving barely enough time to set down a cup of coffee-

Or a heart attack?

No, Stanley would have come inside, asked for help-

Wouldn't he?

"You idiot!" It comes out in a hiss from where Ford has shifted. He's kneeling right next to Stanley, hand on either shoulder, looking at his half-open but- Dead. Dead eyes. Empty. Gone.

Soulless.

Ford isn't sure who he's talking to. Himself? or Stanley? Both?

"I would have helped you, we could have called someone, I-" He has to pull away, sinking down into the empty space of the couch to hide the tears springing up without permission.

This can't be happening. Things weren't supposed to end like this-

Oh yeah, how was it supposed to go then?

With you, kicking him out next week? Leaving him homeless, again, just like Pa?

"Stop it! I don't know, not like this!" Stanley was always the stronger between them, persevering through everything no matter what happened.

Is this my fault?

What a stupid question.

It forces him to sit up again, one hand covering his face while half peering out at Stanley.

Of course it is. What did you expect? That he would take his life being uprooted lying down?

Did he do this on purpose?

In the rush to pick up the cup of coffee Ford almost knocks it over but finds he can't hold it without spilling some of it over the sides, down onto the porch, anyway. He is left with no choice but to set it back down to avoid wasting the sample.

Maybe.

Ford takes both a physical and mental step back, leaning against one of the columns holding up the roof over the porch, to look around.

Breathing is getting a little more difficult, coming in tight short inhales and smaller and smaller exhales.

What better way to get back at me? Thirty years of a life spent learning math, science, and engineering skills well beyond any normal human's comprehension, for what?

To get a brother back who first chance he got told him to pack it up and get out?

"What kind of brother am I?"

The kind who would rather be right than-

Then apologize. Forgive. Make up. Let go.

And now, it's too late. The train left the station, Stanley is gone, and its all my fault.

"He died thinking I hated him." That realization is what breaks the decade-old dam, tears finally escaping. Ford closes the distance, sitting on the stupid couch and pulling Stanley over into a hug, even if he's not here to feel it.

The lack of strong, still buff, arms encircling him, returning the sentiment only makes him cry harder into the thin and crappy tank top Stanley must have worn to bed.

"I'm sorry." He chokes out between sobs, "I thought I'd have more time, you'd have more time. I didn't think- How could I?" Nothing he's saying is making much sense.

The ramblings of a heartbroken lunatic.

As if we really deserve to be upset, like you'd of cared if it wasn't life or death-

Maybe his own thoughts are right. If Stanley had been alive, sitting here, having his morning coffee they would have traded morning insults before going their separate ways.

But that's not the reality they live in. This one is much worse, much darker.

I spent so much time running away, trying to break apart, and be unique. No longer part of a broken pair, or what I saw as one, I-

"I never expected to miss it when the other half was gone." He is still shaking, refusing to let go, with thoughts still scrambled in a million different directions.

CPR wouldn't do any good now, although it's a nice thought. If Stanley came out here directly after preparing his coffee then that was almost twenty minutes ago, give or take-

Oh god. What about the kids?

Without letting go Ford checks the time on his watch, wincing. A few hours at most, but he'll have to call the coroner-

What does he do?

For the first time, possibly ever, Ford feels lost.

Not only because his twin is currently dead, which is already world-ending, but everything that comes with it.

Who does he say the corpse belongs to? Stanley Pines has been dead for decades-

Is that why he did this? So that Ford could slot right back into his old life, fixing the broken and shattered history? No. This had to be an accident-

Only the testing of the coffee will confirm it or not.

Ford has never had to stick around and deal with a dead body before. Moving on was easier, and necessary. He can't remember attending a funeral, other than their great aunts when they were barely seven.

That's not the same. He'll have to make arrangements, put together pictures, and give a speech-

About a life he knows nothing about.

"God, I'm sorry Stanley. I'm so sorry." It feels safe to let his voice break here. No one is around to see how completely destroyed he feels. "All you ever did was love me, and I pushed you away. I crushed it, refused, and now..."

"Now you're gone. I can't even remember the last time I told you that I love you, but I do. So much, more than I could ever handle." Ford can't let go, but he does shift back to look at his brother's face, holding his limp body with one hand and clearing his own tears with the other.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad I'm here. Thank you, for bringing me back." He has to close his eyes, fresh tear tracks spilling across both cheeks, "Even if only so I could say goodbye. I'm glad I got that, at least. If only you were here-"

With a broken voice, Ford can't stand looking at Stan like this anymore. He reaches up, closing both eyes with feather-light fingers, before leaning close to press them forehead to forehead. Just like when they were young. Before everything.

It's odd. How fast do corpses cool? Not that Ford is going to complain. It lets him pretend, just for a few more moments, that Stanley isn't gone. That they could have this again.

Too little, too late.

"I love you, Stanley." It comes out broken and cruel, like the universe is mocking him. What was the point in protecting them from Bill if death came knocking anyway?

For the first time since coming home, Ford understands.

Finally, he can see why Stanley wasted so much of his life trying to bring him back. Because he loves so much, so big. To his own detriment.

He would do anything, even destroy the world, to have Ford by his side again.

"I'm so sorry, you deserved so much better." How different could things of been?

What would Stanley of done instead? Gotten married? Had kids?

A better family, that's for sure.

Ford knows he can't stay here forever. He needs to let go, head inside, and make some phone calls. To tell Soos to close the shack for the day, get an ambulance to bring Stanley to the morgue.

He needs to prepare for when the kids wake up and figure out what to tell them.

But first, he indulges himself a little bit more by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Stanley's lips. It smells of coffee, cigars, and denture cream, but Ford can't detect any sort of drug or chemical from close proximity alone. It's nice.

Not what you'd expect from a corpse, but it's enough.

A goodbye, a real one in a weird broken way. Just their luck.

The absolute last thing Ford expects, upon starting to pull away, is to feel the body still pressed very tight to his own take in a very deep breath followed by Stanley's discarded hands coming up to grab at him.

"Stanley!" His voice is still broken, mixed with anger and joy in a typhoon of confusion.

And Stanley? He has the nerve to laugh!

"Don't think you're walking away from that so easily!" No longer locked inside his own body without the ability to do anything it's a relief to be able to breathe. But even better, he can pull Ford over on top of his lap, locking one leg in place against the side of the couch.

