#rip tort

[darkarches]

Help protect Weelaunee Forest and stop the construction of cop city!

There was a conference last night for the Stop Cop City week of solidarity coming up February 19th-26th.

The main takeaway is that if people are interested in taking action, the best thing to do would be to target the construction company that the police have contracted, the funders of the project, and the insurance company insuring the project. The cops are the ones who want cop city built, but they can't do it without the groups mentioned above.

The construction company is Brasfield and Gorrie. My understanding is the company itself probably won't turn a huge profit from the project and is mostly doing it to strengthen relations with the police. If we can show them they will lose money from this project they may pull out. One way to show them how unprofitable this venture would be for them is to make it harder for them to complete other projects they're working on. One suggestion from the conference is that those who live near construction projects being done by Brasfield and Gorrie could try to obstruct progress on these projects to show there will be repercussions if they don't pull out of cop city.

The main funders of the project are big banks and corporations. I've included a link at the bottom with more details but some of the groups funding this are Wells Fargo, Bank of America, Target, Home Depot, and Chik-fil-a. The Atlanta Police Foundation is also helping fund and support the project. Below I've linked a map that shows the locations of these funders and offices of members of the Atlanta Police Foundation.

The insurance company signed onto the cop city project is AXA. At the conference last night it was emphasized that AXA is the main target we want to go after during the upcoming week of solidarity. The destruction of the forest cannot continue without an insurance company covering them. I did a quick google search and was able to find several AXA offices near me. Like with Brasfield and Gorrie, if we put the pressure on AXA they will hopefully realize this project is simply not worth it and pull out.

This is a list of targets which includes a map of where these targets are located throughout the US. There is also a list of actions that people can take, but be creative.

Nobody wants cop city except the police and corporations. Let's help save the Weelaunee Forest!

[fuckyeahanarchistposters]

Memorial graphic by @NoBonzo for Manuel Teran aka Tortuguita, a 26-year old anarchist who was shot and killed by cops in Atlanta, Georgia on January 18, 2023 while defending the Weelaunee Forest from being cleared to construct a massive police facility dubbed "Cop City".

[thatwitchybitchandco]

They also are asking people to set up protests against some of the companies funding the project.

Quick post on what’s happening in Atlanta right now

So there’s this beautiful trail in Atlanta called the South River Forest Trail. As we all know, Atlanta Georgia is renowned for their tree cover and historic forests. 

The City of Atlanta and corporations like Delta, AT&T and Amazon are funding a massive police training center that will destroy the forest.

Dubbed ‘cop city’ by many protesters, this will cost about $90 billion with a B to build. This will be used to further militarize Atlanta’s police leading to more incidents of police brutality in the city. 

On January 18th indigenous activist Manuel “Tortuguita” Teran was shot and killed by the police for defending this historic forest from destruction. Their reason? “He did not comply”. Many protests have been going on in Atlanta to defend this forest.

Since Tortuguita’s death, the situation has quickly deteriorated

This forest is very dear to me but I am unable to physically protest at the moment, so I am handing this off to Tumblr to spread awareness. Rebloging this may help this tragedy become part of national news instead of just an Atlanta problem.

Donation and petition links to stop cop city

https://www.gofundme.com/f/stoptheswap2020

https://act.colorofchange.org/sign/no-cop-city-atl/

https://defendtheatlantaforest.org/solidarity

[pinkdean]

First law school final is done 🎉🎉🎉

[guyfieriii]

An especially apt cake for my birthday since I’ve had 5 separate breakdowns over the one I was making 🥲

[sethjarvy]

im laughing bc morgan my man 😭 you were doing so well oh my god

[intricatepuckrituals]

soooo glad when my team chooses to lose when i'm not watching the game, so i don't have to endure the epic highs and lowes of professional dumbassery hockey for 3.5 chair gripping hours. instead! i can just check the score, have a dumpling, and light the blunt 🙈

[yourlittlebunnyy]

a court of shadows and darkness

chapter two

masterlist - previous chapter - next chapter

summary: Selaene, Rhysand's sister, Azriel's mate runs away after the High Lord of Spring tries to kill her.

warnings: none

enjoy! <3

"How much longer do we have to stay here?" The young Fae asked exasperatedly. By now they had both lost count of the days, impossible to keep track without the sun or a watch. 

Selaene was furious: not only had Vanessa driven her away from the place where she had fallen, causing her to miss the chance to find the rift between the two worlds from which she herself had passed, but she also continued to remain silent and explain nothing to her. 

She reminded her of her brother. The one who wanted to protect her by not telling her things. She used to get angry, but she understood him and the thing ended in a hug and an explanation. She wonders if Vanessa also keeps her mouth shut to protect her from whatever they are waiting for, or to protect her heart from vain hope.

"The necessary." The tiger answers annoyed, also exasperated by all the times she has been asked the same question and accusation by the Fae. Vanessa cannot see Selaene's eyes, but she is certain she is rolling them up to the sky at the moment. Or to the darkness. She wonders what color her eyes are. She shrugs her shoulders, as much as that form allows her to. She should just have faith, thinks the white-coated female, some trust, since they are both stuck in the same situation.

Vanessa had heard her that night. She had awakened with the sound in the inevitably younger Fae's stifled sobs, but had kept her breath controlled by giving her her space. She too had initially reacted that way, if not worse, and she understood Selaene's anger very well. And she thought she understood her as well, given the similarity of their fates, but instead she had created a wall around her and her thoughts and shut the tiger out. She does not know what is worse: to be alone with her own thoughts or to be in the company of a stranger who is so selfish. She wants to leave as much as the Fae does, so why so much distrust and meanness toward her?

Selaene on the other hand had no other choice: the wound left where the bond once was, the emptiness...the silence between the two mates and everything around them was too strong and was driving her crazy.

More days pass, by the Fae's reckoning.

Days in which the same conversation happened over and over again, in which the silence was ripping her ears and the darkness was tearing her eyes. If she wasn't staring above her, staring at nothingness, she was asleep. At first she was hopeful that sleep would help her, that it would help close the bleeding wound in her heart, but her sleep was as dark as where she was and offered her no comfort except freedom from her thoughts. Which was still better than having to hear them. Maybe, she thought, it was even better than dreaming about her family, her old life, so she wouldn't have to deal with reality once she woke up. 

But-sometimes it happened that she and her brothers, or she and her mate communicated through dreams. She does not tell the tiger, but nothing has appeared yet, and she doubts it will ever happen. She is more likely to be able to warn the three males with her mind than whatever the other female has in mind. Although she can sense it, from the tone and how stubborn Vanessa is remaining, how much the tiger cares. 

And that is why she will never do her such a tort: force her to leave with her to go back to where she came from. She will go alone instead. Seven days of walking and she will be back under the Illyrian Steppes. 

She knows Vanessa is sleeping, and it is just now that she gets up and with a sigh-the only sound she has allowed herself to let escape-she leaves.

"Selaene?" 

Doesn't she ever sleep?

Obviously, the Fae thinks bitterly, she can't have a second of peace; she can't even leave without the tiger getting in the way.

Selaene thinks of an answer so vulgar that it makes herself blush, the kind her brothers and her mate often exchanged, and she would have even said it except that lightning-no, not lightning, someone, rips through the sky of the UnderWorld. A light illuminates the void and the figure of a man appears for less than a second. 

Around her, however, there is nothing. 

Absolute emptiness.

Vanessa's laughter, which the Fae managed to see for that instant when that kind of lightning radiated the place, echoes joyously everywhere. It didn't last long, just long enough for that someone to step into the UnderWorld to get to his destination, but for Selaene everything changes. She too laughs with the tiger, a rich giggle that leaves her with a happy aftertaste.

"I told you so!" The tiger exclaims joyfully. Now, she can finally put a face to that voice.

"It's beautiful." Says the Fae still amazed. She will never admit it out loud, but Vanessa was right: a small spark ignites in her heart, and maybe, she allows herself to think just for a moment, maybe there is a way.

The tiger speaks again. 

They exchanged more words now than in all the time they had been there waiting. "While I was here, I thought that if we can grab someone, wherever they are going, they can get us back to the world above."

"And how long will that take?"

"It will take as long as it takes." 

