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velvetwyrms · 1 year

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Now for something completely different! I’ve been working on an AU called Guardians (page is still a WIP) for months now and I’m finally ready to share a story from it. Please heed the tags and enjoy!

Rating: General

Relationships: Hobie/Therapy

Characters: Hobie Brown, Original Animal Character, Pavitr Prabhakar (mentioned), Gwen Stacy (mentioned), Miles Morales (mentioned).

Wordcount: 1,430

TW: Starvation, Homelessness

Tags: Alternative title: ‘Author tears up over hedgehogs,’ Fluff, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Companions AU, Platonic/Familial relationship, Hobie Brown backstory, Set 2 years before he becomes Spider-Punk, Hobie needs a hug (and gets a very spiny one), it’s a lovely story I promise, Character study.

Summary: Hobie nodded in approval, speaking around his third slice in under as many minutes, “fuck capitalism, feed hedgehogs.”

Ruthless

The smog-choked air was still so frosty this time of year. Once vaguely warm, the battered, grease-stained box she was curled up upon now did nothing to ease the painful shivers running from her goose-bumped skin, all the way to the very tips of her all-encasing, banded spines. Still, she was grateful. It wasn’t the height of winter anymore, they’d made it out alive and this was the first spot of good luck they’d had in a while.

Cold or otherwise, that’s the wonderful thing about pizza, you could eat it regardless— well, if you didn’t mind the pineapple. They’d both eaten far worse, or not at all. Besides, his tastes changed like the wind—

Her ears pricked sharply at the sound of a shoe sole scraping against potholed concrete, clunky and uneven. Her nose twitched fearfully. She should’ve pulled the box further into the shadows of the alley.

Pulse racing, she curled up tighter, spines splayed until the bootprints stopped abruptly, drowned out by the distant honking, shouting, screaming of East London on a Friday night.

Then the wind changed, and all at once her panic immediately soothed into relief.

‘Ruth? You there?”

The massive pizza box slid across the wet pavement with her scrabbling claws as she zoomed towards the end of their hiding spot; a nostalgic pull tugging at her tiny heartstrings as she snuffled at the air. “Over ‘ere! Took you long enough, where the bloody hell you been?” She could almost feel the responding eyeroll as the flickering, looming shadow at the alley’s maw rounded the corner and Hobie Brown stumbled in — joy bubbled and fizzed from her brightly glowing chest and into a resounding chirp — empty handed. Ah.

"Foodbank was sold out when I got there. ‘S fine though, we’ll— I’ll jus-“

“Nono, gimmie a sec,” she croaked and shuffled back the way she’d scurried. The sogginess of the ground nearly proved too strong for her teeth as it sucked on the cardboard, but she managed to drag it just far enough to cut her young charge’s dejection short. “Ta-da! We’ve got ourselves a chicken-dinner! The crowd goes wild, n’ we have full bellies.” Her words were muffled, but from the relieved laugh he’d barked out it was clear he’d understood the gist.

“Oh my days, Ruth you’ve outdone yourself! Also, you should know, you look ridiculous. Never thought I’d see a hedgehog carrying a takeaway box that big, come ‘ere,” the box was lifted effortlessly up into the sky before the boy slumped down next to her. Hobie opened the box with the reverence of a present he’d been counting down the days for, and wolfed down the first slice like a dying man. Well, that…that wasn’t exactly far off. “Where’d you even get this? It’s huge! Could last us two days easy.” Ruth sniffed the food eagerly, climbing up and using his thigh to balance her front paws on so that she could get a better look. Hobie then passed Ruth her single slice so she sat down next to him and set to nibbling away at it. She was rather proud of herself that she’d held out long enough for her charge to have the first piece. Taking care of him was, after all, her entire reason for existing in the very literal, physical, cosmic sense.

“Stole it from a Spaceship Pizza delivery bike while the driver was havin’ a natter. She saw but apparently thought it was funny enough to fight the good fight with her boss.”

Hobie nodded in approval, speaking around his third slice in under as many minutes, “good girl, she gets it. Fuck capitalism, feed hedgehogs.”

“Mm, found your new motto then.”

“‘Course.”

The silence between them as they ate was comfortable, well lived in, homey. Ruth was munching away at a chunky strip of cheap, processed ham when her beady eyes locked onto the dip of Hobie’s hollow cheek as he grinned, and all of a sudden they were seven years old again. The worry wrinkles, far too premature for someone who’s only just turned fifteen forming on his forehead, his sharp edges and his first, shiny, new nose piecing he’d convinced a friend to give him for free we’re gone. "Do you remember we used to eat this in school? You hated pineapple. You don’t now.”

“Nah, I don’t believe in consistency. You of all people should know that.” His bordered edges shifted and his skin turned from grey newspaper clippings about threats of anarchist uprisings to a happy, relatable, empathetic pink. “You haven’t changed a bit. Just a big ol’ hoglet.”

Ruth looked at him aghast, squeaking in disapproval, spines puffing in defiance. “You’re havin’ a tin-bath.” The stripes on her spines and the glowing patch on her chest turned from a happy, relatable, empathetic pink to the grainy grey of tv static.

“Oh no, you still look like a pup to me. Jus’ with more spines. Hey, remember when I tried to count ‘em all again last week? Think I got to 561 this time.”

Ruth huffed. She had waaaay more spines than that. “I could say the same thing, you had all the grace of a toddler the way you nicked your finger. Thought you’d be used to my spines after all this time. Guess I’ll just be free of your cuddles an’ keep warm on my lonesome.”

“Woah, hey now, I’m only playin.’”

"’Course,” Ruth snorted and licked BBQ sauce off of her nose, then sighed wistfully, “blimey, I miss moments like this more than anythin’"

Hobie’s crooked smile waned and seemed to wobble a bit. Seven years old and they’d already been kicked out of their second orphanage. School gave them hot food served with kind, pitying smiles. Their new placement did neither. "Yeah…Y’know, this is the only thing that's made the last three years bearable.”

“Pizza?”

Hobie’s laugh was small, humourless and tired, and Ruth felt a pang of something sharp in her chest that was anything but starvation.

“You. Company. Jus’ ‘avin someone who actually gives a damn about whether or not I live or die tomorrow. Can’t imagine what it’s like for those blokes n’ birds who ain’t got Guardians of their own anymore. Must be propper rough. I’ve heard that…sometimes, when it gets too hard, Guardians can just leave. Sever that bond from birth completely. It happened to ol’ loopy Louis on George Street, at least, that’s what he tells everyone. But I’ve seen others too, I’ve seen two different Guardians before just wandering around alone an’ feral. They looked so lost.”

Ruth suddenly felt sick. She couldn’t think of anything worse than loosing Hobie. She was supposed to take care of him. He was her best friend, her partner in crime, her reason to keep going through these first few years of surviving on the streets. He’d been through so much already for someone so young, he’s wise far beyond his barely 15 years and she wanted to cry. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“I know, I’m jus’ really grateful. You’re a stellar Guardian, Ruth.”

“Well, I don’t know about that” Her voice cracked and she abandoned her half-eaten pizza crust to climb up onto his thigh again, pushing down a couple of times with her front paws to signal that she wanted up. Hobie put down his own 5th slice and picked Ruth up by the armpits to perch her on his sight shoulder. She had to grip onto his thin winter jacket to avoid falling off, but she managed, laying her spines down flat to avoid hurting him. She glanced down to their food through teary eyes, then the pins adorning the jacket’s leather collar, the cheap, patched, fraying jumper underneath and the crochet hook poking out of his top pocket where he kept the bands he was using to try out something new. He’d wanted wicks for a while.

“I do. No one else would go outta their way to steal a pizza three times their size for me.”

“No one worth knowing.” Ruth sniffed wetly, and Hobie, with carefully practiced ease tilted his head and rested his cheek on her back. “One day, you’ll meet people who will do anything for you, Hobie, jus’ like me. People who’d- who’d stop busses an,’ an’ planes and trains for you. They’ll shout your name whenever they see you, and talk about you all the time when you ain’t there, ‘cause they’ll love you millions. You jus’ haven’t met ‘em yet. I know it.

You’ll see.”

#atsv fanfiction #spiderverse fanfic #hobie brown #spider punk #cricket writes #atsv #across the spider verse #atsv spoilers #probably! even if it’s implied #character study

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 years

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Transparent (Part 2 of Illuminated)

Ruth has to decide between taking Tommy at his word after their late night conversations. The truth is between two choices, they both would be foolish. What's a girl to do?

Illuminated (Part 1) | Fervent (Part 3) | Reverent (Part 4) | Deliverance (Part 5/Finale)

CW: 18+ Content (Smut/Smut Adjacent)

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There are only two foolish options: to go to the Garrison or to not. Having been a fool already in her younger year, Ruth is not looking to be one again. But there are only two foolish options. Maybe the more accurate thing to contemplate as Ruth closes up the tailor shop is which choice makes her less of a fool. The streets settle into the thick dark night and Ruth knows they have no reason to worry--the night, much like day, is home for the alleyways and main streets.

Ruth steps through the doors of the Garrison. The drunken bellows act as guidance for her feet in her least foolish choice. Tables are packed, bodies plopped into chairs, draped over tables. Some bodies are even draped over the shoulders of others. No one cares about Ruth’s presence, not yet anyways. People will soon care once Ruth continues forward. Once she settles at the bar and once Tommy engages her, everyone in the room will care and take notice. A one off conversation in the middle of delivery was one thing, especially one that she engaged offhandedly. But for Tommy to engage again meant Ruth would be branding herself--the whole town would know. She will be known as Tommy’s even if she wasn’t actually. Even if tonight went no further than a drink, the label would stick. Nothing short of a public scene or death would cause people to even dare look at Ruth's way.

Maybe Tommy wanted it that way; he’d have no competition. Or maybe Tommy’s not even considering Ruth’s social repercussions. Either way, the truth remains--Ruth walked from her shop to the bar. She’d made the first foolish choice and Tommy, as he settles his drink down on the bar and turns his head to speak to Arthur, makes the second choice. There would be no running away or backing out now. Ruth is locked in. The last thing she will give to Tommy is the satisfaction of the easy way out.

Tommy doesn’t visibly react to spotting Ruth--there’s no smile, no nod. But his gaze never leaves her--not even as Arthur yaps away to Tommy’s right. He only watches. Ruth keeps an even gaze in return and finally steps out from the double doors. Her heels barely make an audible click as she bypasses tables. Tommy stays bent into the bar, watching Ruth’s approach. Part of him wonders if it’s just his brother’s drunkenness or if his brother really just doesn't care about anything and that hearing the sound of his own voice keeps him aloof. Either way, Tommy is grateful.

Ruth settles to his left. Her heat radiates and quite possibly it’s solely Tommy’s own body reacting to the knowledge that Ruth is close by. She keeps her gaze locked forward, following Harry’s movement. It’s like being next to fire--the longer it takes Harry to serve Ruth, the longer Tommy doesn’t reach out to fully acknowledge her, the longer Tommy’s skin warms at the promise. There’s no action, but they both know it very well could be. It would only ever take just a look, just a glance at the right moment.

Tommy’s fingers curl around the class and he nearly barks for Harry to serve Ruth but he holds his tongue. Tommy does not suspect that Ruth cared too deeply about social etiquette. But he likes the subtlety that they have. He gives a little and Ruth gives a little and neither one never has to make it more obvious to the other that they are giving something. Ruth settles her purse onto the bar, but remains in the coat. A minute passes--the longest minute Tommy thinks he’s ever encountered--before Harry slides down the line. Harry’s quick to come over after spotting the tick to Tommy's jaw.

“What can I get you, Ruth?” Harry asks. He risks only a second’s worth of a glance to Tommy. The tic is gone but Tommy holds a hard line around his mouth.

“Gin--iced.”

Harry nods and turns to the bottles and glasses.

Tommy still waits.

Ruth doesn’t move in closer.

The gravity hangs again and hums between them. It is an electric current that makes the hairs stand up, but does not need to be touched. The glass sets onto the bar in front of Ruth. She reaches into her purse and the moment the coin comes up into the field of Harry’s vision, he shakes his head. “On the house. For such great work the other day,” he smiles.

“There will always be work,” Ruth returns, sliding the coin onto the counter.

Tommy slides it back to her.

“I can afford a drink,” she states.

“Never said you couldn’t. But the man said it was on the house. So I think we should take him up on that offer,” Tommy returns, pushing up to stand straight up. His focus lingers on Harry only for a moment longer and then he turns to face Ruth.

Ruth punctuates the moment of recognition with a sip of her drink. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were spying on me Tommy.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were looking to be spied on Ruth,” Tommy returns. He mirrors her position and takes a sip of his own glass. He drops the coin back into her purse.

After the sip of the whiskey, Tommy continues on, “Besides, I was hoping you could spare me a smoke? I’ve made a foolish promise to Polly to cut back and in order to make it look like it had any weight I’ve left my pack.”

There it is--the first drop of the fishing line between them. Ruth hadn’t thought Tommy would forget over the course of the day that thing he’d promised. But she had anticipated him playing this out longer, taking much longer to get to the heart of whatever it was that was sparking between them.

“Might you spare me a moment to enjoy my drink?” Ruth asks.

“I’m never one to rush,” Tommy answers.

“But you are one to always know what you want and to get it.”

“Well,” Tommy grins only for a moment, before hiding it with the glass. He sighs around the sip. “You’ve said that, not me.”

“Some might say I’ve witnessed it or been an ear to witness testimony.”