"Excuse me! I thought you were dead! What the fuck, Stanley! You can't just go around pretending to be dead to mess with people! What if the kids had found you, or Soos, or Wendy?! You would have scared them half to death, you scared me half to death!"

Truly, it's a complicated story. One Stan is pretty sure Ford doesn't want to hear right now when his mind is running a mile a minute.

He has other things that need to be said instead of explaining whoever that weird wizard was who came out of the forest.

Forcibly Stanley grabs Ford's face, bringing him down so they are face to face again, leaving no room for argument in their close proximity. "Shut up, will you?"

Being locked in was sort of a blessing because participating in the conversation is so much harder than he thought it would be moments ago. He steals his nerves anyway, "I love you too, I'm not dead, and I'm pretty sure forty years should have made you a better kisser than that. Otherwise, I've got my work cut out for me. Try again."

By now Ford's face is bright red both out of anger at being tricked and embarrassment at their current position. But Stanley's hands are no longer weak, holding him tightly in place. Not that he seriously wants to argue anyway.

Stan waits, but the longer Ford stares, the more unsure he becomes. Maybe he misunderstood? Or maybe Ford just has a thing for corpses and now that he isn't one, the interest is gone.

Fair enough, Stan knows he isn't much to look at. Age wasn't as kind to him as it was to Ford. All lean muscles, few wrinkles, and barely greying hair. It's stupid, really.

It would be hypocritical to go right back to being mad, wouldn't it?

Just because Stanley isn't dead now, doesn't mean he won't be next time. Or the time after that.

Anything could happen.

Ford knows he should pull away. They should talk about what the hell just happened. He should move off his brother's damn lap!

Or, he could give in to the very thing he's spent two-thirds of their lives running from. The details and tough conversation can be hashed out later, right?

It's the hold on his jaw loosening that yanks Ford out of his spinning thoughts back to the present. Stanley is pulling away, looking down-

How long was he lost in thought? It couldn't have been more than twenty seconds. Did he change his mind? No, then why does he look so-

Well. Stanley looks the same as he always does.

Oh. Briefly, for a few seconds, Stanley was being brave. He opened up and showed his hand. Let himself be vulnerable.

Idiot!

His hands had never fully left Stan's shoulders, but he tightens their grip now, shifting one up to cup along the underside of his jaw. He doesn't feel the need to say anything, because neither of them has ever really been good with words.

He leans down, surprising them both, with a much more insistent kiss.

A hello. And maybe? A new beginning.

[greenleaf4stuff]

Of Convenience, pt 2

(Cont. from this) (all parts of "Of Convenience")

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage AU, 2nd snippet. Adar finds someone to officiate the marriage. The elf in question does not think this is a good idea and is pretty vocal about it. Celebrimbor must convince a good friend to help him - even if by, well, unconventional means.

Hiii guys this AU is slowly but surely taking over my brain so - have another snippet. No guarantee how many I'll end up writing, but well, this one exists, so I want to share it. If anyone else wants to try their hand on this concept/AU, be my guest!

"I refuse!" Galadriel spat, after Adar had dragged her into the tent after himself. Celebrimbor had very little time to be elated to see the other elf again before she ripped herself from Adar's grasp and put herself between Celebrimbor and the uruk. "You are trying to force him into something he does not want, would not want if he had any other options left. I refuse to lend you the legitimacy to the claim you seek. I will have no part in it."

She was as brilliant and fearless as the smith remembered her; despite her being in chains and how the two of them were surrounded by potential enemies from all sides, Galadriel was willing to risk her safety and lay down her life for Celebrimbor.

Which was precisely the reason as to why he would not take her up on the 'offer'.

He held up his hands and stared beseechingly at the uruk, who appeared stoic at first glance - but whose gauntleted fist was tightly clenched at his side, grasping the handle of his sword. At Celebrimbor's silent request, the uruk stopped his attempt to get closer. He even motioned the two uruk who had come in alongside him to stand down with a glance, before his eyes settled onto Celebrimbor again. Adar seemed oddly curious now, as if the tension had bled out of him.

The elf brushed it aside, and carefully came closer to Galadriel, humming before he touched her arm as not to startle her. She stepped back, closer to him.

Apropos of nothing, she hissed. "He speaks Quenya and Sindarin. Don't say anything you don't want him to hear."

Celebrimbor blinked, confused. Both at Galadriel's warning, and the fact that this unusual uruk spoke their languages. Then again - he did look elven enough that he might indeed be Moriondor. A terrifying thought, perhaps, but also one that held possibilities.

With gentle motions, the smith began to rub Galadriel's arm, and coaxed. "My friend, be at ease. Let me talk to you, first. Are you alright?"

She seemed torn between turning towards him to reassure him, and keeping an eye on the three uruk in the tent with them. Celebrimbor stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her, so the two of them were shoulder-to-shoulder - they'd cover their backs and she'd still be able to look at him. He had a hunch he'd need to be able to do that for the conversation that would follow.

Her eyes were wild as she was moved, her glances brief, but eventually she allowed herself a moment to take in the smith's face. "I am unharmed," she replied, brief and non-committal. Her glare went back to Adar. "You?"

Celebrimbor continued to rub her shoulder. "I've been treated well. He gave me food and drink," he paused, and looked at Adar. "He didn't even bind me."

This time, Galadriel did whirl around. Celebrimbor held up his hands and indeed, he had neither ropes nor manacles around his wrists. She tilted her head like a bird, and then glanced back at the uruk. Her expression still spoke of suspicion, but at least she wasn't quite so full of hatred anymore.

"Their leader told me he is planning to force you into a marriage," the word sounded like an insult from her mouth. "And tried to lie to me, claiming you'd accept to such a ludicruous idea-"

"Galadriel-," Celebrimbor sighed, gentle. Something in his tone must have given him away, because when Galadriel next turned towards him, she completely forgot the other people in the room by turning around fully. And shock was written all over her face.

If the situation wasn't so dire, the smith would have laughed at the picture she made. She was usually nearly unflappable in times of battle.

"-listen to me, I-"

"You cannot be serious," she breathed, still in shock, and grabbed Celebrimbor's hands with her own. "Tyelpe, listen to yourself. This orc-"

"Uruk," came from the other side of the room. Celebrimbor briefly looked up to see that Adar had spoken the words, but there was no heat behind them. If anything, he looked almost mildly amused. Celebrimbor threw him a glare and then focused on his friend again.