In spite of the tiger's usual vague words, Selaene could not bring herself to get angry, not when such an opportunity was offered in front of her. She was right about one thing, however: Vanessa and Rhysand are more alike than expected. Her brother would have done the same, told her nothing so as not to create false hope and waited to show her the facts. To protect her, to protect her very delicate heart. 

Perhaps Mother took away a brother to give her a sister.

Now all they have to do is sit and wait for the moment when they and someone above are lined up so they can hold on and be taken out. 

masterlist - previous chapter - next chapter

[gamerwoman3d]

◜ mk1 men using their powers in the bedroom part 1 of ?◞

▸ includes: reptile [mk1 versions] ◂

If you ask Syzoth whether or not Zaterrans are sexual creatures, he will answer that yes, it takes two Zaterrans in order to reproduce. But if you ask him whether he himself has an interest in sex, he would reply with a smile, saying "Pay me, and I might answer you."

[Spicy/Explicit after the cut 🔞]

The answer is that with very few exceptions, he views sex as an opportunity to perform. And he views performance as a way to earn money. You'd certainly not have been the first creature to pay for his honest answer, and you likely will not be the last.

People have paid good money to have Syzoth's freakish powers used for their pleasure. If you want to know details of his encounters with clients, he's happy to share, for the cost of a few koin. The higher the payout, the hotter the tea.

"Or perhaps you would rather we show, not tell," he might say while reaching out an empty palm as an offer to accept payment.

For pay, he will show you his body. His human body, nude, with elegant tattoos that tort and stretch with his movements, is an alluring sight to most. He has never been picky about the shape of his paying clients: all humans seem equally adorable and strange to him, while money makes anyone alluring in his eyes. He would waste no time in giving you whatever you desire from his body. In fact, his professional experience with pleasing others makes it highly likely that he can guess what you want and how deeply you desire it just from the skipping beat of your heart.

He cannot hear your heartbeat from a distance, but its imperceptible rhythm gently rattles the floor beneath his feet, and as his body evolved to detect such vibrations from the earth in order to hunt prey, he will know when the heart's rhythm changes. His eyes would take a slow tour of your body, and when he looked at the parts of you that you're most excited for him to play with, your heart would speed up naturally. The second he figures out what your heart truly desires, it is yours.

At first, he uses his tongue mostly for talking. He tells about past patron's kinks, such as the one who liked him to ride them reverse cowgirl style in his human form, only to strangle them with his tail during climax. Or the one that preferred to be pinned face down and very lightly scratched with razor sharp talons all down their back. He might tell cautionary tales of the ones that begged him to use his tongue on their genitals, not realizing that removing it can feel like tearing duct tape from the skin without the appropriate lubricants. Syzoth has an ulterior motive - while telling his stories, he's sensing your temperature. He knows when you're aroused because no matter what you have between your legs, it will emit heat.

He may move his face closer, hinting and teasing that he could go down. The tips of his forked tongue might flicker in the air just between your thighs, fanning the air towards his nostrils so he can better smell and taste the heat that rises from your body.

If you become a beggar in these moments, the same as many other patrons have done, he will insist that he's first allowed to test his tongue against less sensitive parts of your body. If you can tolerate the feel on your chest, perhaps you might enjoy the things you've proposed he do to your most sensitive spots.

He would eject his tongue to catch your nipple, then pull the tender tissue up as his face is drawn down to your chest by the tension in his tongue. He would suckle and mouth at this spot for a while, feeling your heartbeat rattle throughout his entire skull. He's gentle when he comes up for air, but it does indeed feel like ripping a bandaid off. He's only chosen this moment to risk causing you pain because he believes you're too aroused to care about or even feel pain.

He would tell you that for his most requested trick, he requires a funhouse mirror - the kind that makes everything seem bigger. He has no hesitation in telling you that he had one while in the circus, and that he'd put it behind him before fucking certain patrons. He'd hold them in a very specific way that would force them to look at their own reflection... *through* his invisible chest, angled so they could practically see inside themselves as he worked them open with the invisible phallic objects of their choice. For some, fingers sufficed. For most, seeing his cock disappearing inside them over and over again was the pinnacle of pleasure. Still others preferred invisible toys, or the tongue, or even something more creative.

His favorite thing is the look on a patron's face when he's suddenly visible again. By the time he drops the invisibility, both he and his patrons are fuckdrunk and often have cute, dumbfounded expressions on their faces. Syzoth knows his open mouthed grin is cuter when his face flushes at the brink of his orgasm. He knows he's as adorable as he is silly looking when he's slackjawed, panting, and pressing the tips of his tongue weirdly to the roof of his mouth.

He's still performing, and would work you until you get what you paid for.

The final upsell he pitches to his wealthiest clients is a territorial marking - a visible acid brand. At his most extreme, and reserved only for the healthiest, wealthiest patrons, he has, as a service, permanently branded the bodies of his highest paying clients. Even Outworld royalty can be found with his mark - the scars of a human-sized bite wound, carved deeper by the use of a strange acid. The meaning of these brands are clear to the others that share in his profession- "This one pays the most, and both he and his wallet are mine. Touch my man or my money and you will suffer my bite." A less drastic, less permanent brand might be the reddened imprint of a forked tongue, which lets the competition know that "we are just starting out and testing the waters - try me again later to see if I stuck around, or if I've healed and moved on."

He readily admits that just as many patrons refuse the branding service as there are patrons who find it of interest. As long as you are satisfied, Syzoth has no preference for which acts you chose to pay him to perform upon you.

[End for now]

For Part 2 - subzero - click here

Also thanks to @visionsofmagic for inspiring this writing with a similar set of imagines at https://www.tumblr.com/visionsofmagic/729107508174651392/mk1-men-using-their-powers-while-fcking-you?source=share

[Need more MK1 smut? Check the pin 📌]

[radicalgraff]

"Stop Cop City / RIP Tort! Defend ATL Forest"

Mural in Athens, Georgia in memory of Manuel Teran aka Tortuguita, a 26-year-old Atlanta Forest defender who was shot and killed by cops on 18 January, 2023.

The Atlanta city council is clearing the forest to build a massive police training facility dubbed "Cop City".

[wrightingdungeon]

I have had them for not even 24 hours and you can rip Shiro, Yuuma, and Torts from my cold dead hands.....

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: This chapter is dark. If you're uncomfortable with the things I put in the warnings, do not read it. If you are old enough to be reading this fic, then you are old enough to monitor your media consumption. This is a work of fiction inspired by an equally dark TV show. If the things that happen in this chapter ever happen to you in real life, there are resources online and people you can talk to. Coercive sex with substances is assault and never your fault.

Warnings: 18+, drugs, alcohol, references to past abuse, dubious consent, coercion to have sex: experienced by both parties, smut, references to sex work, references to sexual violence

Drenched in opiates and regret: Rust's current state of mind. Cold sweats, a power drill mashing into the soft pulp of his brain and an incessant need to vomit the liquor and random drive-thru burger congealing in his stomach: consequences of chasing the dragon. Cassandra isn't talking to him, having spent the past two days sulking and abstaining. Not since he left her like that, trembling on the bathroom floor which Rust doesn't have much sympathy about; something that only infuriates Cassandra further.

He'd found her bookmarking something in one of her textbooks when he got back, perched on the end of the mattress in her cotton sleeping shorts and some faded t-shirt with the hem coming loose. She hadn't even glanced up.

'Gonna kick up another one of your fusses, Cass?' Rust had stated rather than actually asked, opening the fridge to find the carton of Tropicana in an attempt to stave off the impending withdrawal. Cassandra had stayed silent, underlining a specific paragraph on Tort Law with laughable concentration. The slammed fridge door and soft thud of his jacket on the counter had roused her,

'That's real fucking mean of you. What you did before,'

'You sound like a kid, Cassandra.'

That had made her clench her jaw, 'Just cause I'm younger than you doesn't mean you can call me a kid and speak down to me whenever we argue.'

'We ain't arguing,' Rust had said, lighting a cigarette with a nonchalance that had only served to piss Cassandra off even more,

'I am.'

'You are,' he'd agreed with that same aloofness.

'Oh, screw you, Crash,' Cassandra had said, dumping her textbook to the side of the mattress, 'You want to take that fucking attitude with me? Fine but you ain't touching me. You don't get to play that shit with me.'