Tommy nods--the tailor shop. It was her domain, but as she mentioned no one paid much attention to the person whose only skills seemed to be hemming and cutting and taking it. The silence that lingers between them is not uncomfortable. Though, it’s only in this lull that Tommy realizes he’s abandoned his brother’s earlier conversations. Arthur doesn’t seem bothered as John has taken up the slot as the poor bastard resigned to hearing the onslaught of Arthur’s slurred speech.

“How’s work at the shop?” Tommy asks.

Ruth wants to say he should know--Polly keeps close tabs and Ruth’s never had any reason to hide. “Steady,” she returns. “Are you looking to put in a special order?”

“Possibly. Want to make sure you have the capacity.”

Ruth gives a small shrug, setting the not even half consumed glass to the counter. Her action is mirrored by Tommy, though his glass is less full than hers. It’s less about not telling the truth. It’s less about the game and tug-of-war that they play. And it’s all about the fact that Ruth can feel the stares from the other patrons now. Ruth almost wants something tangible now. As she swirls the taste of her rebuttal around her tongue, she wishes that the words would bring about a tangible mark for her and others that both she and Tommy were making a foolish choice.

“At my shop, we always have the capacity for any request that Mr. Shelby wants to put in.”

The formality of her response causes Tommy to balk for a moment. But her eyes and the curve of her lips around the rim of the glass lets him know that it is also all a part of the game. It is just a tease for him. This is all just a thin veil. Tommy, for a brief moment, envisions what it might be like to pull it down to reveal to the entire bar what is truly going on. But he’s not quite that type of man. And he knows for certain that Ruth is not that kind of woman.

In the silence that’s become them, Ruth ponders if all her hesitation was a product of nothing more than selfishness. Getting involved with Tommy was in some ways social suicide for her--no man would dare touch her after this should it all go up in flames-- but not getting involved meant there was no risk. Ruth wouldn’t be hurt because she would not be forced to be vulnerable, to let someone in. Being alone was her protector and know, here, she is running the risk of shedding the thing that she’d worked so hard to keep.

Her glass settles onto the bar with a soft thud.

“Do you care for anything else?” Tommy asks. “Consider it on me.”

Ruth shakes her head. “Thoughtful of you, but I don’t desire anything else here.”

Tommy catches the dip in her voice around the word here. It is not a dip that seems to be trying to keep anything quite, but it’s simply the dip in tone and inflection that reaches for emphasis. Here means this bar, but there might be more elsewhere.

“I would say the pockets are delighted to hear such news, but your company will be missed,” Tommy returns.

“Do you not need the smoke then? Has your day been so long already?”

“You’ll get me in trouble with an offer like that,” Tommy grins.

Ruth laughs in return, sliding her purse back up onto her arm. “Something tells me trouble is not new to you.”

“Maybe it is not. Though, I’d argue I maybe shouldn’t keep egging it on.”

“Have you gone soft?” Ruth asks. “Thomas Shelby afraid of trouble? Careful or that will make headlines.”

The pair ease their way through the crowds--most of the bodies parting with Tommy partially ahead of Ruth as their guide. He works his arms into his coat, but keeps the cap off. Through the doors, the night swallows the light of the Garrison and spits it back out in the few posts that are littered across the streets. The click of their heels echo around them as they walk just a few feet from the door of the bar. Tommy stays in the lead until they pass under one more street lamp, then he turns to face Ruth.

“I halfway expected you not to show,” Tommy confesses. His eyes drop to the cobblestone streets.

“Expected or hoped?” Ruth questions.

“Is there truly a difference?”

“Expected means it was me. Hoped means it was you. And while we’re confessing, I wasn’t sure I would show.”

“If,” Tommy sighs before the words fully cross his lips. “If you really don’t want this, the last thing I want for you is to feel like I’m forcing you. It matters more to me that you’re honest with than afraid of me.” As much as Tommy wanted to hide from such prying and insightful eyes of someone like Ruth, the last thing he would do is be dishonest with her. She’d see the truth within him anyhow.

Ruth cautions just a step closer. Now only a few inches reside between them. “Tommy, I have never been afraid of you. I have been afraid of what it means to be honest--completely and transparently--when it comes to you. But you do not frighten me.”

The few sentences make the center of Tommy’s chest release. When he’d been worried about Ruth’s answer and when he’d anticipated all of this crumbling, he’s not sure. But somewhere between the morning, the woes and work of the day, and the evening, the nervousness creeped up his spine and settled squarely in the middle of his chest. He sighs, shoulders dropping just a little beneath the suit and coat.

Ruth watches the worry lines smooth slightly over Tommy’s forehead. The urge comes up. The desire to smooth her thumb over his skin to ensure that all his worries had disappeared rises more and more and Ruth lifts her hand this time. She doesn’t try to swallow back down the desire. Ruth takes her gloved thumb and runs it gingerly over Tommy’s forehead. The tips of her fingers trail alongside his sideburns down and over his jaw. “Does it mean that much not be in the presence of someone who fears you?” she asks.

“It means a lot when it’s you,” Tommy whispers. He feels it in his fingers. There’s the ache of someone’s tender touch.

From the opposite end of the street, both of them catch the sound of of drunken shouting. And though Tommy was not afraid to be tender, the wrong people still wanted him. They’d only need a hint of something to use and they’d surely dangle it over his head. Tommy takes her wrist and softly pulls her fingers from his face.

“Let me walk you home,” Tommy states. His voice is not hard, but it is firm.

Ruth catches the flash--the tenderness so easily replaced but a sternness and coolness. She does not question the statement and simply nods. They walk to the end of the block. At the end of the block, Ruth hooks the turn and Tommy settles easily behind her. Now around the corner, it feels easier. Tommy settles in next to her.

“I’ve thought more about what you said. About the easy way out,” Tommy offers.

“And what have you concluded?”

“Normally my affairs are not easy--there’s always multiple moving parts and too many people who can do their own free will to think that anything is easy. Tell me what really makes you angry.”

“Angry?” Ruth returns. “About what?”

“You haven’t been married in years, Ruth. The man you were married to cheated, brought up the mistress, had you take care of them and the child and you walked away. You’re angry at a lot of things. I’d like to know those things.”

Ruth pauses a foot from the door to her building. “Is this your idea of foreplay? Because Tommy, really, it’s a poor attempt at it.”

Though the jab does come out particularly stern, he still laughs. “You see through me at will, like you’ve known me your entire life. The only way I get to learn about you is through other people. I think we ought to be transparent with each other.”

Ruth stays in her spot, just a few inches shy of the streetlight. “I’m angry at me for being foolish. I’m angry at that sorry excuse of a man. I’m angry at my body for betraying me. The thing I wanted for a long time were children. I’m angry that youth means foolishness and pain. I’m angry that getting older means being wiser but also more stubborn. Do you know how easy this would’ve been ten years ago, Tommy? Do you know that I’m a woman who’s learned to love her peace?”

“Given your integration the previous night, I can’t say it’s hard to guess. If we’re being honest, I’m not the type of man in a business that has a lot of peace.”

“In case you have forgotten, I do work for you by some extensions. I am not unaware of that.”

“And you still went to the Garrison. You still let me ask you for a smoke.”

“And yet, I still let you ask me for a smoke. And yet, peace seems to occasionally beg for disturbance.”

That's all Ruth says before she carries on. Tommy follows behind and rather than staying behind and watching her ascend the stairs, he follows behind. Ruth offers Tommy a cup of tea or even some water. He takes neither. Standing at different ends of the wooden kitchen table, Ruth and Tommy only gaze at each other. Ruth slips off her gloves and rests them over the top of her purse.

“Tell me something, Ruth,” Tommy starts, playing ever so slightly at the top of his cap. He’s careful of the blades sewn into it.

“Depends on what you’d like to know, Tommy.”

“Does this place have a curfew?”

Ruth releases a small tuft of laughter. “Not one I’d obey. I’ve been living here for ten years now. I’d love to see Benson try and evict me.”

Tommy nods at the news. “Have you ever had a noise complaint?”

“That I made or that was made about me?”

“Either.”

Ruth shakes her head. “No, never.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you never to say never?”

The electricity hums again, Ruth rounds the kitchen table and takes Tommy’s hat from his hands. He gives it up easy. Much like he doesn’t balk or press when Ruth’s hands slide up his chest and into the lapels of his jacket. “Now why should I never say never?” Ruth asks.

“Because there is a first time for everything.” Tommy’s hand cups her cheeks and underneath the slight roughness he feels the smooth skin of her cheek. The inches are fleeting as they pull up into each other. Their lips meet gently at first, like testing the waters of something before fully committing. But the second they pull apart for a quick breath, Tommy is closing in again to taste her gin tainted lips and inhale the soft moans Ruth inhales.

His body is buzzing and Ruth swears her head is going to roll off her shoulders. But just as much they swear they are succumbing to the pleasure and light caresses, the truth remains that no other choice would’ve been as satisfying as this one. The layers are not easy to shed. As much as Ruth obeyed the social conventions for the ease of not drawing attention to herself, she hates the heels in the moment.

Tommy releases a soft laugh when Ruth swears at the item of clothing. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’d shoot the shoes dead in their tracks.”

“Given half the change, I think I’d consider it,” Ruth huffs, tossing the offending shoe aside.

There is a moment as tongues caress flesh and as prayers and moans are whispered into muscle that the sort of electric hum becomes all consuming. Where before they teased it and each other, they stick hands directly into the fire and are not worried about the blaze. There’s no hesitation, no games to play. Tommy swears as Ruth kisses over his chest, the scars from war that each kiss is like being born again. She is cleansing the parts of his soul that she can touch. Ruth is the holiest thing he’s ever beheld. Tommy wants only to consume her every second he can spare in the days. She is the moment, the small peace of heaven on earth.

As much as his parents and aunt tried to warn Tommy that sin was the surefire way to subject himself to the pains of hell, he knows they did not ever know of the cleansing and tenderness that a kiss from Ruth beholds. They have never wanted something so deeply in their gut that they feared fucking it up. They could have never in their lives seen what is it like to have the softest praise brushing against their eardrums. Ruth sings beneath him. She spurs him on in ways that Tommy only thinks of how unholy it is that it crosses back over into the territory of being holy.

There’s a guide too, a tender voice that orchestrates any adjustment. Ruth is nothing short of a tender and giving lover. Though she is direct, she is sincere. Her bites are covered by kisses. Tommy feels his own heat rising, the coiling and tightening of his own gut. Though he’s sure he wears part of it on his face, Ruth picks up on it. Her hands slide up. She begs for his release. He’d be a fool not to give it to her.

Ruth’s nails lightly scratch over Tommy’s scalp as he keeps his head resting on her chest. Her heart still races and he listens to the way the beating tries to even itself out. His heart, he knows, sounds the same--an erratic beat trying to smooth itself over. Tommy can’t help it--he wants nothing more than to just enjoy this moment here with Ruth, but the sentence swirls around in his brain, And yet, peace seems to occasionally beg for disturbance. This wasn’t about disturbing Ruth’s life. It wasn’t meant in any sort of malicious way. Tommy slides up just a little and gets Ruth into a tight hold. She tucks into his chest and moves from tracing over his scalp to resting one hand on his chest.

“I fear you still might fear me,” Tommy utters.

“A racing heart can mean many things,” Ruth returns.

Besides himself, Tommy laughs. “Clever. But I meant about your earlier statement, that peace begs for disturbance. I don’t want any ill in your life, and especially not because of me.”

“Tommy, I didn’t mean that you literally were going to disturb my life. I know who I’m getting involved with. You seem to forget that I see you. I meant the peace of routine, the peace of some assumptions. I assume no one will want me. I assume that the only way to continue my life is closed off. And all those assumptions means that I never run the risk of having to be vulnerable again.”

“Isolation is a powerful way to avoid injury. But the quickest path to also missing out on life.”

“I don’t think I’m missing out on life any longer,” Ruth teases.

It shouldn’t be this easy. After all the dancing they did, Tommy should not be so inclined to cupping her chin and meeting her gaze. Ruth sits up on her elbows and Tommy’s sucked in by the sincere gaze she holds. “Tell me if it becomes too much,” Tommy pleads.

Ruth only blinks. Would she like more of Tommy? Yes. Would she be so brazen to assume she’d get it? No. But here is Tommy answering the question she never spoke of, that she never considered weighty enough to even ask. “You’re making quite a few assumptions there.”

“I don’t see you beating me out of here. So I think it’s safe to say I’m right.”

“How does it feel not to fight?” Ruth questions, grinning.

Tommy wants not to believe the relief filling his chest. There would always be a fight, btu Ruth is making this easier. She is giving him the small peace that he'd craved even if he wanted in ways that others didn't always understand. He drops a kiss to Ruth's forehead before speaking, “I’d say I’m still cursed but with you, there might be a blessing or two.”

#thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby fic #tommy shelby fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby x black!oc #tommy shelby x black!oc

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sour--disposition · 4 years

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Pitter Patter

ethan payne x fem!reader

Request: hey lovely! i absolutely ADORE your writing and i was wondering if you could write an ethan imagine where the reader is pregnant & around 5/6 months into the pregnancy they decide to announce it to the fans (through social media or whatever). & most of the responses are good but there’s a few that are making jokes about ethan’s situation with his dad. leaving comments like ‘hopefully he doesn’t disappear like his dad did’ you know? & so the reader just comforts him and tells him to ignore it all. thank you !! <3

You sat next to Ethan on the sofa, one hand resting on your now quite prominent bump. “It’ll be fine”, Ethan reassured you, taking your free hand and resting the other on your belly, too. Ethan had just uploaded a photo to instagram and twitter, announcing your pregnancy. It was a black and white silhouette of the two of you cradling your bump captioned “Baby Behzinga is due in 3 months ❤️”.