"Orc," she doubled down. Celebrimbor groaned internally. "Is speaking lies! He is trying to rope you into a plan to attack your own people, because he thinks-"

"Sauron is in Eregion. Yes," the smith finished her sentence, and Galadriel's expression fell out of her face at the name. "He's right. I- I have seen him. I know he's there because-"

He hoped, prayed to the Valar that his friend would forgive him. "Because I chose to ignore your warnings when 'Halbrand' returned to Eregion. I..." his voice broke. "I let him in, and now he won't leave. He's- he tricked me and my people, and when I realized it was far too late already."

His confession threatened to tear him apart, and he felt tears of frustration and shame gather in his eyes. "I am so sorry, my friend. I made a terrible mistake. And now my city is going to pay for it."

He would not crumble in the middle of an enemy tent, in front of the leader of a dark army that was still readying itself to attack Ost-In-Edhil if he diverged from the path he and Adar had set themselves onto.

Galadriel's gentle fingers at his cheek were a balm to his soul. As were her kind, understanding eyes. Gone was the commander of the Lindon elves, replaced with a kind smile and an imploring gaze.

"He tricked me too, same as you," she confessed. "Same as he has done to others," Adar's voice drifted over. Celebrimbor looked over in confusion and saw an unusually vulnerable expression on the other's face. And then the smith noticed how Galadriel's eyes had sunk to the floor as if contemplating something herself.

"It's not your fault," the female elf finally settled on, and looked at the smith, imploringly. "Almost none can resist him. And he set out to trick you, it wasn't a mistake or a coincidence on his part. When he first sets his sights on you...it already becomes impossible to escape him. Do not blame yourself for it."

"But I do," Celebrimbor said, and hushed Galadriel as she tried to reassure him. "I am the lord of this city. Of its citizens. I am meant to be their protector, and yet I couldn't even protect myself..."

"Which is why you must do me this favor, and help officiate a marriage between me and Adar." It was, perhaps, unfair to end his heartfelt confession with such a demand, but time was of the essence. Celebrimbor could apologize to her later, if she took offense to it. "His reasoning is sound - he plans to vanquish our common foe. As his husband, I can hand over control of my city to him. My people would have to accept that claim. He could enter it and drive out Annatar- Sauron. Hopefully with little bloodshed."

He trembled as he repeated Adar's plans at his friend, whose face was moving through different emotions at a speed too rapid to keep up with. Still, the smith pressed on. "Please Galadriel - like this, he will advance on Eregion. Elves and uruk will die, and Sauron will reign over whatever is left. Likely, he'll take the city and the army both. I know not how. But whatever he plans cannot be good," another pause. "He's tried to get me to make more rings."

At the mention of Sauron taking over the uruk army, there was a loud hiss from across the room, but it was Galadriel who was jerking in the smith's grasp at the mention of the rings.

"Over my dead body," Adar snarled, but the smith chose to ignore him for the moment. He could discuss this further with Adar when they were alone.

"He wants me, Galadriel," Celebrimbor pressed, and sought out her eyes. "Please, I need you to help me put a stop to this." "There's got to be a better way than this." The smith could tell it was her last attempt to reason with him, and already, it sounded more like a plea than an exclamation made in full confidence. He guessed that she was quickly arriving at the same conclusion he himself had come to.

"If there is, we have no the time to parse it out, or to pursue it," he said, and there was a finality to his words that made Galadriel deflate in his hold. He drew her closer and pressed their foreheads together. "Officiate the marriage. Stand by my side and give legitimacy to Adar's claims. Help me bring this to Gil-Galad so we might unite their- our forces against this greater evil. You want to get rid of him too, do you not?"

She looked back at him. "I can tell you are trying to appeal to my sence of vengeance," she said. And then sighed. Celebrimbor could tell he had gotten through to her, and it made him sigh in turn - in relief.

"I will do as you ask," she told Celebrimbor, and threw another glare at Adar, whose expression was a mask of indifference - thankfully so, for the smith was sure that if the other had been smug about it, Galadriel would have made an attempt on his life, no matter the circumstances (or consequences). She turned back to him. "And I will stay by your side to make sure he won't go back on his word. If he does, I'll cut his throat."

Her bold declaration was met with enraged growling from the two uruk guards who had brought her in, and a watery smile from Celebrimbor, who nodded and brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. "Of that, I have no doubt."

This put a small grin to her face, at last. Good.

"Now that this matter is settled," a voice cut through the small moment of peace, shattering it. "I believe we should start. My children are getting restless, and morning is fast approaching."

Celebrimbor sought out Adar's gaze, who still seemed as unaffected as through most of the conversation, safe for the fact that he wasn't grasping his sword anymore and was infact walking over to the nearby table to drink from a goblet - wine, the smith presumed.

"Untie her, and then let us be done with it quickly." It sounded as if this marriage was merely another task for Adar to fulfill - the smith couldn't quite fault the uruk for that. There was no love between them, not even affection, safe for how he couldn't quite help following the motion as Adar lifted his glass and drank in big gulps, throat moving with the motions.

It was an oddly arresting sight, and Celebrimbor was thankful when the two approaching uruk guards helped him to tear his gaze away. They were cautious to touch Galadriel, and surprised the others in the tent when they gave Celebrimbor the permission to open her manacles with a key instead.

The smith rubbed her wrists between his hands after he'd handed the keys and manacles back to the guards without a fuss and thanked them. The raised eyebrows that greeted him were unexpected, however. He gave Galadriel a lopsided smile and made sure the commander would not require a balm for the chafing.

He was surprised to see that while the manacles had certainly worked, they hadn't cut into her skin. Even with how Galadriel had behaved - and Celebrimbor was sure she hadn't been caught without a fight - Adar hadn't had her bound so tightly that she would bruise.

Perhaps, he mused, there was indeed a way this alliance could work out. "Well then," the smith clapped his hands once. The finality of his words didn't escape him. "Let us proceed."

[misskentuckyrain]

Just A Little Bit.....

So what says Happy 90th Birthday Elvis like a smutty one shot?

To be fair I started writing this last week, just a rambling idea that popped into my head!

Warnings: Just a lot of smut to be honest, with a sprinkling of fluff

Word Count: 2.1k

The warm spring air blows through the curtains that hang at the window, the afternoon sun shines through the gap. After such a cold winter it actually felt nice to feel the warmth on your skin.