'All this cause I didn't make you come?' Rust had sucked the air through his teeth in mock condescension, 'You gotta be tougher than that, baby. You ain't gonna last two fuckin' seconds if you pout this much over a lil' fun.' It's not about that. Well, maybe slightly but far from entirely. What Rust did completely fucks the power dynamics between the two of them and scares the shit out of Cassandra. In a place where the pleasure that a woman can give is her currency, a man who can upheave the situation, like Rust did, is terrifying to a girl like Cassandra. That smooth, slippery heat between a woman's legs and the place where the perfume collects between her neck and jaw has seen more men tamed than any guns or money ever have. Even in this, the shittiest armpit of Houston's outer bayous, more deals have been struck and information shared on the creaky plastic covering of cheap motel beds, in hazes of post-orgasm cigarettes, than in any biker bar. Rust's unwavering clarity is dangerous to Cassandra; it plunges her into a near total state of vulnerability that no languid neck rubs or 'Come to bed, baby''s can salvage her from. This isn't some tantrum of a neglected, over-stimulated brat (for the most part) but a desperate scrambling of a girl who's had her entire way of securing safety ripped from underneath her. Rust had almost felt pity gnawing at his gut as she stands there, smooth, tanned limbs and thin cotton. Almost. He'd left the conversation at a biting,

'Grow up.'

He's doing her a favour, really. Rust has warned her of the man he was. He's always considered the mark of a weak person to be an obsession with fulfilment and satisfaction. You didn't get exactly what you wanted? Life kick you right in the fucking teeth? Tough shit. All these fucking plans, all of these futile, paper thin dreams, all this me-me-me; people too blinded by the convictions of their own desires, blinded by how things should be to see how they really are. Judeo-Christian God type shit, Rust thought, Givin' people that false sense of cosmic importance and righteousness. Cassandra can't afford that type of naive idealism and she has never indulged it until now; Rust is making her soft. Cassandra has spent the past couple days giving him monosyllabic answers and looking like she's eating sorrow by the spoonful before Rust shatters it.

It all comes to a head when Ginger tells him to bring Cassandra that night, to the Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. To get better acquainted with your new piece; gotta make sure she's worth the trouble she gave you last time, he'd said with Rust practically being able to see the slobber foaming at the corners of his mouth. And Rust agrees coming to the resolution that those fuckers would never touch Cassandra without him giving them the get go. For once, the archaic machismo of biker gang rules have their perks. Rust is many things and green isn't one of them; he knows whatever is happening tonight isn't going to be the usual liquor, gambling and shooting random shit routine. They would've just pestered Cassandra at the club, if so. He had considered leaving her here, denying Ginger would've aroused suspicion and been a one way ticket to a bullet it his temple, but the best chance she has at getting through whatever perverse shit they have planned is with him. So, Rust does another line to offset the impending cold sweats and to iodise his blood with some of that sharp, hot sting that only something completely fabricated in a lab by man or grown by the raw fucking ingenuity of nature, deep in the Colombian jungle, can give you. As Cassandra comes out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, Rust fixes her with a frigid tone,

'Get dressed. We're goin' out.'

'I ain't going anywhere with you,' Cassandra bites back, making her first eye contact with him in 48 hours. Rust can feels the coke frying his nerves to a fucking charr,

'I didn't ask, I said we're goin'. Don't play around with me tonight, Cassandra. This is serious shit you're fuckin' with.'

She stares at him with those deep, glossy eyes: colour of the molasses Rust used to eat straight from the jar as a boy, that turn to the colour of whiskey in the sun, the one he drinks now that he's a man. He sees it click, she's too smart for it not to. Not the same, calculated intelligence of wariness, in an attempt to avoid the meat thresher. No, that's reserved for girls who exist with the downy padding of money and someone who actually gives two shits about what happens to them. The other girls, those who exist in the dirty cracks between church on Sundays and family dinners, in liquor soaked childhoods with busted bathroom locks and hard leather belts, don't get that luxury. They have the opposite intelligence of momentum: knowing when to ride fast and hard, saying fuck it right into the maws of the beast cause no one's ever protected you so may as well go down looking the fucker in the eye instead of hiding in the corner, like you did as a little girl. Cassandra has that momentum now, as she asks,

'Where are we going?' wrapping the towel tighter around herself, almost as if to comfort herself for the answer she knows is coming.

'Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. Ginger wanted to see you again.'

She looks at him like a spooked horse: head rearing back, eyes wide with fear. Rust plants his hands firmly on those delicate shoulders as she panics,

'I ain't going there, Crash. No, no, no. I'm serious, they'll-'

Rust cuts her off, pulling her into his chest and stroking her hair; his own tenderness taking him by surprise,

'Easy, easy, baby,' he leans down to murmur into her ear, cigarette smoke on his breath, 'This ain't somethin' I'm taking lightly. They won't do anythin' to you that I don't let them do first. Biker gang ethics.'

'Will you? Let them do something to me?'

'No,' Rust says and he means it. Not them.

They ride Rust's, or Crash's, Harley over to the clubhouse. Nights like these are when Rust feels his definitions fading. No more Sophia, no more mowing his lawn and having to watch out for her toys in the grass, no more of those incredible fucking birthdays that there will only ever be two of, no more of those horrific fights with Claire over whether his baby girl should be reduced to a pile of ash or shut in a box and shoved under the cold, wet dirt. That shit is gone and the only thing worth a damn to him, in a way that he can't yet reconcile, is gripping onto him for dear life with trembling hands and stiff arms. Rust is past empty platitudes. He knows who Crash is and it nauseates him when he thinks of what he's going to have to allow himself to do. Cassandra swings her leg over the bike to dismount, her bare leg red and raw from the wind on the ride over. She looks over her shoulder at Rust coming up behind her, placing his hand on her lower back before sliding it down to her ass. As they walk up to the entrance, he mutters gruffly to her,

'Whatever I tell you to do, you do it, you hear?'

'That's not real reassuring,' she glances up at him.

'I ain't trying to be.'

'Course you ain't.'

'I ain't gonna give you a fuckin' forehead kiss and gold star, if that's what you're askin',' Rust states, dryly.

'Yeah, cause that's exactly how we've done it up until now,' Cassandra shoots back, an acerbic sarcasm to her tone.

'That's exactly what I mean. That attitude. You got anymore of that, you get it out of your system now.'

The cold authority of his tone catches her attention,

'Crash?' she asks, her voice a fraction of what it was a moment ago.

'Yeah, Cass?'

'Why the hell am I here?'

'Pure, dumb fuckin' ontological chance. And a damn unlucky one at that.'

'I meant literally, asshole.'

'If we're bein' crass about it: eye candy,' Rust says and internally begs for that to be it. That Ginger and the rest of the boys just want a look at some tits that they've had their eyes on for a couple months and maybe, with a bit of liquor in her, get an idea for how Rust fucks her in bed. And Cassandra, ever the sharp one, is playing the part. A slight thing, all clad in denim and leather, with the outline of her bra's thick embroidery pushing against a cheap, cotton tank top. Their damsel in distress, a trailer park princess that they can save from those stifling, cicada serenaded afternoons of heat and boredom. Plunge her into the cool of the wind whipping past a cruising Harley, of the condensation on a loaded Jack and Coke, of that cold needle sinking into her vein for the first time. They want her, right there in heavily inked arms and bulging biceps, hands that'll hit just as hard as daddy did but in different places until they too become the same. Who'll warn her paternally to be wary of nasty men like them, before kissing her in a very un-paternal way. So Rust leads her through the clubhouse, to the backroom where Ginger told him he'd be and right into the lion's den, hand on her ass and self-loathing in his gut.

'Crash! Over here, brother!' Ginger is sat surrounded by other Crusaders, all varying degrees of drunk and high, most both. Kit is strewn on some greasy table, along with an assortment of Lone Star and Blue Ribbon cans. Rust settles himself on the chair that Ginger pulls out for him, patting his lap to indicate to Cassandra to sit on it which she does, to his relief. Ginger leers at her,

'Well missy, you calmed down since I last saw you? You ain't givin' our Crash anymore trouble, huh? Cause we ain't got much patience for women like that 'round here. None at all. Ain't that right boys?'