Ethan pressed a kiss to your temple and then you turned to catch his lips in a kiss. “I love you”, you whispered into the small space between your faces. Ethan didn’t reply, simply wrapped an arm around your waist to inch you ever closer to him.

You stood up, wandering over to the kitchen to make yourself a hot drink to hopefully calm your nerves about telling his fans about your pregnancy. “What are the comments like?”, you asked, sitting back down next to Ethan. You watched as he pulled up the instagram post and went into the comments section. A smile spread across both of your faces as the comments of love, affection and support poured in.

Ethan’s thumb stopped scrolling, holding on one comment. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t leave like his dad did lol”. His eyes were glued to the comment. “Ignore it”, you told him, reaching over to close the app. “Ignore any of the comments like that”.

On twitter, a similar level of support was flooding in, as well as retweets from several of his close friends. All of the Sidemen, both Freezy and Lux, Chip, and Charlie had all retweeted the post sharing their love. Of course they all already knew, but it was still lovely to read.

There was an abundance of love and happiness directed towards you and Ethan, but it was hard for him to ignore the negative comments and doubts about him becoming a father. “Ethan…”, you trailed off, reaching over to grab his hand. “Please just ignore them”, you tried to tell him.

Despite your efforts, Ethan stood up and walked off to the bedroom, ignoring you. By the time you’d gotten up and made your way to the bedroom, he’d changed his clothes and was sitting on the bed, pulling his running shoes on. “Ethan”, you said from the door. He ignored you once again. “Ethan”, you repeated.

He stood up and walked past you. “I’m going for a run”, he told you gruffly. You closed your eyes in frustration, sighing heavily as the door slammed behind him.

You walked back into the living room, heading towards the balcony. You sat heavily on one of the chairs out there, looking over the London skyline as you took a deep breath. You didn’t know what to do. If it were anything else, you’d ring one of the boys and ask for their advice, but you knew that not even Josh would be able to offer you helpful advice in this situation.

“Hi, Ruth”, you smiled into the phone when she finally picked up. “Are you free? I could use some advice”, you told her.

“Of course, lovely. What can I do for you?”, she replied. You could hear her smile through the phone and her jolly voice immediately soothed your nerves. You explained the situation to her and then told her Ethan’s reaction. “Oh, dear…”, she sighed.

“I don’t know what to do, Ruth”, you told her, your voice wobbly as tears sprung to your eyes. “He had this reaction in the beginning but I thought we’d worked through that. He wouldn’t even look at me”.

“Don’t worry, my love”, she reassured you. “Wait for him to blow off some steam, you know what our boy is like with his temper, he probably just didn’t want to upset you”, she advised. “Speak to him once he’s calmed down, Y/N. We both know that he loves you and this baby more than anything on the planet”, she told you.

You stayed on the phone with Ruth for another 10 or so minutes, talking about the baby and how excited you both were to meet your bundle of joy. “I’ll let you get on, Ruth”, you told her with a soft laugh. “I’ve taken up enough of your time worrying”, you joked.

“Never, Y/N. You’ve been family since Ethan first brought you home and that’s never going to change. I’ll always be here for you”.

You busied yourself with cleaning the kitchen and tidying the living room as you waited for Ethan to come home. The door cracked open around 45 minutes after Ethan had first left, his footsteps leading him through the hallway and into the living area. “Are you ready to listen to me, yet?”, you asked him, not turning around to face him as you folded a blanket to put back onto the sofa.

“Can I shower first?”, Ethan asked you, coming up behind you to place a hand onto your hip. You turned around, nodding as you leaned forward to lay a soft kiss onto his lips.”I won’t be long”, he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead before walking off to the bedroom.

15 minutes later, Ethan emerged from the bedroom, hair wet and dressed in shorts and a GymShark hoodie. “I’m sorry”, he said immediately, sitting next to you and pulling your propped up feet into his lap. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You don’t deserve that”, he whispered, looking down to his hands as they rubbed the soles of your feet.

“You and your temper”, you laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You sound like my mum”, he chuckled, looking up to you. Once you’d sent Ethan a look, his face broke out into a blush. “You rang my mum?”, he asked quietly. “Is she pissed?”, he asked.

“No”, you assured him, leaning forward as much as your bump would allow you to rest your hand on his knee. “I just needed advice”, you promised. You and Ethan both fell silent for a few seconds, until he looked back to you.

“I don’t know why I reacted like that”, Ethan said with a blush, looking slightly ashamed of himself.

“You’re scared”, you told him simply. “We went through this when we first found out I was pregnant, it makes sense that fans doubting you and making jokes brings it all back up. You know that I don’t think that though, don’t you?”, you asked him.

“Yes… and no”, he trailed off. “I know logically that you don’t doubt me, or us. But there’s part of me that’s so terrified of fucking up and ruining everything. That part of me has no idea why you’d want me to be the father of your child”.

You shuffled over to Ethan, forcing him to shift one of his legs so you could sit ever closer to him. “You’re going to be an amazing dad. You’ve been amazing these last 6 months”, you told him honestly. “You’ve not let any of this get in your way of being the best dad to your baby and they aren’t even here yet. I don’t know what your dad was like, and I’m not gonna start guessing or anything… But look me in the eyes, Ethan, and tell me you think you could leave me and our baby”.

Ethan’s eyes flicked up to yours. “I can’t”, he whispered.

“See”, you smiled, resting a hand gently on his cheek. “And neither of us know how to be a parent, babe. We’re just gonna have to learn the hard way once baby Behz arrives. We’ll make mistakes, we’re bound to. We’re human”, you said softly.

“Thank you, darling”, Ethan smiled, pulling you gently towards him so you could arrange yourself against his chest. “I love you both. So, so much”, he told you.

“We love you, too”.

#ethan payne #behzinga #ethan payne imagine #ethan payne onshot #ethan payne x reader #behzinga imagine #behzinga oneshot #behzinga x reader #sidemen #sidemen imagine #sidemen oneshot #sidemen x reader #uk youtube imagine #uk youtube #behz

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darling-leech · 3 years

Text

Leif Axel Gunnar’s Fallout Character Sheet

I used DarthSuki’s Fallout OC Meme 2.0 and I used this Font.

Here’s A Blank version if anyone wants to use it(Remember to credit DarthSuki tho)!:

ANYWAYS Let’s begin his background!

Name: Leif Axel Gunnar(Registration LF-410P)

Race: White

Religion: Pagan?

Gender and Pronouns: Trans Man and He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual. Also is Polyamorous.

Age: 50(during the events of Fallout 4), and was 40 during the events of Fallout 3).

Birthday: September 24, 2237

Birthplace: The Hub

Height: 5'10 FT(177.8 CM/70 Inches)

Weight: 160 LBS(72.5748 KGS)

Hair Color: Deep Brown(#3E312B)

Hairstyle: Ronin

Facial Hair: NONE

Eye Color: Dark Brown(#331900)

Skin Color: I think it’s called the Pale option in Fallout 4(Like #EAC6A6).

Game of Origin: Fallout 3 and Fallout 4

BEHAVIOR/TECHNICAL:

Voice Actor: Kit Harrington?

Karma: Neutral/Chaotic Neutral

Aggression: Aggressive

Confidence: Foolhardy

Assistance: Helps Friends and Allies

S.P.E.C.I.A.L Stats: Strength 10, Perception 6, Endurance 6, Charisma 7, Intelligence 8, Agility 10, and Luck 7

Perks/Tagged: Big Guns, Energy Weapons, Locksmith, Pickpocket, Pain Train, Power Armor Training, Sneak, and Unarmed to name a few.

Weaknesses: Explosives, Demolition Expert, Hacker, Idiot Savant, and Party Boy.

Affiliation: Brotherhood of Steel. Recon Squad Gladius.

BOS Rank: Paladin

Role: Soldier. NOT THE SOLE SURVIVOR OR LONE WANDERER(So PLEASE DON’T tag him as either)

Most Liked Companions: N/A?

Least Liked Companions: N/A?

Preferred Weapon Type: Energy/Laser

Primary Weapons: Laser Rifle

Secondary Weapons: Laser Pistol

Preferred Armor Type: BOS Power Armor

Primary Armor: BOS Hood/Uniform

Power Armor?: YES

RELATIONSHIPS:

FAMILY:

Parents: *I’m leaving this blank for now because I haven’t gotten that far into Leif’s background yet, I’ll update this when I do*

Siblings: None?

Friends: SEVERAL. Carmen Renee Ruth Everston, Angus Peyton Everston, Eugenia Alexandra Everston "Alex"(My Self Insert OC), My Sole Survivor Nathan Ian Howard, My Courier 6 Torin Arlen Hugh, Courtney Nicole Stevens, Star Paladin Cross, Paladin Danse, Elder Owyn Lyons, Sarah Lyons, Reginald Rothchild, Scribe Peabody, Elizabeth Jameson, Scribe Bowditch, Arthur Maxson, Knight Rhys, and Scribe Haylen to name a few.

Lovers: TWO? Angus Peyton Everston, and Paladin Danse?

Rivals: N/A?

Enemies: N/A?

Children/Ward:

Step-Children: Felix Sebastian Everston and Eugenia Alexandra Everston "Alex"?

Background(Note: I’m still in the process of writing this so it’ll seem like a mess til I get it finished all the way so please bear with me): Grew up in The Hub(Him, Carmen, and Angus grew up together) and when he was 17, he joined up with the Brotherhood of Steel(Lost Hills). In 2254/2255, he was one of the Paladins(He was a Knight at the time tho) that went with Elder Owyn Lyons to the Capital Wasteland. He’s in a relationship with Angus Peyton Everston(Angus and Carmen have are married but have an open relationship). When Alex was 5 years old(So 2273, 4 years before the events of Fallout 3), she was left in His and Elder Owyn Lyons/Sarah Lyons’ Care, because Carmen and Angus died(From a SuperMutant Behemoth). Leif was there when the SuperMutant Behemoth killed her parents(Like he literally just showed up, because he had a bad feeling about them two going on another scouting trip by themselves and finally caught up to them) and was the one to drag their lifeless bodies back to The Citadel. It really hurt him when Angus and Carmen died, and looking at Alex reminded him alot of Angus(Alex took after Angus in looks so yea). He avoided? her at first(especially like RIGHT after Angus and Carmen died), but cared for Alex until she went with Madison Li to The Commonwealth when she was 9, He made her promise to be safe and stuff. When he heard about Paladin Danse’s Squad(Recon Squad Gladius)was going to The Commonwealth, he and Courtney Nicole Stevens took their chance with them, hoping to see Alex again someday. He got his wish when she and Nathan Ian Howard(My Sole Survivor) showed up for the Fire Support quest, thus opening up an old wound? The moment he laid eyes on her, it took alot to keep him from falling to his knees in disbelief(and holding back tears). He and Alex make up for lost time and catch up, and he ends up being more protective of her. Once The Prydwen showed up, he orders were to stay aboard the ship until further orders. Has PTSD and Depression.

Languages Spoken: Norwegian(Native Language), English, and American Sign Language.

I guess now’s a good time to share his RefSheet.Net as well!

#fallout #fallout 3 #fallout 4 #Leif Axel Gunnar #NOT the Sole Survivor #also IS NOT the Lone Wanderer #Fallout Character Sheet #long post #refsheet.net

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hopeshoodie · 3 years

Text

Ok so in light of the Independent article (see my tag #fusebox layoffs for more info), I’ve been trying to piece together the sequence of events that lead to FB Going to Shit™.

All of the below is based on articles, tweets from the staff, and dates from screenshots. Especially with the Matchmaker stuff, I’m using the dates I personally accessed the stories- that might not be accurate to when they were actually released to an international audience, just when my phone updated the app. In hindsight, I’m not a great person to do this because I have a shit memory and don’t keep receipts, so if you have any corrections PLEASE lmk either in the dms or replies.

In sum, the timeline appears to be:

1. Key players left Fusebox in early 2020.

The one that people are probably most familiar with is David Gallopim, one of the artists who helped define the S2’s distinct style, leaving sometime before March 2020. He seemed to indicate that there was conflict over the new art style of S3, and released assets he’d designed of Harry in his own style (notably way prettier than Harry looks in-game).

But probably more important to the direction of the company, Michael Othen, one of the co-founders and former CEO, left in July of 2020 (I had thought it was earlier in the year but according to LinkedIn it was July). It’s much more unclear why he left, but it’s notable because he was a huge force in making the game inclusive of LGBTQ characters.

So all in all, not a great sign when employees who had a huge hand in creating the content and direction of a game that defined its success jump ship. Especially after the game was seemingly hitting its stride, with the host of Love Island (the TV show) doing a sponsored Let’s Play of S3 and projects in the works like Boat Party and CMM.

2. It seems like Fusebox‘s CEO/executives hired new management, either in 2020 or early 2021. Employees complain that the executives don’t understand what it takes to make a game and are pulling the studio in the wrong direction. It’s unclear if the newly hired execs had experience.

Wil Stephens, the CEO/founder, has been with FB since its inception but also appears to have only founded game distribution ventures and not worked in any development or employment capacity. If that’s the case, maybe the complaints about lack of experience/knowledge about the mechanics of making games work are about him. If not, then some of the newly hired execs would likely be to blame.