On a break between tours you and Elvis are spending some rare alone time in your bedroom. It’s early afternoon and post lunch Elvis had suggested you spend a little quality time together.

You thought you knew what “quality time” meant. To Elvis it was a time where he got you both naked, have himself as deep inside you as possible in as quick a time as possible but this time you are wrong.

As you lie on top of the bed covers, eyes closed, you hum along to a familiar song playing quietly on the radio. Elvis is reading next to you, his side pressed gently against yours. The feel of him is always comforting, something about the lightest touch from him makes you feel safe. Letting out a contented sigh you hear the DJ on the radio lining up the next song, as it plays it becomes clear it’s a song, and a voice you know well. 

“I don't want much, Just want a little bit, Don’t want it all, Just a little bit. Give me an eeny weeny bit, a teeny weeny bit of your love…”

You giggle to yourself as the familiar voice fills your ears. Elvis glances side-ways at you, a grin forms on his lips.

“Who’s this guy?” he starts “He can’t hold a tune that’s fo’ sure!” 

Rolling your eyes and laughing you move up and across to straddle his lap, moving the book out of his hands and placing them around your waist.

“Oh I don’t know..” you say as you lean forward to place a quick kiss on his lips

“I think he’s kinda ok. I mean, it’s a catchy tune at least. I bet the singer is cute too….” causing Elvis to roll his eyes at you now.

“Honey, I ain’t been called cute in a long time” Elvis attempts to keep it light but you can see a hint of something in his eyes. A bit of sadness? Perhaps embarrassment. You love him for all he is, even the things he sees as negatives you see as positives but you know he struggles with the way he looks now, compared to his younger years.

You tut at him and make yourself a little more comfortable. Making your way down from his temple you kiss your way down to his lips, singing quietly as you go.

‘Turn your lamps down low, Slip me a kiss….” 

You go in for a longer kiss. As you pull away Elvis grumbles slightly. 

“Turn your lights down low. I won't let you resist…”

Kissing down Elvis jawline to his neck you back up onto his thighs, undoing the buttons on his shirt as you go, pushing it off his shoulders and leaving his chest bare to you.  Continuing your path down his chest you take a second to flick your tongue over his nipples, sucking a little on them as you lean back. Pulling your dress over your head and flinging it to the floor, you sit on Elvis thighs in just your lace panties clearly much to Elvis’ delight as his eyes light up and darken simultaneously.

Elvis’ hands move to touch you but you stop him, firmly placing them back at his sides, as you shake your head no at him with a smile. He lets out a loud sigh in frustration and you laugh.

“I want an eeny weeny bit, a teeny weeny bit of your love…” you continue.

“I’ll give ya an eery weeny bit in a minute Darlin’” Elvis grumbles, clearly still frustrated at not being allowed to touch you. You tut again at him.

“I think we both know there is nothing eeny or weeny about this” Elvis jumps slightly as you wrap your hand around the bulge currently tenting his pants.

Grasping hold of the button you pop it open easily and draw down the zipper, letting the backs of your fingers tease the flesh underneath as you move slow pace.

True to form Elvis is not wearing any underwear so his cock bounces out as you push open his pants, getting Elvis to lift his hips up slightly so you can pull them down his long legs and off of him, his pants destined to join your dress on the floor.

You gaze down at his form for a minute, admiring every inch of it. Still strong, even with a little padding as you liked to call it and still very beautiful. 

Elvis starts to fidget, likely a little uncomfortable under your unwavering stare. You lean forward and gently wrap your fingers around his length, whispering as you pull him into your mouth,

“I want an eeny weeny bit…..”

Elvis draws in a loud breath as you tease your tongue around the head of his cock, swirling it around before taking him fully into your throat, the head hitting the back and making him jump a little with the sensation. Pulling back to the tip you swirl your tongue again before bobbing back down to envelop him in your mouth. You swallow as your nose hits his pubic hair, the action tightening your throat around him.

“God damn baby!….” Elvis yells, sitting up straighter as one of his hands finds it’s way into your hair. A smile forms on your lips as they stretch around him and you feel your pussy start to throb. Nothing turns you on more than giving Elvis pleasure and having the taste of him on your tongue.

Allowing Elvis’ hand to stay where it is you bob up and down on him for a while, letting him guide your speed. Bringing a hand up, you gently cup his balls and play with them, letting your finger stroke the skin behind them as you do. The air is filled with gasps and moans and the odd “Oh honey”. 

A little time passes and your feel them start to draw up and his thighs tense, you know Elvis is close and you are more than willing to get him there but he clearly has another plan for the both of you.

Elvis gently pulls your mouth away from him, a string of saliva still connecting his cock to your lips. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand just as Elvis hauls you up into his lap and kisses you. Hard.

Manoeuvering you so he has you where he wants you Elvis holds you so your pussy is hovering directly over his cock but instead of guiding himself in, he leans forward a little

“Just a little bit…”

Elvis says quietly to you, lowering you enough so just the head of his cock is inside you. 

“Give me an eeny weeny bit…”

He lowers you a little bit more, stretching you out as he moves slowly into you. You whine in frustration and a smug smile crosses Elvis face, he loves to tease.

“A teeny weeny bit of your love…”

With the final word he plunges the rest of his length into you, making you groan loudly, eyes rolling back into your head slightly.

“Oh…god…” you stutter out.

“Nope, just good ol’ Elvis honey” he laughs as his hands wrap around your hips and he begins to set up a hard and fast pace, lifting you and dropping you back down on to his cock. 

Elvis controls the pace for a moment, moving you up and down on his cock, bucking it up into you, the head rubbing directly over your g-spot and your clit rubs against his pelvis as you move.

After a while his grip on your hips lessens and he lets you ride him to your chosen tempo. You slow it down a little as you move on his cock in a more relaxed speed, wanting to savour the feeling for a little longer. 

Riding Elvis, either front facing or reverse, is one of your favourite positions, and you have quite a few. Not only are you able to look at his face the whole time, memorise the looks of pleasure as they cross his handsome features but you get to see how he looks back at you. 

As his crystal blue eyes stare back, although somewhat darkened with lust, you can see the love and need there is between you. So wrapped up in your thoughts you don’t realise you have now slowed to a snails pace. 

A smile crosses Elvis face followed by a hard thrust that has a gasp escaping your lips. 

“Thought I fucked you into a trance for a moment there honey” he chuckles.