Ginger is met with a bunch of whoops and Damn rights before looking back at Rust,

'She behavin' herself?'

Rust pinches a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers,

'Damn right she is. Gave her a good lesson,' he smacks the inside of her thigh, causing Cassandra to inadvertently open them, 'Open your thighs, baby. Let 'em see that you know how I feel about that insubordination.'

That purple bruising is still visible and, earns whistles and laughter from the Crusaders. Cassandra clenches her jaw and snaps her legs shut, a defiance that doesn't go unnoticed from Ginger,

'You still got somethin' to say, girl?'

'No,' Cassandra replies softly but firmly.

'No, my ass. You got a hell of a chip on your shoulder, girl. Can see it from here.'

Rust takes another sharp inhale of smoke,

'Easy, Ginger. She's still learnin' how to be. Practically still wet behind the ears about half the shit I teach her. Fuck man, you should hear the sounds she makes,' throwing in the crude remark as a way to appease the hoard of doped up, drunks with their dicks almost in their hands and their .38s right next to them.

'Figured. S'why I got you a present, brother.'

'Oh yeah? Fuckin' Santa come early?' Rust drawls dryly, thumb rubbing circles on Cassandra's thigh. Ginger chuckles, eyes full of malice,

'Nah, not exactly,' he pulls a white block from the inside of his own biker jacket and dumps it own the table. Rust looks at it, unimpressed, and asks,

'Coke? Is it the good shit?'

Ginger pulls out his switchblade and grabs the saran-wrapped block off of the table, again,

'Courtesy of Miles. Special batch cut with some Molly, real loopy shit.'

'Who the fuck is lookin' for that mix?'

'Pimps. Both get their girls going quicker and faster, for longer.'

A muscle in Rusts's jaw twitches at that and he feels Cassandra tense in his lap,

'I look like a pimp to you, motherfucker?'

'Nah, Crash, but you havin' problems with your lady, ain't you?'

Rust's stomach churns bile at the implications of what Ginger's suggesting and he feels Cassandra go completely rigid. He takes another inhale,

'I don't need coke to get my girl to fuck me, Ginger.'

'Oh I know you don't, 'way you've got that bunny perched in your lap all pretty. This is just to relax her up a bit, show her that one way or another she gon' give it up to you,' Ginger says grinning, ill-intent smothering his words like a slime. He pulls out his switchblade to cut through the seran-wrap and scoop out some of the powder.

'I don't need to coke to do that, either,' Rust says, with the bile now threatening to creep up.

'Consider it quality control, then. She takes a hit and you see how good this shit really is. Then, I report back to Miles,' Ginger's tone now taking on an edge of hardness. Rust recognises the switch, the cool, gun metal against his and Cassandra's temple feels tangible with every syllable pronounced. Harming himself is one thing, this is entirely another. So, Rust doesn't know if he'll ever forgive himself as he looks at Ginger and says,

'Let me do the honours,' carefully taking the blade from Ginger as to not spill any powder. As he holds it under Cassandra's nose, she looks like she might cry. A shaky exhale blows some powder off of the blade, coating Rust's dark jeans in it,

'Don't fuck around, baby. Inhale the goddamn stuff,' Rust says, voice stiff from anger and tension. A trembling hand comes to press her other nostril shut, those same raw nail beds he first noticed in his truck, driving her to that crappy diner. She takes a jerky inhale, like a kid would; trying to imitate how she's seen people snort a line on TV. Those same trembling hands come to hastily brush away the powder smeared around her nose. It's not enough. If Rust is going to have to do this to her, he wants her so far gone that she won't have to deal with any emotions apart from complete ecstasy during the act itself. He wonders momentarily if it's more unethical to drug her up even more, to strip her of personhood and bodily autonomy more than he and Ginger already have, but pushes the thought away. What part of any of this is fucking ethical? He grabs the block and digs out some more powder with the blade, before taking it on his thumb and roughly smearing it against Cassandra's gums. Much to Rust's revulsion, Ginger and the other Crusaders laugh gleefully, like little boys throwing stones at dogs, all over again. Cruelty as entertainment. Only this time, the dog is Cassandra. She blinks hard a few times. This is the coke, Rust thinks, The molly will take another half hour. Rust wants to get her out of here, minimise the degradation. He pats her thigh,

'Let's go to a backroom, baby. See if Ginger is all talk 'bout this shit.'

Cassandra stumbles up, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather on her temples, pupils blown out. Ginger and the other Crusaders let out jeering laughter, tinted with unmistakable hunger, as they watch Rust stands up and land a heavy smack on Cassandra's ass, as his says,

'Right down there, baby. First door on the left.'

Some Iron Crusader who reeks of beer and day-old sweat shouts behind them,

'Fuck off some of her baby fat, Crash!' and Rust makes a promise to himself to make that fucker swallow his teeth when this is done.

The coke is making Cassandra jumpy as Rust pushes her into the backroom: just a mattress on the floor and some random lamp next to it. It looks like the set of some fucked up, illegal torture porn movie. Not too different from what actually goes on in here, with the sounds he hears and the way some of the hookers emerge from the door. Rust briefly feels a pang of guilt for having to screw Cassandra in this room, on that mattress but he quickly pushes the arrogant sanctimony of the thought away. Who the fuck does he think he is? What truly separates him from those other men? Neither of their girls had any choice in the matter, not really. Prostitution is a way that men can justify abusing and objectifying vulnerable women just to get their dick wet, by paying them some cash. What choice do you have when you're 17 with a raging Crystal addiction, two cents to your name and a home that you'd rather fuck a truck driver for a twenty than go back to? He hasn't given Cassandra a choice, either. She's now pushed him against the door, the drug throbbing hot through her veins, as she sloppily licks and kisses at his jaw,

'Fuck, Crash, I can fucking feel it,' she bites at his neck, the coke making her agitated, ravenous. He pushes her back,

'Just take off your shorts and underwear. This is gonna be fast, baby.'

Cassandra gives that defiant, little pout,

'I don't want it to be fast. I want you to take your time, be mean like you usually do.'

'This ain't like usual.'

'I know. I'm so much wetter than I've ever been.'

Rust clenches his jaw so hard that the vein in his temple starts to protrude,

'I ain't fuckin' playin' games, here. Take off your shorts and underwear, and lie down on the goddamn bed, Cassandra.'

She stares at him cooly before peeling off that thin leather jacket followed by her tank top, and then throwing her top at Rust's face,

'You made me take it.'

'I know I did.'

'Yeah, you did. So, the least you could do is fuck me good, like you usually do,' she says, stumbling out of her boots and shimmying out of her shorts which she dangles on her foot, before kicking them in his direction, too. Now in just her bra and panties, she sits on the edge of the mattress,

'Please.'

'I'll fuck you however I want. Get on your hands and knees, Cassandra,' Rust says, unbuckling his belt. She does as he says, too eagerly for his liking, as she arches her back: deep and low,

'Please, please, Crash,' and from this angle, he can see that wetness she was talking about; making the thin, grey polyester of her underwear dark and shiny. He palms it roughly, the stress and repulsive nature of the situation making him cruel,

'I'd keep that shit to yourself, Cass. This wet and I haven't even had to work for it?'

She moans, too far gone to feel any embarrassment,

'I'm always wet for you. I've been like this for the past two days.'

'Too proud to just suck it up and let me fuck you, hm?' Rust says, moving her panties to the side to see the glistening slit. Just the feeling of the cold air on her dampness has Cassandra arching her back even deeper and whimpering,

'Please, please, I'll take it anywhere you want me to. Even-'

Rust clamps his hand over her mouth,

'Don't.'

When he lets go, a small string of spit follows Rust's hand. Cassandra has desperately unfastened her bra, the sweat on her body starting to shine and drip. This is the Molly kicking in, Rust thinks. He grabs her throat, pulling her up from her hands and knees, to where she's on her knees with her back pressed against his chest. A calloused hand reaches down into the waistline of her panties and down to caress her swollen heat,

'Never in my goddamn life have I had pussy this eager, This the drugs or just you?' he mutters into her ear.

'The drugs,' Cassandra says back, just to be her usual incorrigible self. A futile task with how she's soaking through her panties and rubbing her ass on the hardness in his jeans. Rust lets out a deep, rumbling scoff of laughter at his girl's incessant need to be a pain in the ass and plunges a two fingers deep inside of her,

'Bullshit.'