Paul Virapen, COO, was brought on in November of 2020. He’s worked with Disney’s gaming division, Big Pixel studios, Wooga. The quality of that experience is dubious since he headed up the ‘let’s make apps for Apple watches, it’ll be the next big thing’ department… Lol. Notably also, all of his roles had been in the executive/managerial realm, not the development teams, so the complains might have been about him. THIS IS SPECULATION, but I’m willing to bet that Virapen was a if not THE driving force in switching Fusebox’s focus entirely to matchmaker. All the studios he’s worked with have primarily produced and promoted Match 3 games, and he has a background working with big studios that produce games for large international audiences, not small studios making narrative games for limited audiences.

A new Manager of Finances, Ruth Erskine, was brought on in December of 2020

Rob Goddard, a new producer, was brought in January of 2021

Several key operations positions were filled by existing employees being promoted to management- 2 as far as I can tell. But as a whole it seems like December 2020 was a huge shift in leadership for the upper management while a lot of the other teams expanded but kept their old players as well.

3. At some point in late 2020- mid 2021, the executive team made the decision to switch LITG’s focus from a narrative pass-based game to a Match 3 incorporating romance narrative cut scenes. In early 2021, Fusebox teased more content to come while releasing S3 (seemingly referring to Matchmaker and not S4). In the interim between S3 endings and Boat Party’s release they put out an interview confirming the new game will be Match 3 but did seem to indicate that the plan at that time was for Matchmaker to be a side project with a different development team and not replace the main game. Notably, the LITG writers and artists were reassured that their roles will continue to exist (according to the independent article) as they’re working on S4.

3. In September of 2020, Matchmaker became briefly available in the US. That’s when I first downloaded it, at least. It would be added/removed from the google play store multiple times before having a unilateral release in July of 2021.

Throughout 2020, Matchmaker is available to Asian audiences solely with LITG S1 getting rolled out in incremental updates.

Eventually, Beanie Quinn is released (March 2021)

LA Noir is released (May 2021)

Seduction Games is released (late May or June 2021- I got the update and played it June 3rd, but hadn’t opened the app for a month or so. It might have come out before then, which is unfortunate for this timeline since it’s so inextricably linked to the open letter and layoff dates)

LITG S2 is released (only like 20 levels of it) the same month- June 19th for me. Notably, all of these stories are only released to an international audience, with the UK and USA still not having access to the app.

4. At the same time, Fusebox’s internal affairs are pretty quiet from 2020-2021, at least on social media.

S3 comes out in 2020, Boat Party comes out later in the year and finishes in 2021. Post S3 in October of 2021, a survey goes out gauging player interest in new art styles and representation, which was pretty in keeping with past actions and seemed promising for S4.

Boat Party features a promising cross promotion implementing irl brands into the game. It’s unclear if enough money was made from this on FB or the sponsor’s end to make that strategy viable, but that might’ve impacted management’s outlook for the profitability of LITG.

Fusebox teases more content for the summer on Instagram, and then follows up and confirms it’ll be a proper season.

5. More key players leave in early 2021

Ed Sibley is still listed as Narrative Direction on LinkedIn, but he’s not credited as a writer on Season 4 (he was on 3,2,and 1) and started work with NetSpeak games in May of 2021, so we can assume he left around then or at least transitioned away from Fusebox then.

Fred Francis, another writer who had been on the team since S1, turns in his resignation ‘weeks’ before the layoffs were announced in late June. So we can assume he made his exit sometime early June or late May.

6. Prior to the release of Seduction games in May/June, staff expressed concern about the biphobia in Seduction Games. No sources have given a specific time when this took place. They were reassured that the problem would be corrected prior to release, but then the story was released as is to an international audience in June. The article released by the Independent is unclear- there might have been discussion prior to the open letter where staff expressed concerns and then were reassured before the game going live. OR the open letter might have been the first expression of concern by the staff. I tend to think the former, and the open letter was a response to Matchmaker going live with Seduction Games anyways, but I have no proof for that. On May 24th, 31 employees sent an open letter of concern regarding the problematic content in Matchmaker. This letter isn’t public, so we don’t know the scope of the employees' concerns or who the employees were.

7. To resolve the situation, a meeting between the staff and at least the COO (likely more than just him though) was held sometime after May 24th. Allegedly, Virapen was disrespectful to the employees who had questions, refused to answer, and ended the meeting early before any resolution was had by closing his laptop and leaving the room. At least 4 HR complaints were made in the wake of that meeting, we do not know the nature of those complaints.

8. Some time mid-July (maybe July 26th? A writer tweeted about their job ending soon on that date), employees were made aware that the LITG app would move into ‘sunset mode’. It’s unclear what was communicated, but it seems as though S4 will be heavily delayed or cancelled altogether and no future seasons would be made. Writers begin to post about looking for work on Twitter

9. June 30th- The majority of Fusebox writing staff announce on twitter they’re out of work. In addition to the entire writing staff, unity engineers and producers are also let go.

10. July 5th - Fusebox executives respond to an article by MCVUK with a statement asserting they were “consulting with [their] employees on a proposed change to its business model” that would focus on producing Matchmaker content. They also expounded that the move was to secure “cash injections and and continued support from respected investors across the media and gaming industry”

11. July 6th- Fusebox announces that S4 will be delayed from the summer release date and that there is no fixed release date.

12. August 2nd- three jobs are posted to Fusebox’s careers page on their website, one being Head of Narrative Content. In the job listing, it specifies that they’ll be maintaining existing properties as well as new ones, and that because of the co-development model (re:fusebox outsourcing Matchmaker to another studio) the new Narrative Lead must collaborate with external content creators.

Hopefully posting this timeline gives players a better understanding of how radically Fusebox has changed in the course of 2021 (and how royally they screwed over the people who made LITG what it is). Again, please let me know if you have receipts showing dates are different or things to add.

#fusebox layoffs #fusebox games

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simplee-dreaming · 3 years

Text

Airplane

A/N: Thank you to the anon who gave me this prompt! I couldn't write the little sister in the perspective of the reader so I hope it's okay making her a separate character!x

Summary: Steve's little sister throws a strop when Bucky won't play with her.

Word Count: 919

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

“Weeeeee!” Ruth giggled out as she soared around the room. Bucky was holding her up high and spinning her round like an airplane.

“Commencing landing sequence.” Bucky said in a robotic tone. He jolted his arms so she bounced up and down as he lowered her. She kept giggling as he placed her gently on the sofa. She hopped off and ran round to him.

“Again again again!” She chanted. He laughed.

“You’ve flown 11 times today already, don’t you think that’s enough?” He chuckled.

“Nooooo I want to go again….pweaseeeeee” She pleaded with her big eyes.

“No more Ruth, Uncle Buck’s tired now. How about we have a little dance? You can hop onto my feet if you want!” He tried to compromise with her. Ruth pouted.

“Airplane.” She demanded.

“I promise we can airplane again later on when my energy is back, Uncle Buck is an old man, remember!” He said, trying to make her laugh. She pouted again and sat down on the sofa.

“What have you done now?” Steve teased Bucky as he entered the room.

“Uncle Buck won’t airplane me.” Ruth sulked, folding her arms. Steve chuckled softly.

“Why won’t you airplane her?” He asked Bucky nicely.

“I have 11 times already, it’s just I’m a little tired now. I’ve promised I will again tonight once I regain my strength!” Bucky informed Steve. Steve turned to Ruth and knelt down in front of her.

“Now you, Uncle Buck promised he will later. So why are you upset?”

“I want airplane now.” She sulked.

“And what have I told you before? I want…” He started. She sighed.

“Doesn’t get.” She mumbled out.

“Good girl. Now come on, I’m sure there are lots of fun things we can do together! We could play Peggity or play with some of your dolls or...ooh I know! We could do some drawings with your new crayons!” Steve said, excitedly. Ruth looked down and shrugged.

“Come on darling, don’t be like that. We can still have fun!” Steve said. She didn’t respond.

“Ruth sweetheart, I hope I haven’t upset you. I just got tired after a while. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to play with you still!” Bucky chimed in, hoping to cheer her up. He didn’t get a response either. He looked at Steve for help and Steve thought for a moment before a smile crept onto his face.

“Hey Ruthie, I know something that will cheer you up…” He sang. Still no response. He lifted up his hand and tickled gently under her chin. She instantly recoiled and giggled.

“Steheheve,” She giggled as he kept tickling her.

“Are you gonna cheer up now?” He asked, she shook her head.

“Hm. Alright then.” With one swift motion he sat on the sofa and scooped her up into his arms.

“You better cheer up now or this tummy is going to get it…” He teased. She squealed and grabbed hold of her dress, trying to cover her tummy.

“Nohoho” She giggled.

“No? No?!” He asked, raising his eyebrows at her before shaking his head.

“Right, well then, looks like this poor tummy is going to suffer the consequences.” He said before bowing his head and nuzzling into her tummy. She instantly shrieked and tried to protect herself but her little arms were no match for Steve’s head, who was now nomming loudly on her tummy. She squealed and giggled and kicked her little legs out.

“STEHEHEHEHEVE NOHOHO HAHAHAHA” She cried. He switched between nuzzling into her tummy and blowing multiple raspberries. He placed her gently on his lap and started spidering one hand over her tummy.

“STEHEHEHEHEVE” She screamed. Steve laughed along with her but briefly stopped to let her breathe.

“Are you cheered up now?” He asked. She giggled and shook her head, a cheeky grin appearing on her face.

“Still no?!” He boomed out. “Right, this calls for backup. Uncle Buck, if you please.” Steve said turning to Bucky. Bucky laughed and approached the pair. He sat down next to Steve and grabbed hold of her feet.

“Nohoho Uncle Buhuhuck” she giggled. Bucky had a habit of tickling her feet because he knew it made her laugh the most. He gently gripped one foot and played “this little piggy” with her toes. Ruth instantly squealed and kicked with her other foot.

“Excuse me miss, I’m trying to tell you a story about the piggys. Do you mind not interrupting me.” Bucky teased, starting the nursery rhyme from the beginning again. She giggled and squealed as he gently tickled each toe but before he got to the end she accidentally kicked him again. He stopped and slowly turned to her.

“Oh now you’re in trouble.” Bucky said sternly before scribbling his fingers over both of her soles. Ruth shrieked and laughed even louder. She started flailing her arms until Steve grabbed one and held it up so he could wiggle a finger into her armpit. She shrieked again and tried to twist away from him.

“HAHAHAHAHAPPY I’M HAHAHAHAPPY!” She screamed out, laughing loudly. They both stopped tickling her and Steve cuddled her close.

“So you’re cheered up now?” He asked. She giggled out a yes.

“Good because I think I have my energy back!” Bucky said. He jumped up from the sofa and picked her up. She cheered as he turned her back into an airplane and continued to fly her around the room. Steve watched in awe as his best friend played with his little sister.

#tickle fic #avengers tickle fic #steve's little sister #uncle bucky

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dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“…In the Middle Ages, for example, scholars have analyzed the masculinities of craftsmen, university students, monks and priests, kings, and knights, all of which carried variations of greater or lesser degree from each other. Even within a particular version of masculinity, there were contradictions and tensions. For example, the masculinity of martial elites involved establishing dominance over other men, but also supporting them when oaths and honor demanded it. Secular men proved their virility—their manliness—through sexual conquests, but masculinity also involved moderation and self-mastery.

One element that masculinity writ large seems to hold in common, in medieval Europe and beyond, is a propensity for violence. For example, the keystone of chivalry was prowess, a complex of strength, endurance, and martial skill. It was, in other words, “expertise in the use of violence.” This prowess was “of necessity done unto others,” earned and maintained through armed competition with other men. Even churchmen appropriated the language, and sometimes the behavior, of violence as a way of demonstrating their masculinity.

Through competitions for dominance, men gained honor, another central feature of late medieval masculinity. Honor involved trustworthiness and good reputation as well as prowess and good manners, and required a ready defense against any threat of shame. An honorable man was a manly man, and the opposite also was true. Ruth Mazo Karras asserts that, although men did not gain honor solely through violence, “the successful use of violence was a sine qua non, and violence was the ultimate means of maintaining it,” which returns us to the tie between masculinity and violence.

Significantly, the qualities of honor, prowess, and competition feature in another paradigm bearing on the lives of the warrior elite, that of chivalry. Like masculinity, chivalry remains a difficult concept to pin down, primarily because medieval authors did not fully agree about what chivalry was or should be. However, there do seem to have been some core qualities. Craig Taylor identifies “the central pillars of the key martial qualities” for the later Middle Ages: honor, prowess and loyalty, courage, mercy, wisdom and prudence. His focus on the martial character of chivalry echoes that of Maurice Keen, for whom prowess also was a key feature.

In addition to loyalty, hardihood, honor, courage, and self-control in battle, David Crouch points to largesse and what he calls the Davidic ethic, which amounted to ideals of good rulership that involved protecting the weak (including the Church), respecting widows and orphans, and endeavoring against injustice. Although reluctant to offer a list of chivalry’s characteristics, Richard Kaeuper argues that prowess was “a key element of knighthood,” “one of the chief chivalric qualities,” and “The primary constituent in chivalry.”