“Nearly had me calling the doctor for ya” he continues, moving his hips at a faster pace. You move your hips to try and meet his pace but at this point he is basically holding them and pulling you down onto his cock, fucking himself into you.

“Hmmmmmnnnnnn….” is the only sound you can manage as you wrap your arms around Elvis neck. You can feel your orgasm bearing down, tingling around the edges and you know it is going to be intense, you don’t want to end this just yet but you can also tell that Elvis is getting close.

“Just a little bit…..more…” you whisper in his ear, nibbling at his ear lobe, you tighten your muscles around his cock as you plunge down on him. 

“Oh…Jesus…so…so tight…..so good. Not gonna last baby. Need you to come with me…..” Elvis nuzzles into the side of your face as you both gasp for air and your movements become more frantic, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing around the bedroom.

“Just a lit…….” you are unable to finish that sentence as Elvis pulls you down onto him one more time, his cock hitting directly into your spot and making you explode around him. At the same time you can feel his hips stutter and a familiar warmth spreads through you as he throbs inside you with a loud groan.

As you both try and catch your breath, Elvis holds you close and continues to thrust his hips into you, although at a far gentler pace. You revel in the feeling of your pussy still clenching around his length, the aftershocks of your orgasm still running through your whole body. You slide up and down on what you assume to be his now softening length a few more times and then stop but Elvis movements don’t stop.

You lean back so you can see his face and you see that same smug grin from earlier. Elvis glances down to where you are both joined and moves his hand from your hip to your sodden clit, his fingers starting to move over it in a circular pattern. A gasp escapes your lips, you’re a little oversensitive.  

“Elvis!…..”

You try and move back a little, away from his touch but he stops you by wrapping his other arm more firmly around your waist.

“Just a little bit…” he grins, fingers still rubbing their pattern “I know ya have one more for me honey…give me a teeny weeny bit….”

You hate to admit it but he’s right again and to your surprise you feel another orgasm fast approaching. Leaning forward again you move your hips in a gentle motion aware that Elvis cock is still inside you, not as hard as it was but hard enough to add to the pleasure.

“Oh god… Oh Elvis…I’m going…I’m going to come again…El…..”

Elvis kisses you repeatedly on the side of your face as you nuzzle into his neck, making the space between you humid as you gasp and whine against him.

Your second orgasm is less intense than your first, it washes over you at a slower pace, like a wave crashing on the sand. You feel Elvis’ now softened cock slide out of you as you clench around it for a second time. His magical fingers work you through it until he can feel your body relax against him and your breathing has evened out. 

You sit back, taking his face in your hands and kiss him slowly. Pausing for breath you whisper with a smile

“I want an eeny weeny bit, a teeny weeny bit of your love”

Elvis brushes some hair out of your face and kisses you again, smiling.

“You have it. Always.”

[theophan-o]

I think that your idea is really magnificent and should never be abandoned! It would be a great thing to read such a book.

Besides the famous Yeven Mezulah by Nathan ben Moses Hannover, as far as I know, several Jewish chronicles from the mid-17 century, telling about Bohdan Chmielnicki and his uprising exist (I can make some mistakes in transcription from Hebrew here, I am not a specialist in this field):

Tsok ha-‘itim by Meir Samuel from Szczebrzeszyn (first published: Kraków 1650)

Tit ha-yaven by Shmuel Feivel ben Natan of Vienna (Amsterdam 1650)

Megilat ‘efah by Shabetai ha-Kohen (Amsterdam 1651)

Petaḥ teshuvah by Gavriel Schussberg (Amsterdam 1651)

Tsar bat rabim by Avraham ben Shmuel Ashkenazi (Venice)

They are discussed in a book, @wanderer-on-the-steppe presented in this post:

And in the article:

B. D. Weinryb, The Hebrew Chronicles on Bohdan Kiimel’nyts’kyi and the Cossack-Polish War, “Harvard Ukrainian Studies”, 1.2, 1977, p. 153-177.

There are also Hebrew elegy poems from the same time, referring to the Cossack wars from the years 1648–1656. Some of them have been published here (the article is in Polish, but the poems have been brought also in their original form):

As for the later Jewish literary visions of the uprising of 1648, I think, there are many to be found, but they can be very scattered: one remark here, another episode elsewhere. I remember that I also read in my high school time Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Slave because I hoped to find something about Bohun there:-) And found nothing. At the same time, I was surprised, when in a play The Dybbuk by Shloyme Zanvl Rappoport ‘S. An-sky’ (1863-1920) I suddenly heard, that in a village, where the play is set, was a kind of 'memory place' mentioned: a little grave (mogiłka) in the middle of the main street, where a bride and a groom were buried, after being murdered by the Cossacks from Chmielnicki (and he was mentioned expressis verbis there!)

As for the Tatar testimonies, it would be a great task to find something!

What comes first to my mind, when I think about texts originating from the area of the Ottoman Turkish Empire, is Paul of Aleppo’s Journal. It is a fascinating testimony because its author (b. 1627 - d. 1669), although coming from the Ottoman Syria, was an Eastern Orthodox Christian, writing in Arabic. So, despite his Middle Eastern provenance, he perceived the Ukrainian Cossacks (being, like him, Eastern Orthodox Christians) as people from his ‘own world’. A new edition of this source with its English translation has been recently published and looks very promising:

If colleagues made an extensive commentary, we would find there, perhaps, references to other testimonies from the same period and region?

There’s really something about the Steppe (and landscape in general) as described by novels about the Khmelnytsky Rebellion that hits different

Q: For novels about Zaporozhian Cossacks, we obviously have Ogniem i mieczem (Polish), Kiddush Ha-Shem (Jewish), and Taras Bulba (complicated, but Gogol’s Ukrainian). But is there an ethnic Tatar perspective in a novel somewhere?

(Specifying novels, rather than books, since I’m specifically looking for ideological biases in fictional portrayals, as reflected in all three above.)

[lardguz]

What do you think of feeder Apol/lo and Feedee Kla/vier? Due to Klavier being able to indulge now that he no longer needs to keep up appearance as a rock star.

Anon I won't lie you have my complete and total attention 👀 I may have already shown how much I like fat feeders in my writing and previous answers but like.... Apollo doting on Klavier and fattening him up is PEAK.

[fatedroses]

That one teacher/mentor moment and Zenos feeling embarrassed for the first time in years (and reacting just about as well as you'd expect him to).