The sudden feeling of being filled up is almost too much for Cassandra's ecstasy riddled brain to reconcile with. Everything is so sensitive, so swollen with blood and heat and chemical euphoria. She squeezes and pulses around his fingers,

'Crash, if you move, I think I'm gonna have to come,' she gasps out.

'This ain't about that, tonight.'

Spoken too late. All Rust was trying to do was ease the pain of the stretch, allow her that mercy, at least, but that's enough for Cassandra, who lets out an obscenely load moan, writhing against where he keeps her firmly in place, on his chest. Rust hums pensively,

'You make a mess and you're gonna have to clean it up, baby,' he murmurs, shoving his soaking fingers into her mouth before pushing her back down to being on all fours,

'Hold still.'

She hears him unzip her jeans and shuffle around behind her, as aligns himself to her slit,

'You're not even gonna get undressed?' she says, too out of it to sound really hurt as she tries to ease herself onto his dick.

'Like I said, this ain't gonna be like we usually do it,' Rust grits out, not wanting to make this any closer to what real sex should be.

One firm hand holds her hip still, while the other pushes on her lower back, making her back arch and her face press into the mattress. Cassandra thinks it's for the sex appeal, Rust knows it's cause her can't look her in the eyes as he does this: fucks her while she's out of her mind on the drugs he forced into her. Some twenty year old girl, living with him, helping him shave when she can't take the stubble burn on her thighs and throat, cooking her terrible, lumpy pancakes and leaving him some in the fridge for the ungodly times he gets back. This kid, no mascara or lingerie or practiced 'tough girl' ease can hide the juvenile trust in her eye as she looks over her shoulder,

'Please. It kinda hurts. Just fuck me and make it stop. It's so....much.'

Rust could be sick as he pushes herself into her heat and she fucking whimpers. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping; he's being too rough. He can see the poor thing desperately gripping onto the soiled mattress as she grips onto her hips, leaving more bruises. Good. Let it hurt. I want to see it. Don't let me forget what I've done to her, Rust thinks. Cassandra opens her legs wider and sinks deeper into the mattress, practically limp from pleasure except for her hips which firmly meet his thrusts and the trembling of her thighs. A shaky hand comes to rub the nub at the apex of her thighs,

'Jesus-fuck,' she chokes out, a tear dripping down her face as her first orgasm hits while Rust is still inside of her. The stretch of him compared with the intense pulsating of her walls becoming borderline painful. Rust clenches his jaw, not one to succumb to tight pussy that easy. He runs a hand up her spine, along the smooth outlines of her vertebrae,

'You need to eat more, baby,' through a grunt.

'There's-fuck-there's no fucking way you're lecturing me right now,' she gasps out, squealing when Rust's hand slips down from the base of her spine to caress her little nub, himself.

'No, no, it's still too sensitive,' Cassandra says, trying to squirm away. Rust isn't in the fucking mood, though; just wanting to keep her drunk off of sex and drugs until he makes himself come as fast as possible, and get her the fuck out of here.

'Shut the fuck up and take it. I ain't askin' you to do a goddamn thing but lie there and fuckin' take what I give you,' Rust mutters, voice thick with exertion and the crescendo of his orgasm.

'But-'

A loud smack on her ass shuts her up,

'Stay. Still.'

And she does, letting out lewd moans as he fucks into her, watching her arousal literally drip out of her. His course hair semi-rubbing against her clit is enough to bring Cassandra to come as Rust reach his own orgasm, grunting and wallowing in self-disgust as he watches himself seep out of her. The sight, had it been in another circumstance, would have probably turned him own: the milky fluid running down those tanned thighs. In this case, it only cements that anti-natalism that has started to permanently solidify itself in his psyche. That an act as brutal and exploitative can qualify as the origins of a pure, innocent life which will be subjected to similarly brutal and exploitative things. Fuck it. Fuck this goddamn filth and squalor of a world. As he stands up, pulling up his boxers and jeans simultaneously, Cassandra is lying crumpled on the mattress. As if the seduction of drug induced stupor has been ripped away, she reaches between her legs and scoops up the mix of their arousals, wincing slightly due to the extreme sensitivity. The copious slick coats her fingers and Rust is unsure of the vacant expression on her face; usually, she would've made a show of licking it off, slowly and staring him right in the eye. Now, she bursts into tears. Rust doesn't know what to do but dress the poor girl. She's fucking terrified, he thinks, She doesn't want a hug or a kiss, she needs to feel some semblance of control, again. Slowly, he eases her off of the mattress, trying to ignore the stab in his gut when she initially flinches.

'Easy, easy, baby,' he murmurs to her, for the second time that night.

He slides on her underwear, cleaning up the trail of his cum with a pack of Kleenexes that Cassandra keeps in her pocket, another devastatingly intimate detail that only amplifies his self-loathing On goes the rest of her clothing: shorts, bra and tank top, all the while with silent tears running down Cassandra's face. Rust guides her out of the room, pressed tightly against his side, as he guides her through the heady haze of cigarette smoke and acrid sweat on leather balsam that characterises the Iron Crusaders' clubhouse. Some stare, others wink at him or smack him on the back in congratulations, no doubt at Cassandra's tear-stained face and shaking legs. She keeps twitching and rubbing at her nose, the drugs fizzing in her nose are probably turning her capillaries to mangled, bloody sludge. Rust reminds himself to give her a towel tonight to staunch any possible nosebleeds. The air is cloying and humid when they exit, like you could eat it with a spoon; while the nocturnal sounds of cicadas and bullfrogs paint a deceptively picturesque scene. Rust leads Cassandra over to the Harley, going to ease her leg over the seat before she sharply interjects,

'I can do this shit for myself.'

'I know you can,' Rust replies, stiffly but in a soft tone.

'I can do this shit for myself and handle myself, I-I can-' her train of speech, almost a mantra, is cut off by big shuddering sobs. Rust looks her in the eye and sees that 18 year old again, showing up to the strip club for the first time in a freshly washed set, smelling of fresh cotton, with a need to make rent, that 15 year old knowing that if she wears that dress to the mechanic he'll probably give her a discount on her daddy's oil change, money that can go towards keeping the lights on, that 10 year old girl sitting on cold bathroom tiles at 2am, telling herself that her daddy won't hit her cause he's her daddy. A girl who has always known how things need to be handled and has no qualms about getting her hands dirty in the lurid shit expected of a young girl at the mercy of poverty and men.

'I know,' Rust mutters, getting on himself, and guiding her to wrapping her arms around him. It doesn't surprise him when she holds on for dear life, wrapping her arms around his torso and taking deep inhales of the smell of his biker jacket, as the engine rumbles to life. This tranquility lasts for a couple minutes before Cassandra is digging her nails into his neck, shouting Pull the fuck over against the wind. Rust obliges and watches as she scrambles off to vomit on the edge of the road, crumpling to her knees in the process. He doesn't get much closer, watching her cooly from the Harley which is parked on the side of the dark road. After a few more retches and dry heaves, Cassandra turns to regard him over her shoulder, still hunched on her knees. A look in which Rust sees hatred, fear, rage and a morbid sense of almost respect. She spits the last remnants of sick out into the foliage before speaking,

'I don't know who the fuck you are, Crash, and I don't want to know. You read all those fucking books, you never talk about yourself, you ain't like the other Iron Crusaders. I can see it in your eyes when they spew that chauvinistic, white supremacist bullshit that you can't fucking stand them. You have your own twisted and oblique set of rules for yourself which you never deviate from. You ain't a fucking biker, not like these ones.'

Rust looks at her cooly, 'You threatenin' me with somethin', Cass?'

'No. I told you: I don't want to know. Only thing it's gonna do is get me into deeper shit.'

'So, why are you telling me this?'

'Cause I want you to know that I ain't stupid.'

'I know you ain't stupid, Cass.'

'And I ain't okay with what happened tonight.'

'Neither am I.'

She starts to work herself up again, her breaths becoming fast and shaky, 'I ain't safe here. I ain't never been safe anywhere but I definitely ain't, here. Tonight proved that.'

'Tonight proved a lot,' Rust replies, a trace of self-loathing evident in his tone, 'I'm a bad man, Cass.'