Chivalry also required a good reputation, which, in circular fashion, was both an effect of honor and a constituent element. Ill repute, on the other hand, caused and was caused by shame, the opposite of honor and the enemy of chivalry. Honor could be earned or demonstrated and had to be maintained, both in the proactive sense of performing worthy actions and in the reactive, defensive sense. Thus, “chivalric honour was fundamentally bound up with physical violence, as knights and men-at-arms were encouraged to win respect through demonstrations of prowess and courage, and also to defend themselves against shame and humiliation.”

Honor and good reputation, along with prowess, “the defining quality of the ideal knight in chivalric culture,” thus were primary elements of the complex of chivalry. With prowess and its attendant quality of courage, a man could win honor and gain a good reputation. He would sustain these through courtly behavior, loyalty to his fellow knights and lord, trustworthiness, the vigorous pursuit of opportunities to show his mettle, and protection of the weak and defenseless.

It was the competitive aspect of chivalry, however, that was key. Taylor observes that in chivalric culture, “honour, reputation and heroism were built above all upon success in violent struggle and competition.”Competition might be outwardly and obviously violent, as in the joust or warfare, but knights vied with one another at court as well, as they sought to outdo each other in their vows, their clothing and other expressions of courtliness, and their success with women. In all of these contests, the men were seeking to establish their dominance not just as knights but as men. Competition was fundamental not just to chivalry, honor, and reputation, but also to the very masculinity of medieval elite men.

Taylor remarks that a knight’s failure to address slights to his honor would have been viewed as “a failure of manhood.” The use of licit violence in martial feats was “the hallmark of manhood” and the chief means by which a man could prove himself. Taylor offers the example of Jean de Bueil’s fifteenth-century Le jouvencel, which emphasized the value of doing battle in an open field, without the protection of hedges or ditches. “In such circumstances,” Taylor writes, “one truly demonstrated heart and courage,” which were “the true measure of a man’s worth.”

The connection linking honor, chivalry, and masculinity also appears in the importance of trustworthiness and loyalty. Men took oaths to lords, kings, and each other, and more generally, knights depended on each other for support in various situations, military campaigns being the most obvious. The centrality of oaths and promises to medieval society required strong sanctions against those who broke them, which is why “Treachery and disloyalty were the antithesis of true knighthood.” They were also evidence of defective or absent masculinity; a man who could not keep his word risked allegations of effeminacy or childishness, since both women and children were seen as inconstant.

Because of the overlap between chivalry and the masculinity of the martial elites, I propose to use the term “chivalric masculinity” to describe the gendered paradigm that prevailed in the lives of the men who make up this dissertation. Although masculinity was present within chivalry, studies of chivalry have tended not to address it in a sustained way, and given the variety within medieval masculinity, it is necessary to be specific about what sort of masculinity one is discussing. Although there is some risk in combining two difficult concepts into a single, compound term, “chivalric masculinity” successfully conveys the competitive, cultural, and martial aspects of the masculinity of social elites.”

- Cameron Wade Bradley, “Masculinity, Chivalry, Chivalric Masculinity.” in Between Brothers: Brotherhood and Masculinity in the Later Middle Ages

#cameron wade bradley #gender #late middle ages #medieval #chivalry #knights #history #between brothers

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onetrainscifi · 3 years

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Last one, I promise.

For awhile I had this other headcannon that the Folger's gigantic suite was supposed to be for Mel's family. Like for her parents mostly. Because Mel had fitted a bunk in the engine so she could be close to it if she needed to, and put in bunk beds because all logic said that someday Alex would join her, when she was old enough to apprentice as an engineer, but while she's still a child, there will be a place for the four of them. A home base of operations. And after the shock and confusion of departure Melanie's just numb and going through the motions of things. She can't bring herself to go in there. To see the things she'd packed away for Alex. The china dishes her mother had sent ahead so they wouldn't get cracked in the chaos of the actual family's journey. A new pair of boots with grip on the soles to help her father find his train legs. It's all gathering dust. Preserved, while she and Ruth try to establish order on a train with 400 too many--and tickets never stamped. People are jockeying for space. Some even calling for more bloodshed, to just cut off the Tail and get rid of that parasite. But Melanie can't do it. Not when they can still see fires in Cleveland and Pittsburgh. When she's had to take over for Javi at the helm because there were desperate people throwing themselves on the tracks in every major city they went through. Desperate people clawing for breath, for a chance. They tried flagging down the train. The lined the tracks. Mouths open like ghouls, screaming. Some in Boston had even built a barricade, to try to stop them. But Snowpiercer was too strong. And even when Javi begged, tears streaming down his face, she couldn't let them stop. So she just doesn't have the stomach to dispatch the Tail. She can't send them out there to THAT. (it still haunts her to think of Alex out there. Of her father, stubbornly on the farm, probably building fires too. She can't imagine him broken, defeated by the cold. He would never bow to it. And she honestly doesn't know what's worse to think of him taking his own life as a last act of defiance or of the three of them huddled around the wood burning stove as the temperature drops, holding out hope that Melanie would come back for them.) She's stopped sleeping. Cant face the dark. And so she's exhausted and irritable when she hears Lilah Folger complaining to Ruth about her quarters. The kitchenette only has one cupboard and the window isn't in the right place and Robert really needs a full study with more light and Mr. Wilford promised them divine comfort and it's just too small, how is LJ supposed to blossom if she doesn't have--and before Melanie knows what she's doing she's offered to have the Folgers move into the empty cabin that should have been for the Cavills. Lilah's eyes shine like she's won a gladiator's battle and she marches off without so much as a thank you. Ruth however, is flabbergasted. "And just where, pray tell, are you going to sleep Melanie?" She'd asked, more irked that she hadn't been consulted than having an actual, logistical objection. "Oh," Melanie sighs, feeling the ache bone deep, "I'll find something." And so she retreats to the engine, where she won't have to see Lilah Junior running around with Alex's favorite stuffed rabbit who'd once been affectionately called Snowball--she retreats to the engine to curl up on her bunk alone. But still she doesn't sleep.

Hey. Hey why did we need to say this today. I am emotionally fucked up why did this need to be published

#snowpiercer #snowpiercer tnt #melanie cavill #asks

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years

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The madness of elite varsity sports

When I think of the last 40 years of neoliberalism, I think of a game of musical chairs, in which the music's tempo steadily increases, the number of chairs rapidly decreases, and the penalties for not having a chair become more ever-more cruel. Movements for racial, gender and gender identity justice are a source of panic for the most precarious chair-chasers, because these movements increase the number of people who get to compete for chairs - but don't increase the number of chairs in play. The wealthiest, most powerful people could mobilize their fortunes to secure chairs and for a long time, the game served them: the increasing desperation for chairs on the part of everyone else translated into ready access to toadies, jesters, bodyservants and courtesans. But we're at the endgame. The number of chairs is trending to single digits. The world will soon boast one or more trillionaires. You can't amass a trillion dollars solely by raiding the pathetic reserves of poor people - you've gotta pauperize some billionaires. The 2019 Varsity Blues scandal revealed the desperation of the chair-habituated mid-upper echelon, who had participated and benefited from the maintenance of a wildly unequal society but now saw that their kids would have no place in it. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2019_college_admissions_bribery_scandal It turns out that the Varsity Blues parents were amateurs. The real pros don't cheat their kids into sports-based elite college admissions - they DESTROY their kids to get sports-based elite college admissions. Ruth S Barrett's feature in the current issue of The Atlantic exposes the jaw-dropping world of ultra-rich families' tormented children and their desperate, moneyball gambits to buy their way into sports scholarships. https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/11/squash-lacrosse-niche-sports-ivy-league-admissions/616474/ It's a longread and worth your time, but here's a quick tldr: you've got kids whose parents move Olympians into their guest-cottages to train them in squash or fencing in private gymnasia on their sprawling estates. They spend vast fortunes flying them around the country and the world competing. Children are exhorted by professional athletes to stab each other with fencing foils until they are at the point of collapse. Then they're given a break to eat dinner out of a cooler toted by nannies who bark math problems at them. Their parents argue about whether to disclose their kids' multiple concussions to new coaches, and the kids grow up with long-term chronic sports-related disabilities. And the thing is, the Ivies and Big Ten schools were already seeing through all of this before the pandemic. Even schools that really wanted to have a top lacrosse or water-polo team were savvy enough to understand that these kids had already peaked. If you're 18 and performing in the 94th percentile after being trained for a DECADE by Olympians, nothing the school does will make you any better. How could they? If you want to find prodigies, pick undertrained kids who still perform competitively and polish THEM. What's more, these kids are basket cases. They arrive at university with no grip on reality, no capacity for self-management or self-actualization. They spiral into substance abuse and mental health crises. These sports admission programs often have their roots in an attempt to provide space at elite schools for poorer kids, especially kids of color (that was definitely the case with the USC football team when I taught there). But the chair-having motherfuckers figured out how to buy these seats, too. And why? Why destroy your kids' health and their sanity? Why watch as your adolescent daughter gets STABBED IN THE THROAT in a fencing competition and then re-enroll her in fencing? Because the number of chairs trends to single digits. That's why you pay nannies to do oppo research on the kids your offspring competes against; it's why you pay dirty tricksters to bombard admission departments with dirt on kids competing with yours for a spot on the team. All that was BEFORE covid: parents waking up and realizing that they were destroying their kids' life for a gambit that would probably fail, but doing it anyway because they knew that a world of trillionaires would leave the chairless grubbing for roots and insects. And now the elite schools are simply getting rid of the teams these children have been optimized to play for, in a process that recognizes that they were just a way for the wealthiest, whitest plutes to buy their way in. Hilariously, billionaire parents have responded by starting "urban" leagues for elite sports to create the appearance (if not the reality) that your fencing team might not be a back-door for the ex-CEO of American Express's progeny to attend an ivy. While others are promising second-tier colleges that starting a water polo team will bring in a bunch of full-tuition kids who've been honed from birth to simulate one another's death by drowning. It ain't gonna work. Here's a telling quote: "Sorry, but there’s no way in hell. What parent wants to have a child who’s going to be playing for a bottom-tier school with bottom-tier academics in the armpit of the United States? I want to be polite. But there’s no way in hell." -Water-polo mom from Stamford. In Capital in the 21st Century, Thomas Piketty describes how the Age of Colonization ended primogeniture, whereby great fortunes were kept intact by passing inheritances solely to the eldest son, while other kids became spouses or clerics. Colonial looting made it possible for the Great Families to bud off new fortunes for each of their offspring, for two or three generations. When they exhausted the world's supply of brown people to enslave and rob, that ended. Plutes whose parents and grandparents' cohorts had each started a new fortune had to tell their own kids that the ride was over. But any system that has been in place since your grandad was a kid is effectively eternal and it was unthinkable that the eternal would end. So the plutes decided that it wouldn't end. They would all get new fortunes, and since they'd exhausted the world's supply of poor people, they turned on each other. We call that fight World War I. For 40 years, the world's wealth has been gathered into fewer and fewer hands, as oligarchy's musical chairs game has run faster and more vicious. Now, the chairs are tending to single digits. Plutes are desperate. The idea that their kids would lead worse lives than theirs - an idea the rest of us have been expected to swallow for a quarter-century - is unthinkable. So they're not accepting it. They are destroying their own kids in a bid to acquire one of the final chairs. Most of those kids will not get a chair, and the ones that do will be broken and shriveled things, stunted by a lifetime of abuse. But it's not them I'm worried about. I'm worried about the kids that DON'T get a chair. Their parents were willing to torture their own kids FROM BIRTH to get them a chair. When that fails, what will Plan B look like? Image: Wannapik https://www.wannapik.com/vectors/3887 CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

#pluralistic

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scullysexual · 4 years

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{ post col fic: 4}

Season 9 canon-divergence. 2002 becomes the last documented year. The Colonists come and wreak havoc over everything that was once known and normal. From buildings being blown up to certain parts of the world not in existence anymore. When a simple patrol assignment goes wrong, Mulder finds himself bargaining his way to the top while Scully sinks lower and lower.

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three // AO3

@today-in-fic @mypanicface let me know if you want to be tagged.

- - -

Out of the hospital, a bright light shining above her, whiteness all around.

She was in that train compartment again.

Her chests constricts, breath growing shallow as she begins to helplessly move around on the table.

Figures appear above her, three identical people. A tear slips out from her eye.

“Put her to sleep,” one of the clones say.

Scully is just about to call out a ‘no’ when a cloth is pressed against her mouth.

Her last cognizant thought is chloroform before the setting around her fades, her eyes closing.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Two weeks have passed since her initiation. Edie had promised that the pain would stop after a week but it still hurt to move her cheeks, the cut still burning and itching.

Two cuts from mouth to ear. Right now they were red and nasty with butterfly stitching keeping the tissue together. This type of cut will scar, as is its intention to mark those who are enslaved by the Colonists. Only the women, though.

These cuts on her face will scar her skin forever. Even if she ever became free, if the Resistance ever did save them, the scars, this life will always be there, people will know what she was. Scully wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

A sea claimed America.

Mulder sits on the edge of a cliff staring at a large Island- USA Part Two he called it- across the water.

“We’re going to need a boat,” says Skinner.

Mulder surveys the coastline beneath him. Not too far away does he spy a ferry transit boat taken from Washington State.

“That,” says Mulder pointing down.

A look of hesitation appears on Skinner’s face.

“They use that to transport slaves.”

Mulder holds both arms out towards Skinner knowing full well his former boss still carries FBI issued handcuffs.

The Colonists have clones that carry out their dirty work; rounding up refugees, transporting them. Treated as the lowest, they still held a higher standing than most humans.

Mulder, now handcuffed, is forcefully yanked out of the wagon.