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 19

PREVIOUS

There’s a couple things about FF that might be good to know at this point.

1. There are few things in the world he hates doing more than asking for clarification or admitting he doesn’t understand / know something. The thought of going up to someone and admitting that he hasn’t perfectly comprehended the situation upon the first explanation is something makes his stomach twist like he’d just eaten Mango-Habanero ice cream.

He has figured out his own math theorems in the pursuit of not having to ask the math teacher to explain he doesn’t understand. He got lost in an Ikea once for over 6 grueling hours where he considered making a home there and living among the display rooms until his grandma grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to safety (the food court) and let him regain his strength (eat Swedish meatballs). He, to this day, is not sure about one of his foreign language friend’s names (how embarrassing he just keeps waiting for someone else to say it but they go by some insane nickname).

So he has become a master of piecing shit together on his own. He sometimes gets it wrong (Andrew, god how embarrassing) but for the most part 8 times out of 10 he can get to the right answer if he just has a couple pieces to work with. No one had ever actually explained to him how Exy works and he was too embarrassed to ask after the third week of practice in middle school so he just pieced together what he was and was not allowed to do through the art of trial and error. He’s even mostly pieced out the rules for the other positions.

So with the information he has gotten through people being bound and determined to talk in foreign languages in front of him he has an idea about the tenuous situation some of the older Foxes find themselves in.

He’s heard Kevin Day and Jean Moreau talk in French.

He’s heard that the anxiety in both of their voices as they talked about their futures and owing 80% of their salaries to the ‘Moriyamas’ and how nervous they were about getting on professional teams or else they’d be killed.

Captain Neil and Andrew are not always using Russian to talk dirty.

He’s heard Andrew soothe Captain Neil’s worries about playing for a professional team. He’s heard Captain Neil mention that at least ‘Ichirou’ would likely just kill him and not make a game out of it like his father did.

Organized Crime might have more to do with Exy than FF had originally thought.

(He had thought it. Plenty of times he had thought it but his Gran had warned him that he was overthinking things. That he wasn’t playing a sport invented by the Mafia. That he had caffeinated coffee instead of decaf. “It’s going to be okay sweetie. Just take a deep breath.”)

This leads into the second thing you should know at this point.

2.  Before he had signed with Wymack he had known the broad strokes of Captain Neil’s life. There had been a lot of news articles about it and Gran (bless her) loved trashy gossip magazines.

After he had signed with the Foxes he had done a bit of a deep dive on as many of their controversies as he could find. There’d been things from brawls on the court (worrying), player overdoses (concerning), a straight up MURDER (Oh god), and the very public breaking of the King of Exy’s arm resulting in his suicide (Warranted, that wacko was going to take off Captain Neil’s HEAD.)

But the thing that had made him actually a little bit, dare he admit, excited to go to Palmetto was the fact that Captain Neil was there.

For someone who froze for almost a decade, who just took it and didn’t have the balls to even react? Neil Josten is an inspiration.

This is someone who got away, who lived a life completely unlike FF’s, someone who knew how to run and more impressively someone who learned how to FIGHT. Captain Neil was being hunted but he still ripped people to shreds in interviews. Captain Neil was probably more scared of the Butcher than FF had been of anything in his entire life but Captain Neil was way braver than FF could ever hope to be.

Captain Neil was taken and tortured but he still fought. FF had seen the scars and Captain Neil is right to wear them proudly (though based on some conversations he has unfortunately overheard he is sure Andrew may have a role in Neil’s positive feelings about them).

FF had thought that he was being lead to his death down in a basement of a club (Don’t cringe. Don’t cringe. Don’t cringe. Don’t-) and he just trailed right behind the two of them without even an illusion of a fight.

Neil Abram Josten was a bit of a personal hero.

He’s proud to call him Captain Neil. He wishes Andrew hadn’t been there when Greg had mentioned wanting autographs because FF wants an autograph from Captain Neil but now Andrew has probably mentioned it to Neil.

Long story short, FF had looked into a lot of details on Captain Neil’s case.

Including two of the Butcher’s top men who were still on the loose.

Romero Malcolm and Jackson Plank.

He keeps his presence low but no matter how many times he blinks the man grumbling in Italian next to him continues to be Romero Malcolm.

Moreover Romero Malcolm continues to grumble about the fact that he is having a hard time finding ‘Nathaniel’ and that he’ll have to grab one of ‘The Wesninski brat’s friends’ to draw him out.

FF is a recently confirmed friend of Captain Neil.

FF who is standing next to this man, with his dick out, and trying to remain as invisible as possible.

After two shakes (Yes he was watching but only because he had to! He wonders briefly if he goes to the FBI if they would accept a description of Romero Malcolm’s penis for the wanted poster? Probably not but it is BURNED into his retinas.)

He watches as Romero tucks, zips, and then bypasses the sink entirely.

FF shivers at how unhygienic that is. Who RAISED him?

The door shuts and FF needs to get out of here ASAP but his hands are shaking with the sudden adrenaline of ’One of the FBI’s Most Wanted just took a piss next to me and is looking for me friend’. He pulls his phone from his pocket and ducks into one of the stalls. Even if there’s no door it’ll at least FEEL a little safer, a little more private. He needs to warn Neil, Warn Andrew, and warn-

The door to the bathroom SLAMS open and music blares in (palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy-) and his phone slips out of his hands and into the toilet. There are footsteps coming towards him and FF digs deep.

He’s in ultra stealth mode. He is the wall behind the wallpaper. Mantis shrimp can only dream of the color he becomes, the United States military have the CIA on the look out for him because he’s fallen off all conventional forms of radar and tracking.

He is a bargain fruit platter on a dessert table at a kid’s birthday party.

He is ULTRA stealth.

Romero’s gaze glides over him.

Then the man leaves (STILL DID NOT WASH HIS HANDS).

His heart is hammering in his chest but he manages to reach down and grab his phone. Well, Coach Wymack had gotten the extended warranty at least. (“Do you know what these fuckers do to phones? Josten crushed his last year in a fight with the Baseball team captain.”)

His phone’s extended dip into the toilet water had not done it any favors in working properly.

Well fuck.

He wipes his phone down the best he can. He wipes his phone down with some toilet paper before cramming it into his pocket (Sorry Nicky, he’ll wash the toilet water pants if they survive).