'I know.'

'So, what the fuck are you doin'?'

'I don't give a fuck if you're a bad man. I've spent my life around them. I just need to know that you'll keep me fucking safe. That's it. I just need to know that you can keep all those other bad men away, like those tonight,' she's now crying again, voice thick with it as she asks,

'Can you keep me safe, Rust?'

Rust looks at Cassandra, taking a look at her pathetic form and plea. He recalls reading something that Nietzsche wrote: eternal return. Does he want to do this action an infinite amount of times, into perennial continuity. He knows his answer, what he wants to reply an infinite amount of times over, he has a duty here,

'Yes.'

[the-marsh-harrier]

Make me… Pt2 (LH!Arthur Morgan x F!Reader)

A/N: This is my first time writing smut and my second time writing for Arthur, RDR2. I'm easing back into writing after a long break so be kind. I am also writing this quite late so apologies in advance if there are errors. If you're going to share my writing, please reblog and I don't give permission for my work to be copied onto any other platforms. I only write on Tumblr so if you see this anywhere else, it's not me.

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE! THIS IS NOT INTENDED FOR YOU TO BE READING! OVER 18s ONLY!

Warnings: Swearing, sexual content, NSFW, LH!Arthur as per, fingering, vaginal penetration. (If I missed anything, please let me know)

Terminology: Combinations - combined chemise and drawers into one garment, first appeared in the late 1860s or early 1870s. By the 1890s, combinations had largely replaced the long chemise worn over a separate pair of drawers. (definition by FIDM Museum) 

Make me - Part 1 (recommended read but not required)

Masterlist

“You make the filthiest things sound like a fucking prayer.” You whispered breathlessly as you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Arthur smirked and chuckled lowly in response while one of his hands smoothed over the hair on the side of your head. “The filthiest things are all I deserve, and all I have to give.” He whispered as he took hold of your chin causing you to open your eyes to see his ocean eyes staring back into yours. His eyes held lustful adoration, something far deeper than you’d seen before. You thought you’d seen glimpses of his love for you before now but now you were truly seeing all of it.

“Let me worship you the only way I know how.” He mumbled, giving into his urges, and kissing you with the force only matched by a hurricane.

_____________________________________________________________

His mouth assaulted yours with the ferocity of a cornered animal, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth and firmly stroking yours forcing it into submission. The taste of tobacco and sugar mints coated your tastebuds marking every millimetre of your mouth he bullied. The sting of his coarse beard was momentarily eased by his warm breath escaping from his nose caressing the aggravated skin around your mouth. The kiss forced you to curve under its weight, but he didn’t relent as his calloused left hand tangled into your hair pinning you between its vicelike grip and his greedy lips. He denied you any reprieve resulting in the pair of you snatching any breath that he’d permit.

He caught your lower lip between his jagged teeth, chipped from years of fighting. He sucked the pump skin into his mouth as he slowly pulled back scraping his teeth along the fragile skin enough to cause the sweetest pain but not break its integrity.

With a brutal tug of your hair, he tilted your head back to commence punishing the skin of your neck in the same feral fashion as he had your lips; rewarding him a growl from the back of your throat. He nipped your neck, leaving the skin rouged as a long deep chuckle reverberated against the skin before his lips descended onto your collarbone. His rough tongue teasing the tort skin over the bone as his right hand massaged small circles on your lower back. His hat started to get in his way of his desires to taste the skin on your neck, his hand on your back quickly moved to rip the thing off his head and throw it behind him in the tent before returning to your back.

Your fingers found the cool metal of his gun belt buckle and nibbly released its hold on his hips allowing it to fall to the ground with a soft thud and gentle clang of his pistols. The release of the article making him grunt as his appendage swelled freely in his jeans. He squeezed your body to his with added pressure from his right hand on your back. The hardened bulge in his jeans ground into the bunched-up fabric of your skirts offering you the smallest amount of friction.

“For fucks sake, Arthur… just hurry up.” You groaned quietly as you rolled your hips into his, pulling him closer as your dug your heels into the back of his thighs.

He let out a breathy chuckle as his licked a strong line from your collarbone to your ear. “Shut the fuck up.” He huffed against your ear and grazed his teeth along your earlobe making you shudder.

How left hand moved from your hair, leaving a cold sting on your scalp as the tension on your strands eased, and roamed down the side of your body, groping you as it descended. Both his hands moved under your skirts as he clawed at your thighs and kneaded your muscles. “I’m doing this my fucking way and you’re gonna let me.” He hissed against your ear as his nose nuzzled into your hair affectionately, inhaling your scent.

His fingers played with the lace on your combinations as he teased himself denying the pair of you the sweet sensation of his skin against yours. Your breath grew heavier by the second as you rested your head into the crook of his neck, closing your eyes as you soaked in the bitter frustration of need.

His head came to rest against yours, his eyes closed as focused on the sound of your strained breathing. He shifted his head slightly to place gentle kiss to your temple in one of the rare tender moments you’ve experienced with him; however, it was short lived as you felt his hand push passed the split crotch of your combination. The pressure of his thick fingers at your entrance between your legs made you ache with desire and frustration as your jaw tensed. His left hand continued to toy with the lace of your combinations while his index and middle finger circled your soaked hole collecting the moisture on his fingertips.

He pushed the digits into your core steadily until they were knuckle deep causing a high-pitched gasp to breach your lips.

“Shhhh…” He hushed quietly. “Unless you want Grimshaw or some nosey pervert to come in here, you better shut up.” His voice took on an authoritative hiss as he curled his fingers and stroked your inner walls firmly.

You bit down the collar of his jacket to force yourself to be quiet, huffing your breath out your nose in the same rhythm of his fingers working you. He tilted his head to look down at you with a cocky – almost condescending – smirk. “Do what you gotta, I guess.” He chuckled lowly as his left thumb move to your clit pressing down and massaging slow large circles.

Your breath stuttered through your nose as your back tensed and your thighs squeezed his hips. Your gaze met his, still with the collar of his jacket in your mouth, and you glared sharply up at him. His eyes narrowed causing the creases in the corners to deepen and his smirk widened further. “Oh, you love it so don’t look at me like you don’t.” He whispered lowly, the rasp in his voice thickening with lust.

He pushed his fingers further into you until he found that special spot that makes your hips twitch and grind against his hand. You gasped and bit down harder on the material held in your mouth and growled quietly in pleasure. “Oh, there it is.” He taunted. “Right fucking there, huh?”

You nodded slowly as your rode against the rhythm of his fingers willing your release to come quicker. You continued to glare at him despite the pleasure he was delivering to you as his thumb on your clit massaged smaller circles and quickened to match the pace of his fingers inside you.

Your breath quickened more and more the closer you got to bliss and the icy burning tension in your thighs and lower stomach built. Your toes curled in your boots and your hand gripped his forearm in the tightest grip you could, silently encouraging him to continue the movement of his fingers. Your nails dug into the tanned and scarred flesh leaving crescent shaped indents. He brought your closer and closer to release leaving your teetering on the edge as your body twitched and shook against his. A thin layer of sweat decorated your forehead and chest as you heaved in breath after breath.

He dipped his head next your ear again fanning his warm breath over the sensitive skin. “You look so good like this...” He whispered with an arrogant tone. “So fucking good…”

The tip of his nose traced the shell of your ear as he breathed in deeply. “Do it… I dare you…” He threatened lowly through a small chuckle and that’s all it took to push you over the edge of bliss with a shameless groan. Your whole body tensed, and your thighs clamped round his hips desperately. The roll of your hips giving into the natural pattern your body craved and he willingly gave into with his fingers buried inside you.

His left hand grabbed the back of your neck through your hair pushing your body against his, your senses completely unravelled, and your body curled around his. Arthur pressed a long kiss against the hair on the side of your head as he revelled in the pleasure he’d given you. Your body relaxed and slumped against his as you fought to get more air into your lungs. You let him hold you like that, his fingers now still and motionless inside you, as you came back to your right mind.

You took in a deep breath and leaned back into a seated position, releasing your grip on his arm, and using your hand to support your body on the table.

He slowly removed his finger and held them up examining them and chuckling to himself. “Jesus… you are a messy girl, ain’tcha?”