“What have we got here?” This clone is the common type- bald and intimidating. Mulder frequently saw this man on many a patrol and in hiding.

“Prisoner. I’m taking him to San Francisco,” explains Skinner.

“San Francisco doesn’t exist.”

Well that was news to them. Skinner however recovers.

“Point is, he’s going there.”

The clones exchange a look before asking>

“Is he marked?”

Marked. Branded on the sole of his foot. That answer was no.

“Of course,” says Skinner.

“I think we check,” suggests another clone.

“There’s no need to,” says Skinner. “I marked him myself.”

Yet the first clone isn’t convinced.

“You’re human,” he spits.

“I have permission to transport slaves.”

The clone gets close to Skinner’s face.

“You are a slave.”

“I’m not a slave.”

The clone takes out a pistol, cocking it.

“Then die.”

“I just want to go to San Francisco.”

The clones smiles gleefully.

“You’re not going to fucking San Francisco.”

The shot rings out. Mulder yells as Skinner’s body falls to the ground.

A clone reaches for him and Mulder tries to shake him off, succeeding, yet only to be grabbed by another.

“What do you choose?” the clones asks.

In any other circumstance Mulder would choose death over enslavement yet his promise to Scully rings in his ear. Besides, this could be his only chance to California.

He bows his head hearing the vicious, joyful smirk on the clones voice.

“Get in,” he demands and Mulder is yanked by the chain between the cuffs, forced beneath the deck with fifty others, a promise to Scully on his lips.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Dust flies around in the air. A spotlight baring down on her. She can barely see the people sat in booths before her, a man’s voice ringing off numbers, somebody kneeling beside him measuring the width of her hips with a tape measure.

She’s about to be paid for. Sold to the man who pays the most for her. They called that prostitution in the old world yet here it’s the norm.

She’s about to be forced to make babies but they don’t understand her body cannot do that. Only once, a miracle she gave up.

Her body still carries the evidence, faint scars adorn her stomach and breasts. She had hidden her body away from Mulder, self-conscious of how it had changed to accommodate a developing child. He had kissed her scars and told her she was still beautiful.

And maybe those scars keep her alive now as a gravel sounds and shr is bought for 600 Jewels.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Mulder learned quickly how sex was now to be viewed. The aim was simply to procreate, make a baby and let it grow. It was almost animalistic, no connections to be formed, they weren’t even allowed to do it face to face.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Scully cried the first time. She had only been with Mulder since that first night when she rediscovered herself. Even when he was missing she waited, her loyalty extending past a simple work partnership. Yet now, as another man thrusts into her, as another man’s come drips out of her, she can’t help but feel she’s failed him somehow.

.:.:.:.:.:.

He hates himself everytime. For giving in, for thinking of her everytime he comes. It’s a disservice to both Chloe and Scully.

It was simple really, he wanted her. Seven years without properly hearing her or seeing her was beginning to take it’s affect.

“I’m sorry,” he says when Chloe has left the room and he sits encased by his own self loathing.

He feels arms wrap around him, a head resting against his shoulder and her voice speaking out it’s own apology.

“I’m sorry, too.”

He blinks and she is gone.

She was never there.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Her period comes as a blessing rather than a curse most days. It all stops. For a month Scully is taken out of the breeding program.

Scully fixes herself up, in a much better mood than she was earlier and pleasantly bounces down the stairs.

“It’s been five months and nothing!” the mistress cries.

“What do you want me to do?” Roger asks.

Scully pauses at the door to the drawing room. It was rude to listen but they were talking about her.

“Sell her. Put her back up for auction. Buy one that works,” Ruth is demanding.

Her happy mood dashing away at the thought of enduring a second humiliating auction, Scully slumps against the wall. She hadn’t become comfortable here by any means but it had become familiar, and despite that first night, Roger wasn’t terrible. He was kind at least. The thought of moving doesn’t sit right with her unless it was moving to freedom and that was unlikely.

“Better yet get somebody younger,” Ruth adds and that hits a nerve within Scully, causing her to frown and the feeling of being inadequate pooling in her stomach. She was passed the age of thirty-five but she definitely hadn’t reached the menopausal stage, her body still worked she just needed time.

But time had never been on Scully’s side.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“What if it happens again?”

Scully looks over the small campfire, Mulder’s voice pulling her out of her thoughts.

He looks lost in his own.

“What if what happens?”

“What if you become pregnant again?”

She notices now that he’s saying this to her stomach, as if he’s trying to see if she is pregnant at all. Without much thought, Scully wraps the blanket tighter around herself.

“I won’t,” she says curtly.

“It’s happened before,” Mulder states.

Yes it has happened before but miracles only happen once.

“Would it be a problem with I did?” Personal problem she means. Would he view her as a burden? View their baby as another mouth to feed?

“No,” comes Mulder’s voice. “But it wouldn’t be easy.”

No it wouldn’t.

The reason for his questioning puzzles her. The conversation of another child is rarely mentioned.

“Why do you ask?”

Mulder sighs. “I’ve been thinking about him.”

Scully purses her lips, feeling herself about to shut this conversation down. However, for some reason, she lets Mulder continue. “About where he might be, if he’s even still alive.”

William. The name of a child both parties refuse to talk about.

Scully can see the tears forming in Mulder’s eyes and stands up from her place.

Sitting down she brings him into her arms, comforting him as the tears silently fall.

“Maybe he got lucky,” she tells him.

Maybe he was okay.

#post col sad angsty fic #chapter 4 #probably shouldnt be posting rn but whatever #i write

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dgchg · 3 years

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his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red

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simpsonsnight · 4 years

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Episode #300

The Strong Arms of the Ma Season 14 - Episode 9 | February 2, 2003

Hey, everyone! It’s Episode 300! The REAL episode 300! Not that fake one that’s actually episode 302! And, this one is okay... up to a point. This episode is about Marge, and it starts off promising enough. There’s a non-short theme song opening, a lengthy reuse of the Eye on Springfield theme with jarring old animation mixed in with also-jarring digital ink-and-paint animation. It’s about Rainier Wolfcastle going bankrupt and having an estate sale to recoup his losses. There’s some decent broad jokes in this section, including a very funny line where Homer eyes Rainier’s pre-fame porno movies. He asks if any of it is hetero-porn. “What’s there is there” Rainier replies. Funny!

The first act culminates in Marge being mugged. It’s a traumatic experience for her, and it’s treated with some appropriate pathos. I was in the middle of cooking and decided to wait till the act break to flip my dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, and it caused unintentional laughs because the first act ends with Marge sobbing. Not that it was done poorly, it’s just I intentionally used it to mark time for myself while multi-tasking and you don’t normally get an unironic dramatic moment as the Simpsons throw to commercial. Marge develops agoraphobia, and the episode isn’t too bad so far. I actually like this story for Marge, and the scenes where she’s driven further into her own psyche are darkly funny and sympathetic. Modern viewers might call them “Bojack-esque”. Marge eventually won’t leave the basement, where she begins working out on a weight bench acquired through the estate sale. She gets strong, regains her confidence, and actually meets her mugger a second time, this time besting him in a scene that is clearly a very funny parody of the Clerks Cartoon episode where Jay & Silent Bob beat up Charles Barkley, and nothing else.

Then the third act comes, and ew boy. Marge meets Ruth Powers, who we remember from the Darlene episode, cementing Bart (and myself)’s preference to what is known as the soft butch. Ruth’s return in the series (not counting dozens of crowd shots since her last speaking role) exists solely to introduce Marge to the world of steroids. And that’s when a decent episode goes bad. Marge’s decent into steroid use is cartoonish and lame, and worst of all it is completely free of Marge splitting Homer’s skull with her nude muscular thighs, a scene we’ve all been waiting for since episode 1. Also bad: Moe doesn’t call Marge “Midge”. Can you even fucking imagine? The third act really sucks shit. Who needs it when we have South Park’s special olympics episode? I mean, really

MAIL BAG

Trash of the Titans also ends on a scream as it was dedicated to Lisa The Vegetarian veteran Linda McCartney who just then died. If you aren't ready for it the In Memorium frame might make you jump out of your boots. They also did this with fellow Beatles related guest George Harrison in that awful episode where Mr. Burns dates a young woman. Peace and Love! Hopefully the Simpsons end before Ringo dies and they can do it to him!

I really do hope that if the Simpsons ends before the rest of the Beatles do that they do a premortem tribute to them. Holy fuck that’d be great.

if you can please clear the air regarding: mike scully. My friend keeps saying he's the worst but I just...dunno!

I mean, he kinda is if you wanna chalk up the Simpsons’ downfall to a single person, but “homie don’t play that” as the kids say these days. He COULD have driven his writers to work harder and forbid them from seeing their families the way Oakley and Weinstein did. Basically the premise I’m working with is that Oakley & Weinstein overworked the writers out of respect for the show. They also attempted to write interesting stories that gave characters a nice swan song, assuming the show would end after their reign. When Mike Scully took over he let his own preference for zany humor, NRBQ, and kindly letting his writers go home at 5PM every day drive what made the show tick. But basically the heart of The Simpsons’ ruination comes down to this: the show became a substandard product and it didn’t change the profitability. So, why go back to the old way of sweating it? THAT’s the actual problem, and everyone who worked on the show played some part in that. It is systemic. THIS is why we need to nationalize the Simpsons

Gonna have to agree with the mailbag guy who said Workaholics sucked. That show is for, and I really despise this term but there is simply no other way, mental midgets.

I’ve seen very few episodes of Workaholics so my ranking might be faulty and were I to spend more time with the show I could probably reassess. The thing that really bothers me about this show is that they aren’t actually workaholics at all. They barely get any work done.

#simpsons #season 14

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fluffyvillain · 4 years

Text

The Bond

Chapter: 7/?

Summary: Henry figures out a way to find out where Mila is.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/OFC

Warnings: Mentions of smut

A/N: Yes, Ruth meddled in again.

@ly–canthrope @vikingsbifrost @peakygroupie @winchwm @thethirstyarchive

Henry ran for miles and miles on Orchard Beach in Bronx, he was trying to get rid of Mila's images in his head, like the one of her slightly crooked smile before bidding him goodbye last night. They were driving him crazy. He had to jerk off twice last night because he couldn't stop imagining banging her against the wall on which she was leaning last night, he imagined hiking up her dress, ripping off her panties end entering her so slowly that she would beg him to start moving faster.

He ran until his knees started shaking, but the images of her never went away. Need for her developed in both his body and his soul. He waited until his breath evened out before calling Ruth. There was absolutely no way he could wait for two weeks, the period she said she would be absent. "Good afternoon, Ruth."

"Hello, Cavill."

"How are you?" Ruth was quickly becoming very dear to his heart.

"Still hangover, but good. How can I help you? I guess you didn't call me just to chat. "

"I want to thank you for the last night first." Henry was walking towards his car, he was in a desperate need for a shower. "And second, I'd like to know whether Mila arrived safely."

"She did, but didn't you exchange phone numbers last night, couldn't you ask her?"

"Last night was... I don't know, I forgot to ask for her phone number, I wasn't thinking clear. I have her e-mail, but he doesn't really respond to anything I send her. Can you tell me where she is?"

"Yeah, she is in Italy, why? Do you want to go after her?"

"Italy, huh? I thought she could be somewhere in the Caribbeans. But, yes, I do." He sat in his car, slamming the door behind him.

"You can't be serious." Ruth's voice turned colder and firmer.

"She said I could join her."

"And yet she didn't tell you where she was going?" Ruth became suspicious.

"I asked her if I could join her and she said, and I quote: "Only if you manage to figure out where I am."" He put on a seat belt, but didn't want to start the car before ending the conversation. "I'm really lucky to have you and I'd be really grateful if you told me exactly where she is."

"You and I both know that she said that only to blow you off, but still, she did say it, she can't deny it. You know, I really want to see her happy and I deeply believe that she won't be truly happy unless she is with you, so I will tell you, but under one condition."

"Just name it."

"You wont go there yet, let her rest for like a week. I don't know what her reaction will be and I don't want to ruin her vacation completely if she gets pissed off when she sees you there."

"Okay, I promise."

"She is in a small village, I will send you a message with the exact address, I've stayed there for a couple of times with her. You can try your luck with finding a room there now, but I'm not sure that you will be able to do it. Mila is in a small house on the coast."

"Thank you. I owe you big time."

"You bet you do because Mila will kill me."

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

7 DAYS LATER

Henry couldn't wait to get out of taxi he took at the airport, he would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, maybe this wasn't such a good idea - that thought crawled inside his mind as soon as he landed. He kept staring at the sea from the moment it appeared before them. The taxi driver tried to chat him up a bit when he figured Henry spoke Italian, but his thoughts were aimed in Mila's direction, so he wasn't really involved in the conversation. Once they reached their destination, he gave the taxi driver a fat tip and ran to the entrance of a hotel he booked. Ruth was right, it was really difficult to find anything in this location, so he was ecstatic when he actually found a room. He was even happier when he figured out that the hotel was really close to the house Mila has rented.

He was grateful that check in process was done pretty fast, so he could drop off his bags and take a quick shower. Just minutes later, Henry was walking over a gravel path on a side of a road, following Google maps direction to the address he typed in. Soon he stood in front of the gates of a house that was his destination, Ruth was kind enough to also include some photos of the house and its surroundings, so he knew he was in the right place. He took a few deep breaths and his index finger hovered over it for a few second before ringing a doorbell on the gate. He expected Mila to show up at the house door, but nothing happened. He rang it once again and still nothing. He contemplated his options, but the most logical one at that moment to him was to try to go down a very steep bushy slope on a side of the house, so he could reach the stairs leading to this villa's private beach. He hoped Mila would be there.