He sees a flyer on the wall of the bathroom and starts to think of a plan.

He rushes out of the bathroom (he still washes his hands because he will not have something in common with a man on the FBI’s most wanted list and he just dipped his hand into a CLUB TOILET) and clocks Nicky’s wild arm movements and WORSE clocks Romero just 10 clubbers away.

He sees Romero’s eyes lock onto Nicky and a smile that terrifies him.

He’s out of Ultra Stealth Mode even if every atom in his body wants to run.

He is so stressed and panicked that he has gone beyond his body’s ability to process that so all that is left is determination. He’s got a head full of a half-baked plan, a hand going to his pocket, a second hand on the only ‘weapon’ he has on him, and a stomach full of acid.

He’s pulling his phone out of his pocket before he can really let himself think about it and walking up next to where Romero is standing. He holds his toilet water phone up to his ear and does the one weird social anxiety thing that he had never done before.

He pretends to be on a phone call.

“Hey Captain Neil,” he says and in the corner of his eye he can see Romero’s gaze shift from Nicky (surrounded by an adoring public, covered in sweat and therefore difficult to grab - a difficult target) to himself (alone, shorter, and probably looking like he’s about to pass out). “Yeah I think I’m going to take a break outside after I grab quick drink and then a water at the bar.” He says because he has to be the easier target and he has to go to the bar. “Yeah, yeah, okay I’ll mention it to that bartender guy.” He says and pretends to hang up.

He turns and he walks towards the bar and feels his pulse in his throat go to the beat of the music (success is my only motherfucking option, failure’s not).

He only knows about the alley because in the car ride to Sweetie’s Nicky had mentioned that he wouldn’t let FF’s first time be out there. He had been embarrassed but it was the only way he knew to get Romero out of the club and away from where he could hurt Captain Neil or anyone else in the pursuit of that.

He spots the bartender who had gotten the drinks for their table and his mind completely blanks on the name but the bartender sees him and smiles. “Oh you’re Neil and Andrew’s new friend! What can I help you with? I thought you were-“

“Hi, yes I am Captain Neil and Andrew’s friend.” He says a little loudly because he can feel Romero behind him and he does NOT want the man to know anything about where Captain Neil was.

“Captain Neil? Oh wow that’s adorable.” The man gushes. “What can I help you with? I won’t ask for ID for one of their friends.” He winks.

“I’d like to order the uh…” he tries to remember the exact drink name from the flyer, “…the deluxe chocolate martini?” He asks and knows he got it right when the bartender’s expression shifts ever so slightly.

“Oh yeah, how do Andrew and Neil feel about that?” He asks and oh great a coded conversation. It’s nice to actually be having a real one of these for once instead of just perceiving normal conversations to have hidden meanings.

“They don’t know. They probably prefer that I order it instead of Nicky or Aaron.” He lets his eyes dart to the wide where he believes Romero is watching him.

“I don’t know if that’s true.” The bartender says, “Nicky knows how to handle a drink and Aaron’s not a lightweight either.” He adds.

FF struggles to find a coded way to say ‘It’s not that someone’s hitting on me too hard like the flyer mentioned. It’s that there’s a mafia hitman in your club.’

Finally after a moment, “It’s not the usual kind of drink they get.” He tries and the bartender looks confused by the statement, dammit. He struggles to find a different way to say it before the bartender smiles.

“Y’know you’re really cute.” He reaches under the bar top and grabs a piece of paper and a pen. “How about you write down your number for me cutie? We can meet up sometime.” He says. “I’ll get started on that chocolate martini for you.” He says.

HE COULD KISS THIS MAN.

“I’d like that.” He says.

He writes out a quick message on the small note paper.

‘Armed. After Neil. Looked at Nicky. I’m going to the back alley. Phone is dead.’

The bartender comes back and looks at his note. “We’re out of chocolate martini mix, can I get you something-“ He hopes the club lighting obscures how pale the man got, “something else?” He asks and FF can SEE his pulse.

“Can I just get some water then?” He asks.

The bartender nods and pulls up his phone and hopefully is dialing the police and hands FF a water. His hand grabs hold of FF’s “You don’t need to go out into the alley. You could hang in the backroom with me?” He offers.

There really are some kind people in the world.

“I think it’s better if I’m not in here for a bit.” He says back and honestly he needs this kindness and he has a spare bit of courage, “What’s your name by the way? Sorry I missed it.” He says.

The bartender swallows, “It’s Roland.” He says.

“Thanks Roland.” He twists the cap off of the water bottle and takes a sip.

He turns and pretends not to notice how Romero is trying to be inconspicuous pretending to be on his phone.

He makes his way over to the alley door and notices that Romero is tracking his movements but is not following him like he did to the bar.

His heart is pounding and he can’t BELIEVE he’s doing this. He wants to run, wants to hide somewhere, wants to become imperceptible but…but…

He opens the door to the alley as the bass of the remixed song finishes.

(You can do anything you set your mind to, man)

He lets the door slam behind him and he is alone in the alley.

He was not expecting a van to come to a screeching halt in front of the entrance and for a different face to appear climbing out of the car.

Jackson Plank.

FF looks at the ugly smile on the man as he walks towards him with a knife in hand.

Okay now what genius?

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

5/26/23: EDITED. Can’t believe I forgot to put the Captain in front of Neil’s name on the meme. I’m blaming the accidental early awakening.