His ocean eyes locked with yours as his placed his fingers in his mouth and ran his tongue between them to clean them off as he slowly pulled them back out again. “Good thing I like it messy.” He smirked as he dried his fingers of on your petticoat.

You laughed as you leant yourself back on the table, your palms flat to the surface and your head tilted back. His little show of cleaning his fingers somehow stimulating parts of you that you kept shielded away from the world. You heard him undoing his jeans and pulling his full erection from them.

You lifted your head watch him as he lifted your skirts and lined himself up with your dripping core. His gazed fully focused on his cock’s head brushing the opening. He always loved to watch the first push in, he loved watching your body swallow him greedily into its warm and wet embrace.

He looked gorgeous. His eyebrows furrowed in sinful concentration and his lower lip drawn into his mouth and held there by his teeth. His right hand tightly gripping his hardon while his left hand braced on your thigh holding it open to him. He watched eagerly as his cock brushed between your folds, making room for him, and collecting the wetness to make it slide in easier. “Fuck yeah…” he mumbled to himself as he final decided it was time to push into you.

The delicious pressure of him invading your hole sent every nerve on your body on fire with adrenaline, almost like looking over the edge of a tall building. A sharp gasp left your lips as you bit your lip to try and keep your activities a secret to the gang members milling about outside the tent. His head slowly tilted up to look in your eyes as he slowly withdrew partially and pushed further into you, repeating the motion for as long as it took until he was completely sheathed inside you and moving with ease. He gripped your thighs painfully as he rutted into you with force and crashed his lips to yours again in a feverish kiss.

“Such a good fucking cunt.” He grunted against your lips as panted heavily through his pleasure. It was too soon after your last orgasm for you to have another but that didn’t diminish the electric feeling of him pounding into you for his own release.

You sat further forward, cupping his jaw and scratching your nails through his beard. He shuddered as tilted his head back smiling in smug bliss as his eyes closed and a breathy chuckle broke from his lips. The sweat quickly formed on his brow, glistening in the warm glow of the sun in the tent. He shook his head like a wild bison and looked back down to where you were joined at the hips focusing on the image of his cock burying into you with each thrust. He drew his lip back into his mouth and bit it harshly before his darkened eyes locked with yours again.

His expression now almost pleading, showing a sinful innocence as he silently communicated his pleasure and desire through harsh pants through his nose. He was close, so dangerously close but he didn’t want to pull out yet. Not yet, it would always feel too soon.

You pressed your forehead to his, keeping your eyes locked with his as your hand migrated into his hair and tugged it gently. “Fuck it… just do it…” You whispered lowly as you threw caution to the wind. “Fucking cum in me.” You panted and locked your ankles behind his hips making it difficult for him to pull out.

Arthur groaned loudly as he picked up his pace desperately. He wasn’t going to be told twice or give you a chance to reconsider. His hips stuttered and his thrusts became erratic as you watched the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense. He gritted his teeth and growled loudly as his body stilled and his spend pulsed into you. He snatched a breath quickly as his grabbed your hips roughly pulling you closer as his body instinctively pumped everything he had into you. His mouth dropped open as gravelly groans and expletives flowed freely from his lips.

Slowly, the tension left him body as he wrapped his arms round you in a tight embrace and buried his face into your neck in a desperate attempt to get closer to you. He fought to catch his breath as you played with his hair and rubbed his back affectionately as he slowly came back to the realm of the living. He gradually pulled back from your embraced and held your face between his calloused hands softly – his hold so soft almost like he was frightened to break you if it were any firmer.

He looked at you, his eyes showing you all the emotions his heart would allow. His gaze was almost too much, too overwhelming but you couldn’t look away. Everything about this moment pulled at your heartstrings and without thinking to told him how you really felt.

“I love you, Arthur.” You whisper barely above a breath, even though you knew he couldn’t bring himself to say those words himself. He couldn’t let those words pass his lips… but his eyes... his eyes said it better than his tongue ever could.

“I know, baby… I know…” He whispered back as he leant in to kiss you tenderly.

Tags (as requested): @photo1030

A/N: Thank you for reading. This is the end of "Make me..." but I am a lover of LH!Arthur and have more fics planned for him or involving him (SFW and NSFW) and other characters (SFW). As always, likes, reblogs and comments are welcome.

[nights-legacy]

Hi, so rn I'm in absolute pain, my legs absolutely tort me up from mosquitoe bites like there, the sizes of welts, as if someone had burned me and it's absolute hell. SO I was wondering how Aizawa and Hawks would take care of an S/O and how they would react seeing their legs full of golf ball sized inflammation. Would they try to kill someone thinking that their dear s/o was hurt? And what type of remedies would they try once they found out the nature of them? Also, would they tease them about being a magnet for blood suckers?

I hate mosquito bites! I've got some right now, too, and they're driving me bonkers. I hope you like this and here's a link to where I found mosquito bite remedies-- Remedies

Remedies for Pesky Bites - Aizawa & Hawks

Masterlist ~ MHA Masterlist ~ #2

1612 words

+ You get bitten badly by mosquitoes, and your man has a couple of remedies up his sleeve to help.

Aizawa

I groaned as the burning, iching. sensation in my legs grew worse. I fought hard to not scratch at the welts lining my legs. I had gone to help my parents at their countryside home. It was a nice, hot summer day and the bugs were out in drones. I didn't even notice the mosquito bites until I was on the train home.

"Dammit." I exclaimed as a couple bites won and I scratched at them. I had to rip my hands away and get up from the bed. I had already taken a shower and it helped for a little bit. I went to the bathroom to grab some anti-itch Ointment. I hopped up on the counter and examined my legs.

The welts on my legs were huge. Ranging from tiny bites to golf ball size welts. I noticed there was some blood and blood rash from the scratching.

"Great..." I rubbed in the ointment, careful not to cause more irritation. All I wanted was to go to bed and be held by Shota. Unforchunately, he wasn't home. He had let me know that he would be out late due to a stake out bust of a gang.

I sighed before hopping down and walking back to the bed. I stood there for a minute, wondering if it was worth it to get under the blanket. I decided against it and laid on my stomach lounging on my pillow. I distracted myself with my phone until it was too hard to fight sleep.

"Babe... darling, Wake up." I groaned as I woke to someone shaking my shoulder.

"Nooo..." I whined, gripping my pillow tighter and curling up.

"I know, I know. Sleep is wonderful but I need to talk to you." His voice was urgent and I shot up in near panic. I found him sitting to my left.

"What's wrong? Did something happen on the bust?" I began to look him over.

"No, no. It went fine. But what happened to you? It looks like you were attacked. Who did this to you?" He looked down at my legs and began to trace his fingers around the welts.

"Ah! No, no." I pulled my legs away. His eyes widened in worry. "No one did this to me. It's all mosquito bites. I went to my parents remember?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I helped my dad outside for most of the day. I got bitten a lot and I didn't notice until the train ride home." I saw him visibly relax and he dropped his head. I sat there

"Thank god. I thought you were attacked Or something."

"Nope. Well, yes by bugs." We laughed. I sighed before reaching down towards my legs.

"Nope. No scratching." He grabbed my hands.

"But it's so irritating evel the ointment isn't working well." He hummed before getting up and pulling off his capture weapon and jacket.

"I think I know just the thing." He walked towards the door. "No scratching."

"Okay." I giggled. I heard him moving around in the kitchen before coming back in with some wet towels.

"For now, We'll put these on. I've got something else prepping in the kitchen." He wrapped the towels around my calves. and I jumped at the cold sensation. It instantly gave me some relief. I sat there patiently for about half an hour, and he came back in with a bowl.

"What is that?"

"Chamomile."

"Tea?" I was surprised. He nodded with a chuckle.

"Trust me." He gave me a smirk. He pulled out a large, thin cheese cloth bag full of damp tea. He pulled off the rag and gently placed it on my bites. He did the same to the others. "Now we leave it on for ten minutes. Sit still and let it work while I go take a shower."

"Okay." He got up and began to strip his clothes. Before he went to the bedroom and stopped him. "Can I have my book?"

"Which one?" I pointed to the (color) book. (You choose the book! Lol) he handed it to me and went. He was done and back within the 10 minutes.

"Now let's see..." He took the wrappings off slowly.