He immediately cursed himself for wearing flip flops and a swimming shorts after making the first step. He almost slipped and those were some thorny bushes. The next few steps weren't easier at all. Have I gone insane? I could be charged for breaking and entering. He took a few more steps and his heart swelled, he saw Mila in the distance and he no longer cared whether he was committing a felony or making the wrong decision by coming to Italy. After taking a couple more steps, he was able to jump over a wall and then jump down to the stairs leading to the beach. He went down the first set of stairs, focusing solely on Mila. Soon her voice became audible to him, she was humming at first and then she started singing, she felt and looked so carefree in a one piece white and indigo blue horizontal stripes swimsuit with her long wavy hair falling on her back. He knew he would have this image engraved in his memory for good.

She was singing her heart out, being completely oblivious to Henry's presence. There were only a few steps left before he reached Mila when felt a huge mood change and a pang in his heart and he knew exactly why when she started singing the next song and he knew right away which song it was and why she felt the way she did. The pain in her voice sliced his soul in half.

Thought I found a way

Thought I found a way, yeah

But you never go away

So I guess I gotta stay now

Oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here

Even if it takes all night or a hundred years

Henry kneeled next to her and gently tugged one of her earphones until it fell out of her ear, she tuned to him and flinched, but didn't say a word. He continued where she left off, not taking his eyes of hers.

Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near

Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear

Isn't it lovely, all alone?

Heart made of glass, my mind of stone

Tear me to pieces, skin to bone

Hello, welcome home*

He kissed her shoulder softly before placing her forehead on it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

If somebody had asked Mila at that exact moment what she was feeling, she'd ramble a whole list - happiness, sadness, love, anger, relief, anguish, fear, hope... "Five years. For five years the first thing I had to every morning, every single one, was to find a way to block you before I could even start thinking about continuing my day. You were so happy most of the time while I was falling apart. I don't blame you for that, I really don't. But, the way you treated me..." Mila looked at the horizon line where sky met the sea. "You broke me into million pieces and I spent every day sticking piece by piece together, but I could never feel whole, not to this day."

Henry cupped her cheeks and turned her face to his, still on his knees, soothing thumb movement wiped away her tears. "Don't cry, please." He wiped away her tears until they stopped falling and her breath evened out. He pressed his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes closed. "I will spend the rest of my life redeeming for this, let me do so, please."

Mila didn't say anything, but she started opening up for his feelings again, feeling genuine sadness and worry. She backed away, leaving his hands in the air. She had moved to the edge of her made-for-two beach towel before lowering herself on it, lying on her hip. She tapped a sun lit part of the towel which was soon to be in a shade and Henry took off his shirt, lowering himself, following her order, not saying a word.

Lying on his back, he turned his head towards Mila. Her stared into depths of her blue eyes an he was sure that no river, lake, sea or ocean had such a beautiful colour. It didn't take long before his eyelids became too heavy to keep them up.

Mila watched Henry's chest rise and fall in even intervals. He must've been really tired because of his flight. Mila was convinced that he belonged at Mt. Olympus in myths, but somehow he was real and he bonded with her out of billions of people. Every muscle of his was hard and well defined, his biceps was bigger than her thigh, she was sure. He still kept his scruff and he grew his mustaches slightly longer, but most of his hair was gone, his sides were pretty short and the middle part was slightly longer and slicked back.

Mila wanted to let him rest, so she took her phone first, sending Ruth a threatening message to stop meddling in her life, but that she was also grateful that she did it this time, then she got back to a book she started reading that morning. She glanced at Henry after reading every couple of paragraphs and he was sound asleep every time. When she lost concentration, she went for a swim, enjoying coldness of the water. She didn't know how much time she spent swimming, but when she got out Henry was in the same position as when she left him.

She kneeled down next to his sleeping body, he was indeed perfect. She bit the tip of her index finger before she decided to trace a knuckle over his eyebrow, barely touching it, when he didn't flinch, she used the tip of her finger to trace the other one too, when she went back to the valley between his eyebrows, she continued her exploring by moving her finger down his nose. She scooched over and reached to the other side of his body, flattening her palm on the ground, keeping her balance. She got braver, so she used tips of all of her fingers to roam over his cheeks and forehead, she scratched his scruff with her nails and he leaned into her touch.

Water dripping from Mila's hair on Henry's chest woke him up, his lips curved in a smile before opening his eyes, Mila's hand remained on his cheek.

"Hey." Mila smiled back at him.

"I'm sorry for falling asleep, I was really tired." Henry started caressing the forearm of the hand on which Mila was leaning. "What time is it?"

Mila moved away to check the time on her phone and he immediately regretted asking. "Almost six."

"Shit. I've been asleep for almost two hours." He set up, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but you have to go now." Mila got up and grabbed her book and phone. "I have a date and I don't want to be late."

"Huh?" Henry also stood up, completely confused, he did not expect this.

Mila felt a hit of jealousy and sadness wash over Henry. "Yes, with you. I'll pick you up at 8. You just need to tell me where you are staying."

Relief washed over Henry as hew as folding the towel. "That little hotel just up the street."

"Okay." She took the towel from Henry and waited for him to put on his shirt. "How did you even get down here?"

He pointed at the top of the hill. "And then I pretty much jumped over the wall right about here," he moved his finger to that point.

"You could've gotten yourself hurt, don't do that ever again."

"It was worth it. I rang the bell, but you obviously couldn't hear me. That's why I need your phone number, you know, to call you in this kind of situations."

"Your phone, please" Grace gestured for him to hand her the phone so she could put in her number.

#henry cavill #henry cavill/oc

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hecohansen31 · 5 years

Text

My burning sun will, some day, rise

Vampire, Crimeboss! Michael+Human! Reader:

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

First of all, before you continue with this fic, just know that the original “Crimeverse” concept (which is one of my first and favorite verse of this fandom) belongs to @lvngdvns (also I am glad to see that you are back, and I really hope you’ll feel better soon!).

Also special note to my newest wife (hello there, mon coeur) (I swear I took French lessons in middle grade!) @dyns33 who also has a beautiful crimeverse worldbuilding that you absolutely need to check out (… and “Hitman! Michael” which is beauty and grace and will stab you in the face…).

This was a request by @fallenangel4996 who requested me a Short Haired! Michael Langdon as a Vampire/Crimeboss taking Reader’s virginity!

Sadly I haven’t been able to work a lot on my requests and I sadly don’t know when I’ll have the time because as soon as November hits, I am disappearing, but just know that I appreciate them, I love them and I’ll someday write them!

(Also this is set in the 20s, because I am a “Peaky Blinders” bitch).

SUMMARY: Your Michael Langdon’s little mouse: costantly searching for secrets for him, but once the truth is out, you might become more and more important to the cold-hearted man.

WORDS: 4,5 K

WARNINGS: Unprotected (WRAP IT UP, PLEASE!) Sex, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Blood (drinking and blood play), Mention of Violence, of Slut-Shaming, and Usage of Vulgar Terms.

Something that your family had always lacked was money.

But what you certainly had in abundance was intelligence.

Since you had been old enough, you had started to help your own family in each way you could, finding one, soon, that was quite fruitful.

Selling secrets, after having discovered them was quite the job, even more after the World War had hit your little city and everyone was struggling back to their feet.

You had many clients, but you hadn’t thought that it would one day reach the level of the great Michael Langdon asking for you.

Michael Langdon was a legend: he was a known gangster, although he never got his hands dirty.

Head of the Cooperative and known by many as “The Antichrist”, because of his pendant to be extremely ruthless with whoever crossed him.

He had appeared in a mysterious way and when he had become famous everybody had seemed to know new and different stories about him, although nobody knew surely from where he had come.

Somebody muttered about him being the illegitimate son of a French ambassador, or that his mother was a Russian actress, who had left him on her way to search fame and glory in America.

The only thing that was sure was that he had fought in the war, his dog-tags shown with pride on his chest whenever he would meet somebody either on the street on in his office, as was your case.

You had been unsure whether you should have come or not, knowing that you couldn’t deny anything that Michael might ask of you, because he owned the underground of your city, each low live belonging to him, solely.

Although your little “job” was pretty illegal, you hadn’t wanted it to delve into the darkness that Michael Langdon represented.

But you hadn’t had much choice when your sisters and brothers had been threatened and so you had finally met Michael Langdon in his private office.

It was the in the time when you faked being a boy.

It would get you through jobs in an easier way, alongside the fact that people didn’t look at boys the way they did with girls, and you had thought that Michael Langdon wouldn’t be different…

But after you had finished talking with each other, with you accepting a little job from him, spurred on both by your family’s safety and the prize he had offered you, he had simply mumbled about how “next time you should have left those awful clothes at home, mostly that boyish hat, because it didn’t belong onto such a pretty lady’s head”.

Strangely after the first “job” you had taken from him, you had found yourself coming back for more, although you didn’t know if it was because of the high the money gave you or because you truly needed to bash in the glorious sight that was Michael Langdon.

At first you had been strictly business partners, but slowly, mostly after a job had taken you to accompany him to a charity event (strangely Michael Langdon seemed to take part in a lot of those) you had been able to chat with him and for the first time, after years of willing secrecy and invisibility, you had felt seen.

You had wanted to be seen by him.

But it was a useless attempt, mostly when you saw the women that left his office late at night, when you would come in to whisper secrets in his ear, gaining a small smile and a “you did good, little mouse”.

It made your heart squeal horrendously that sentence, and you couldn’t help but push yourself even more away, standing into that invisibility that had become a weight to you.

Then it had happened: one day an enemy gangster had come to your home.

You had managed to turn the man away from your family, with the fake promise of leading him to Langdon’s secret base, but soon the gangster had understood you wouldn’t do such thing and soon you were in an isolated place, with a gun to your head, ready to die, but with the knowledge you hadn’t betrayed Langdon.

You wondered whether somebody would have remembered you.

And then Michael Langdon had come.

He was already bloodied, his clothes ruined and some red liquid even in his curly hair.

His eyes were crazy enough that the enemy gangster had immediately left the gun and you, hoping that he would be able to escape.

He hadn’t been able to.

And Michael had caught onto him with an inhuman quickness, pushing him to the ground as a predator would do with his prey, turning back just to send you a look, muttering between tight teeth not to watch him.

You hadn’t listened to him and had seen him rip straight into the man’s neck with the sharpest teeth you had seen, almost fangs and that was your last memory before shock got the best out of you and you fainted, strained by the long day.

When you had woken up, you weren’t in your home: the sheets were expensive and imported, caressing your body gently, which had been changed into a soft male nightshirt, enveloping you completely and when you had felt stable enough to raise your head you had found Langdon staring at you from a chaise longue set in front of the enormous bed, you had laid yourself onto.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty” he had mumbled, pushing himself up to move closer you, and the image of him ripping into a man’s neck came back immediately.

You should have been scared, but you couldn’t help but feel perfectly protected in his clutch.

“How much have I slept?” a hazy fog had occupied your brain, making you feel slow and your voice was groggy, as if you had slept for days, something that Michael confirmed.

“Two days, the doctor was worried but I told him you would be just fine”.

“My family must be worried for me” you had mumbled, not really worried, just wanting to shift the attention from you, but Michael had kept his eyes trained onto you as if he had wanted to understand what was going on in your mind.

“I told them you would be staying with an old aunt” he replied, quickly moving onto the bed, sitting on it, comfortably.

“You don’t look like aunt Ruth…” you tried to shift the attention from you “… she has a little black pimple…”.

“I know that you saw it” he had broken apart from the conversation, grabbing your chin with inhumane strength, although the gesture had been so graceful that you hadn’t reacted and just met his eyes as he had pushed your head up to meet his gaze “… are you scared little mouse?”.

“I saw you ripping a man’s neck with your teeth” you had mumbled, your voice didn’t falter in the slightest “… a man who would have killed me, hadn’t you been there, so no, I am not scared”.

“You are almost as cold as me, little mouse” he had brought your head to stand taller, as if he had expected you to do the same “… that is impressive, you didn’t tell him anything, did you?”.

“You think I am some stupid rookie” you had mumbled, and he had enveloped you in a loose hug, surprising you more than anything else.

“You are my little mouse” he had simply stated, gently kissing your forehead before laying down next to you.

You had spent an entire week at aunt “Ruth’s house”, and you and Michael had settled in a strange routine, which had brought you far closer to him than you had expected, accompanying him everywhere, acting as a shadow.

A shadow to whom he asked question and opinions, valuing them more than any other people, and who he would hand-fed as a child and dress up as a doll, spoiling her with new clothes and jewels, although you had insisted he didn’t spend that much on you.

He was adjusting a necklace onto your neck, when you told him so, and he simply kissed your neck, pushing his fangs to lightly brush against your skin and murmured the vibrations creating a little shrill down her spine.

“… how can I stop, when you look so divine?”.

This had settled enough, and for enough time, till your jealousy got the better of you, because no matter the strange relationship you had together, he still brought ladies of the night in his office and after a session, without waiting for all his employees to be out.

You had found the two woman of that night both, pallid onto Michael’s chaise longue and moving slowly no lights in their eyes, but the fury in yours had been enough for them to understand it was better they moved away.

Michael had pushed himself to face you, red blood trickling down his mouth and onto his open shirt, not caring for it to be stained with the horrible liquid.