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings​ @blep-23​ @dreamerking27​ @andreilsmyreligion​ @belodensetdust​ @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace​ @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world​ @obscureshipsandchips​ @booklover242​ @whataboutmyfries​ @sahturnos​ @pluto-pepsi​ @dreamerthinker​ @passinhosdetartaruga​ @leftunknownheart​ @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead​ @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme​ @tayspots @nick-scar​ @crazy-fangirl2524​ @blue-jos10​ @stabbyfoxandrew​ @splishsplashyouropinionistrash​ @sammichly​ @the-broken-pen​ @bitchesdoweknowu​ @very-small-flower​ @ghostlyboiii​ @its-a-paxycab​ @bisexual-genderfluid-fan​ @cheesecookie​ @theoneandonlylostsock​ @foxsoulcourt​ @blueleys @adverbialstarlight​ @elia-nna​ @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner​ @nikodiangel​ @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat​ @hallucinatedjosten​ @satanic-foxhole-court​ @vexingcosmos​ @chalilodimun​ @insectsgetcooked​ @angry-kid-with-no-money​ @queer-crows​ @lillyndra​ @themugglemudperson​ @readertodeath​ @apileofpillows​ @mortalsbowbeforeme​ @hellomynameismoo​ @next-level-mess @youreonlylow​ @interstellarfig​ @notprocrastinatingatalltoday​ @percyjacksonfan3​ @queenofcrazy27​ @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares​ @spencellio​ @adinthedarkroom​ @harpymoth​ @sufferingjustalilbit​ @anxietymoss​ @oddgreyhound​ @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken​ @ken22789​ @atiredvampire​ @isoldescorner​ @not--a--pipedream​ @azure-wing​ @bushbees​  @roonilwazlib-main​ @crumplelush​ @foldedaces-paperbirds​ @thesenseinnonsense​ @let-tyrants-fear​ @ketchupfriesandallthingsnice​ @legowerewolf​ @deadlydodos​ @but-we-respect-his-craft​ @cariniqe​ @zanypersonapricotbiscuit​

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it  right but you didn’t  get a notification there might be something  switched around in  your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

Lillyndra it worked this time!!!

[huyaoxiaozi]

       Despite Matt's best efforts, Zane still picked up on how every press of lips against warm skin made Matt tense. However, combined with how Matt readily leaned into him, he suspected it was more in an attempt to suppress himself than anything. It elicited a swell of tight affection to bloom in Zane's chest — and perhaps a little bit of amusement, as Matt was just trying to pay attention, but ... it was true that they hadn't had the time or space for slow, casual intimacy. Now that they had both for once, it was difficult for Zane to resist taking full advantage of it.

       He too contemplated Matt's words — he couldn't pretend that he liked the idea of helping the Black Dragons succeed in anything, but ... all he could think about was the glimpses of Matt's injuries after he'd let Zane go. The way his movement was stiff, how he looked pained and practically distant when he thought no one was watching. He thought about how that beating would have gotten Matt killed on this job, had he not decided to call Zane for help. If helping Matt succeed would keep the clan's hands off of him, he would do whatever it took. Privately, he too knew it would be temporary, assuming Zane found what was needed to help Matt break free.

       His breath caught slightly as Matt tugged on him with the grip he had in his hair. Zane followed it, finding the others gaze waiting for him. Of course, he was more than happy to oblige with Matt's request to take things slow — he found that he wanted that, more than anything. Time to just be, to enjoy each other's presence and closeness at their own pace, to take their time. As he looked up into Matt's eyes, however, there was ... something there that hadn't been when they were teenagers. He couldn't quite put words to it, but it was ... something. Again, he found himself wondering what exactly Matt had endured during their time apart?

       ❝Sure,❞ Zane rasped, ❝As slow as you want. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Of course, I would enjoy more, eventually, but ... I'm perfectly content where we are right now, too.❞ Matt was really the only person he'd ever had that kind of intense craving for and, even then ... so much of the tension and desire he'd struggled to hold back had mellowed completely, just with the ability to touch.

       Then, his gaze slid away thoughtfully. ❝And I'll do what I can to help — I don't ...❞ Brows tensed with the memory of the beating Matt had taken and he let out a steadying breath, swallowing down the spark of rage at the thought of it. Now was not the time for that. Nonetheless, when he met Matt's gaze again, that smouldering protective intensity was back again, just like it had appeared during their conversation on the rooftop previously. When Matt had actively taken a step back from him. Zane just couldn't help it. ❝You can write me an essay about how you think you deserved it all you want, but you didn't. If helping you succeed keeps their fucking hands off you, I'll do it.❞

 Sliding into Zane's lap was an odd sensation, to say the least. Casual intimacy had never really been in their cards. It had either been 'pretend we're just normal friends' or 'try to make as much use of the very limited time we have', very often ending up in heated make-out sessions. There'd rarely been anything in between. Even when at school they had to be careful, knowing damn well that there were eyes everywhere. So the last time he'd sat in someone's lap was probably when he'd been a toddler.

 But it didn't feel... bad. As a matter of fact, he quite enjoyed it, and he let out a quiet, content sigh as he reached up to bury his hand in Zane's hair yet again, playing with it as he took in the way he felt in this very moment. It was almost overwhelming, and yet, he didn't want it to ever end. It felt as though he had finally made it home after all those years, but was constantly on the brink of becoming homeless yet again. Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated? Why couldn't he have just this one thing? Reputation be damned. He was already infamous for his deadliness, who the fuck cared if the heir was in love with a guy?

  "You sound more confident than I feel," he muttered, closing his eyes as he tried his best to keep his shudders at bay. Why did he have to be so damn sensitive? And how, exactly, was he supposed to focus on the conversation at hand? A very serious and important one, he might add. Zane should know better. 

 Trying his best to listen, Long Zhi got hung up on 'it could be ours'. He liked the sound of it. Much more than anything else he'd ever heard. But for a while he said nothing at all, and contemplated instead. Zane's proposal wouldn't be without risks, and huge ones at that. It could go wrong in so many ways, could get him in so much trouble, and not to mention the trouble Zane would be in if they were found out.

 But it was worth the risk, wasn't it?

 "I can make it work. But I can't just disappear for days on end without results. If time is what we want, I need to take care of business and quickly. Or else he'll grow suspicious. I can't— I can't afford to fail again. So if we want to make this work.. I'll need your help." Using his hand in Zane's hair, he gently pulled him back just enough so he could meet his gaze. "And I know I've been... Talking a big game, but... Let's take things slow, yeah? We never had the chance to." And I don't know how I'll react if we don't.

[lit-in-thy-heart]

been trying out a new writing technique recently and it's called chilling tf out and reminding myself that fic is written for fun.

[zorosdimples]

hear me out: choso opening up to yuuji about his lack of sexual experience, and yuuji—out of the goodness of his heart—offering to give his big brother a live demonstration.

[protect-namine]

I actually have a fic idea but lc is a show that's like. you will never ever have all the information and context until the end. and I am a writer who writes best and more confidently when I have all the info and context at my fingertips. so now I'm just like 🧍‍♂️

anyway. ramble in the tags

[fragmentedblade]

"Though I don't know exactly what you are or what you're up to... My bullets will find you — until then, you best find a casket store in Penacony, and ask the owner to reserve a good quality casket for you, imposter!"

Hardly could get more Western film than this