"I never pegged you for a home remedy guy." I said while tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear.

"Well, I'm full of surprises, Love." He set the bags in the bowl again before wiping the skin off. "There we go. Not even that red anymore."

"Wow." I ran my hand over the welts and was surprised to feel no irritation from my touch. "How?"

"It is a natural anti-inflammatory and anti-itch." He said, standing up. "We'll do another treatment in the morning."

"Thank you." I stood and gave him a kiss.

"No problem. I suggest you put on those soft, cuffed sleep pants for the night." He said while leaving the room.

"Ooo, good idea."

Hawks

"Come on, pick up Keigo." I muttered into the phone. I have been trying to call him for about 10 minutes. He has yet to pick up obviously. "Damn." I groaned as the call went to voicemail again.

I was trying to get a hold of him to pick up some anti-itch stuff. We were out and I had an ungodly amount of mosquito bites on my legs. I had accompanied my sister to the farmers market and I apparently attracted all the bugs in the place. Large, angry, itchy welts were left behind.

"This sucks." I was sitting at the table with no pants on so there was no rubbing. I was wearing one of Keigo's shirts and it stopped about mid thigh. The bites were burning so bad that I was nearly in tears. I jumped when the balcony doors opened.

"I'm home, lovebird." Keigo yelled. He quickly found me at the table and gave me a big smile.

"I've been trying to call you." I whined.

"Aww. I'm sorry, Babe. I lost my phone earlier." He pulled off his jacket and kicked off his boots. He walked closer to me. "What did you need?"

"Too late now." I said getting up. He paused when it got closer.

"What's wrong?" I saw him examine me and his eyes widened. Rushing over, he knelt before me. "What happened?"

"Careful. They're bites." Taking a step back.

"Bites?" He asked frantically. I saw him looking at the large welts With worry. Some were scuffed from scratching while others had some blood rash.

"Bug bites." I clarified. He gave a heavy sigh of relief and his wings sagged to the floor. He muttered some words of relief before looking up at me.

"What happened?" He stood up.

"I went to a farmers market today and I think I attracted all the mosquitoes. They hurt and itch Keigo. So bad." I grabbed onto his shirt, sniffling and set my head on his chest.

"Why didn't you put anything on them?"

"That's Why I was calling you. We're out of anti-itch stuff." I set my chin on his chest and looked up at him. He hummed and rubbed his hands up and down my arms.

"Come on." He wrapped an arm around my waist and led me to the kitchen. He softly lifted me up and set me on the counter next to the stove. He moved through the kitchen looking at different things.

"Keigo?"

"Bear with me, Love bird." He found my bag of herbs and spices I got today. He sifted through it before pulling out the thyme. I was confused but didn't say anything. He pulled out a pot and filled it with water. He put it on to boil before taking the thyme sprigs and broke them into single strands.

He dropped the springs into the water as it came to a boil. He wrapped a wing around my legs and I could feel the heat begin to rise under the feathers, giving me some temporary relief. I stayed silent as he worked until after letting it cool, dipped a couple of rags in the thyme water.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Thyme is an antibacterial plant that can reduce irritation in the skin." He explained. I was dumbfounded.

"And how do you know that?" I asked. He chuckled as he wrapped the rags around my legs.

"I grew up having to fend for myself and not have any helpful amenities." He used a bag clip to hold the rags on.

"Oh, right."

"It's alright." He cupped my face and gave me a kiss. I pulled him closer and deepened the kiss. This was the perfect distraction. He pulled away after a few minutes. "Feeling any better?"

"Yes actually." I noticed that the burning was gone and the urge to itch was almost gone. I looked at my legs astonished.

"Thyme? Really?"

"Yes!" He laughed, wings flapping in amusement. He removed the rags and examined the bites. "They look better."

"Amazing." I hopped down. I wrapped my arms around his neck and brushed my fingers through his feathers. Shivers went up his spine. "Thank you, Pretty boy."

"It's my pleasure, My Love." He nuzzled his nose against mine.

"You know..." I trailed off. "You now owe me some more Thyme. Especially if you want some fried chicken."

"Haha! Of course!" He said. I smiled before stepping back. "You know..." I heard the teasing tone in his voice. "I really hope there are no vampires nearby because you seem to be a blood suckers buffet."

"Keigo Takami!" I scolded him while laughing. I grabbed a dry dish towel and threw it at him. He dodged and took off for the bedroom. "Get back here!"

Tag List: @lilparcheesie @dxnaii-rxse @iris-shihabi @l0vely-lee

[cranberrymoons]

don't have to please no one

prompt: hate sex (kinktober), school/combative (@eddiemonth) tags: law school au, overly competitive boys who hate 🤨 each other rated: e (18+)

—

Class ends, and Steve slams his laptop shut, heart pounding in his ears as he glares at the back of Munson’s stupid fucking… long-haried dumb... fucking... head. 

It’s a smug fucking back of a head, really, belonging to a smug fucking bastard of a person, who thinks he knows so much, always has to be so correct and butt in whenever Steve gets cold-called, always has to call dumb fucking objections to his talking points and –

“Rough one,” Robin says in his ear. “I think he might have actually gotten the better of you that time.”

“He did not,” Steve snaps, turning his glare on her. “He just always has to get the last word in. That doesn’t mean he’s actually right.”

“You’re the one who picked a fight with him,” she points out. “Picking him apart on that negligence thing.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “You kind of baited him.”

“I’m going to set his Torts book on fire,” Steve says. He shoves his own heavy folder of documents into his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. “Rip his notecards into confetti. With my mind.” He presses his fingers against his temples, then shoves his glasses up into his hair. “My mind, Rob.”

Robin just laughs, following close on his heels as he starts down the stairs toward the door. 

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she says. 

“What, you don’t think I can do it?” he asks. He glares at Munson’s retreating back, making his way toward the door behind a cluster of other students. “I can totally do it. I’m going to do it.”

“Right now?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, frowning at the back of Munson's head, letting the annoyance bubble up inside him and fester into something convulsive and angry.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Right now. Best chance of successful telekinesis.”

[continue on ao3 || 1,978 words]

[evadingreallife]

Recap prima seconda (terza quarta quinta) serata:

• Momento ricordi ma in realtà è solo gianni che dissa blanco con una scopa appresso (?)

• Gianni con la moglie che gli dà delle pillole *nudge nudge wink wink

• will(y il coyote)

• modà girlies coming out of the woodwork dopo 10 anni di integrazione sociale

• "Amadeus dimmi" chiede sto ragazzino che non so chi sia ma già lo amo " A MENO TREDICI FA FREDDO??" burn ama burnnn

• tunz tunz ma almeno mi sono svegliata

• no era tutta una finta (cue mezzora di albano gianni e ranieri a sgolarsi live)

• torte imbarazzanti, 20 anni e non sentirli quattro volte di fila...

• DRUSILLA OUR LADY AND SAVIOUR here to save us from the drudgery of life and ulteriori siparietti imbarazzanti e tristi

• mado non voglio sapere quanto si stanno congelando al palco della suzuki di fuori rip

• colapesce e dimartino portano tutto il festival sulle spalle che dire

• black eyed peas vs baccalà mummificati nostrani

• shari coi leopardi come sandokan con le tigri

• lo ammetto ho scollegato il cervello a una certa capitemi non so cosa sia successo in realtà pure shari l'ho sentita come se da dietro una coltre di nebbia

• roba sui carceri? Sb tell me what happened here i got plot holes

• madame col santino in tasta e gianni bloccato coi fiori in mano, tutto regolare qui

• a wild fiorello appears stile inviato speciale in diretta

E niente poi il mio cervello è andato in standby, avevo gli occhi aperti ma i neuroni pisolavano, ho visto spoglierelli random e boh, morale mengoni primo colapesce e dimartino secondi (ma primi nei nostri cuori) poi madame elodie e forse tananai? Non necessariamente in quest'ordine.

Fiorello è vestito da regina george versione balletto di natale no i dont take criticism bene buonanotte domani altro giro altro regalo

Ps. hanno fatto fare il balletto di mercoledì a fiorello why, e il ragazzetto che fa le interviste dietro le quinte per fiorello lo amo troppo è un troll in real life qualcuno mi dica chi è asdfghjkl