Meanwhile the women had scattered away, you had moved towards the desk that divided you, and had slammed your hands onto it, more out of anger than true need to catch his attention.

You had had it from your entrance.

“What has my little mouse so angry, I wonder” he had mumbled, pushing out his hands to grab you, but you slapped also those away and he had lowered his head with a smirk “… Jeff and Mutt seriously must have…”.

“It was you, idiot” you had screamed and every noise outside of the room had quieted

Everybody in Michael’s paybook knew and acknowledged you as the girl of the boss, and hence deserving of respect whenever Michael was around you.

The only one who had tried to joke around you, an idiot, truly, who had told Michael, meanwhile you read his offer out loud, pointing out any flaws, that he hoped that “your cunt was worth it, to get him so so lovesick for you”.

He hadn’t survived for much longer to apologize.

He had seemed finally surprised and you had settled down on one of the chair in front of the desk, knowing perfectly that to continue with your outburst wouldn’t work with Michael, preferring to unnerve him with her silence.

“… are you jealous?” he had seemed surprised as if he didn’t understand the reason behind your anger “… you know perfectly that it didn’t happen anything between me and them”:

“You drank from them…” you had simply stated, explaining your insecurities.

You didn’t much about Michael’s vampirism, although it always hung in whatever room you shared, as an uninvited guest.

“You know ‘perfectly why I don’t drink from you, my little mouse” he had been the one the one who raised from his seat to circle the desk and reach to you, something he didn’t do for anybody “It’s dangerous”.

Although you hadn’t talked much about it, you saw the way his eyes would flash whenever you were either bleeding on your monthly period or after he had bitten down your lip, during a particular harsh kiss, and drew blood.

He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself if he ever tasted you.

And you knew it would make him turn her in something similar to him, if you didn’t die.

Not that he didn’t want it, he would have loved it: he had found in you a willing partner, somebody who wasn’t afraid of his side and somebody whom he respected body and soul.

(The fact that you were achingly beautiful and sassily intelligent didn’t help his judgement either, you had just to walk in a room and he would move all his attention onto you).

But he hadn’t wanted to do something you might regret, knowing it might end up with your death, if he missed onto any of the important details that the rite requested.

He didn’t feel like you were confident or sure enough for you to be turned.

And he would have waited, whether you would be ready one year in the future or never.

“… it is just…” your red cheeks showed an extreme embarrassment “… humiliating”.

You grabbed onto his open shirt, making sure to smear the blood away and made him lean onto you, your faces being a few centimeters away.

“… you are my man and you should be only interested in me”.

“You make it seem as if I enjoy drinking from them…” he had mumbled, meanwhile his lips breathed onto yours, immediately making you lose any thoughts you might have, just chasing his in a tender caress “… mostly when I have your fucking body smelling like a delicious meal”.

And he had kissed you, pushing you onto the headboard of the chair, pinning you against it, cradling you next to his body.

“… you always know what to say, don’t you” you had mumbled, having completely forgotten your anger.

“That is what happens when you have hundreds of years on your side”.

But those hundred years hadn’t prepared him or made him ready for asking your hand in marriage.

“… I just think that you might like to move here permanently, since you are my recognized partner” he had mumbled, meanwhile you had your pretty head leaned against his non-beating heart, the calmness of it making you feel relaxed for the first time.

“Are you trying to ask me to marry you, boss?” you had laughed a bit.

“Are you trying to make me nervous, little mouse?” he had replied sassily, raising his head to meet her eyes “… don’t make me wait, (Y/N)”.

You knew perfectly that when he used your name like that, he was nervous and had slowly but surely nodded your head, before speaking up a loud “yes”, and you were to be wedded, an immense organization, just because Michael liked to show you off.

But you hadn’t cared about anything: you were happy for the first time, since forever.

You had been poor, you had been invisible, you had been helpless, and now that you had met him you wished never to separate yourself from him.

And you knew that only one thing would stop you from having to leave him and grow old, when he didn’t: Michael turning you.

“… I can’t bear the thought of us having to live separated, you had me too used to the spotlight which is your love that I don’t think I would be able to live without it, and I know you feel the same for me, so why wait?” your grip onto his hands had tightened and he had looked at you surprised, but nothing more had been shown on his pretty face “… we only have one life, and I don’t want to waste it anymore”.

“… then we won’t wait anymore, my little mouse” he had simply replied, throwing his hand around your waist, to bring you closer, kissing your face in a definitely unusual display of genuine affection, but you knew there would be more in the future.

You were sure.

“… we are going out tonight” he had explained to you, meanwhile you moved yourself up from his lap “… a nice restaurant, the last meal you’ll have has to be enjoyable and then I’ll take your soul and body”.

You had waited also on the sexual matter, mostly because it might also push Michael onto acting furiously with you, making him lose control, but you knew from his eyes that you would be safe with him.

And that you would lose your last bit of innocence that night.

A few hours later you were gliding into the nicest restaurant of the town, with no reservation in your prettiest flapper dress, a thing of red brocade, lined with real and expensive golden inserts, which matched perfectly with your simple but shiny jewels you wore: a snake-shaped bracelet with ruby eyes and long cascading ruby earrings.

You and Michael had been sat down in the best angle of the restaurant and had been served first, meanwhile Michael simply gulped down his wine, eating distractedly his food, which he didn’t need to survive and was tasteless for him, but he tried not to show too much unusual mannerisms, knowing how already everybody thought he was a bit “odd”.

You teased him in the meanwhile, your leg rubbing against his tailored pants, meanwhile you held onto his hand, your mouth enveloping in the most carnal way the food that you had in your plate, letting a bit of wine drip down from your mouth, as a substitute of the red liquid he craved so much.

When he finally had enough you were pushed onto your feet with hasty eyes, and Michael left a quick tip to waiter, enough not to be bothered by the mess in his plate.

“… little mouse don’t even try anything anymore, or my plan for a romantic evening will be destroyed” he threatened, meanwhile he pushed you onto the little car he had chosen for the evening, suggesting to the driver to start the thing up “… as that dress will soon be shredded”.

You had simply giggled, but eased up your teasing, in favor of holding his hand, kissing it lovingly, meanwhile he pushed yourself to move your head closer onto his shoulder.

You arrived quickly but it wasn’t Michael’s city house.

Although you weren’t completely outside of the city, you were far away from it to know that you wouldn’t be heard, and that it was a private location, one you didn’t know.

“Where are we?” you had asked, turning around, meanwhile Michael pushed his coat onto your shaking shoulder, he didn’t feel cold or hot, so he didn’t mind the icy temperature.

“A little place I bought for us” he had mumbled, moving his nose onto your neck, caressing it gently “… it was supposed to be a wedding present, but I thought you might like a more romantic and secluded place than the city house”.

The house was amazingly well-built and anything that you might want in an house, and you were so moved that you turned around and smashed your lips onto Michael’s, who he smiled into the kiss, leading you inside, to the fire-warmed hearth, but he just let you shed the coat, before he lead you to the bedroom.

The bed there was enormous, but you didn’t have too much time to admire it, before you were pushed onto it, and you giggled at Michael’s eagerness.

He smirked at your laughs and then gently kissed your lips, gently at first and then with much force, pushing himself against you, making you taste that marbled manhood you had only felt in accidental touches, and now brushed against your clothed core, unashamedly covered by some scantly-covering panties, since you had forgone the little skirt you were used to wear, over your panties and under your dress.

“… aren’t you devious, my little mouse?” he taunted you “… I love you even more because of that”.

He kissed your forehead, and for a moment you looked right into his eyes and saw the beauty of them, the love that burned into them and you weren’t able to stop yourself from the little tear that run down your cheeks.

You had thought you would have been nothing but unloved, invisible, and now you had Michael who looked at you like that.

You never wanted to be separated by him.

“I love you more than words can say” you mumbled and he caressed softly your hair pushing them back from your face, staring at you, as if you were the most beautiful thing ever “… and I am the most sure I can be about this; I want us to be for ever and even after that”.

“Aren’t you pretentious, little mouse?” he giggled simply, meanwhile his eyes told her he felt the same.

“You are a bit too slow, boss…” your hands went to the little shoulder strap of the dress, letting it flow down a bit, revealing you perky nipples, although the fabric stopped onto her stomach, revealing half of your whole body, under his hungry stare.

He was literally eating you up with his eyes.

He gently pushed you up helping you with your clothes, but when you thought he would go for your throat he gently led you to lie down, and brought the dress down with you leaving you in nothing else, except the scandalous panties.

You didn’t understand what he wanted to do, since he had just left the barest of touches tease your body, lingering with his fingers just barely.

And then from the fingers he moved to use his mouth, tracing with it your neck, in a sensual caress that got you to open your mouth, and keep your breath, thinking that the bite would come at any time, but it didn’t.

He moved onto your breasts, after he dosed a good amount of attention to your collarbones.

He gently teased your breasts, at first avoiding your nipples, simply enjoying the feeling of them in his hands, and the moving onto it, enveloping it in his mouth and gently biting down onto him, making your arch onto the mattress, pushing your back against it and he gently held you down by your hips.

He smirked and tutted you, before bopping your nose.

“Patience, little mouse” he gently teased you, taking a nipple in his mouth and twisting the other between his fingers “… I promised you the best night ever, didn’t I?”.

“… I don’t know whether by the end of this night I’ll be either a vampire or mad” you simply replied breathily due to his ministration.

“Why not both?” he murmured, as he moved onto your stomach, delving the most affectionate kissing and caresses, making you feel weightless and cherished.

And when his lips finally touched your most sacred pearl you were trembling with excitation and madness, not knowing whether he would be sweet or unleash the beast you knew him to be.

He let you get used to the feeling of his rough tongue and the plumpness of his lip, before that savagery took over and he was soon delving his entire mouth into your sweet core, pushing his fangs to tease your labia with the cruelest of caresses, before his lips soothed the gentle and teasing hurt.

And he brought you to the brink of madness and pleasure with those gentle but strong ministration, insisting on them but knowing exactly when to stop.

And then he did stop.

His face hung over your thighs and met your stare, curious about what he would be doing next and impatient of his following moves.

But he just gently went back to lay kisses onto your thighs, and you couldn’t help but believe that he was simply taking his time.

You gently brought his head closer to you.

“What are you waiting for?” you mumbled onto his lips.

“I just…” it was the first time he seemed not knowing what to do, and you gently moved his hand to caress your hips “… I don’t want you to regret it, this is serious and you won’t be able to go back to it”.

He traced his thumb onto your lips, and you enveloped softly the finger in your mouth.

“I know it better than anything Michael…” you mumbled matching his sweet tone “… and in my heart I know perfectly that we belong to each other”.

He gently kissed her forehead, to avoid letting you see the little tears that your simple discourse had created.

“… I don’t think that I can have an happy future without you in it…” you continued, gently embracing him “… and if I have to shed this mortal body, I don’t mind it, because you are the one that my soul has searched for so long”.

He kissed your hand, watching you deeply and knowing completely that you were sure.

He then positioned himself between your legs, his mouth gently nipping onto your left thigh, although you didn’t realize it, he was searching a vein and when he finally found it, his fangs appeared, pushing themselves through his gems and showing themselves to you.

It was a sublime masterpiece, where fierceness met with grace and you almost didn’t feel the pain that shred through you.

But when you did, you had to admit it was worse than a simple bite, more similar to a cut with a knife than to an actual bite, since the fangs slashed through your skin and blood spilled onto the elegant silk sheets, staining them, but Michael didn’t seem to mind, making an even bigger mess, spreading the blood around with his fingers, staining you thighs.

And then he suckled onto it, softly and then with much more rush, pushing his tongue to lick around, whenever the blood wouldn’t come out easily, eating it all up with gluttony, drinking it as if it was the finest wine.

Enough to drool from his mouth, roughly dirtying his sickly white completion.

A true and wonderful sight.

You could have come just by that.

Hadn’t your body reacted strangely to the bite…

Michael had explained to you that the entire turning would take quite some time, and it didn’t come simply from being bitten, being bitten brought most humans on the verge of death…

… and it was the vampire’s blood that brought the human they had chosen back to life.

He sliced his wrist with his own blood soaked fangs, pushing it onto her mouth, letting it dribble on your mouth, and your breath suddenly quickened and your trembling stopped, making you taste the dense liquid that fell also onto your body, creating a bloody trail on your nakedness.

And then when your eyes opened brightly and you faced Michael with the most sinful of smirks, Michael thrusted into you and each note in your body sang at that unholy union.

Your body started picking up new sensations, new sounds and colors, but red was the first one you felt the most important and the only one you found yourself to care about, the one you craved…

…alongside Michael’s cock, which pushed sinfully slow into you, picking up the rhythm as you reacted under him, coming to literal life, your second life.

The one that would last.

You didn’t know if it was because you weren’t getting enough, or you wanted to try out your new strength, but you changed your position.

Surprise shone in Michael’s eyes, as you came on top of him to ride him.

And you thrusted up, bouncing on top of him, feeling yourself coming closer to the end, and your own new beginning and…

… and finally pleasure hit you.

And you fell…

… on top of a very satisfied Michael who pushed himself a few more time into you, finally releasing warm heat in your belly, which flowed out of your greedy hole as you moved away from him.

Your body was still in the maze of pleasure, when he gently traced your neck with his fangs, wanting to play again, damnably desperate already, and a sudden rush of stamina made you ready and open to more.

“We are together, forever, now little mouse”.

And no other words had sounded sweeter.

---

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