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taegimood · 5 months

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mj!! i just saw a tiktok thats like "check ur tone before talking to my girl / watch how u talking to her" and neow i need urbig brained delicious thoughts (sfw or nsfw idc!) on possesive/protective!txt !!!!! 🧎🧎

omfg help… instant wet panties 😵‍💫 i hope this is what you had in mind~

edit: y’all i’m CACKLING at these responses i PROMISE it’s not btob minhyuk in soob’s 💀 i just used the first name that came to my mind HAHAHSKSNJ

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yeonjun would not HESITATE.. you’d be at a party together, splitting off for a bit to hang with your respective friends; as protective as he is, he knows you can handle yourself so he’s not immediately racing over when he sees the guy that approaches you.. though his eyes might as well be burning little fires into the guy’s head from the way he’s staring across the room. he’s keeping an eye on his every move, unbeknownst to you; you’re just minding your business, chatting with your friends, and this rando is getting a little too close for comfort, talkin bout sum “why don’t you pay more attention to me instead ahaha” and it’s when you reject his continual advances that his face sours and the name-calling starts. “don’t be such a bitch, you’re lucky i’m even-“

“watch your fucking mouth before i shut it for you.” aaaand there’s yeonjun, seemingly coming out of nowhere. his hand is fixed in an iron grip on the guy’s wrist which had been extending towards you, staring him down — literally down, yeonjun’s height easily surpassing his — with every indication of “i’ll fuck your shit up if i have to” in his eyes. you can tell right away that the guy’s bark is much bigger than his bite as his own eyes are wide, attempting to yank his hand away to no avail, before yeonjun finally releases his grip a few moments later to watch him quickly retreat back into the crowd after some hastily-mumbled apologies. yeonjun scoffs and throws an arm around your shoulders, grumbling and eyeing the area as you just look up at him with a cocked brow and a growing smile, like hello how’d i bag such a baddie ??? him catching your stare and when you jokingly ask “jealous?” he’s rolling his eyes and grumbling about how no one can talk to his girl like that.. he sticks with you the rest of the night, getting extra grabby as you leave to go home — “gotta get your mind off of limpdick lee 🙄” — and you can imagine how the rest of the night goes when he’s determined to show you exactly how you deserve to be treated by a real man 🤤

soobin, bro.. you don’t even see it coming. usually your boyfriend gets pouty and grumpy when he’s jealous, more cute than anything, so you can’t even believe your eyes — or ears — when this time he actually gets scary. not scary for you; you’re just terrified for the other guy. this is the first time you’ve really seen him get so protective; you’d joined him for some schoolmate reunion party that he didn’t even wanna go to in the first place, grumbling about how awkward it would be (but then blushing and grinning to himself when you pointed out how awestruck everyone would become over his 100/10 visuals) and so here you are, his hand in yours as you walk around being introduced to his old classmates. it’s when he leaves you with a kiss on your cheek to go use the bathroom that it happens. you’re perusing the refreshment table, deciding which drink to grab for soobin, when this guy that’s been hanging around the table starts edging himself closer to you. you nearly jump out of your skin when you glance up to see him already staring from 3 feet away. this dude (whose icky school reputation you’re unaware of) becomes relentless in his “flirting”, talking about your body, trying to touch your hair, making you all-around uncomfortable as fuck until suddenly he stops mid-sentence and just stares up at something past your head like a deer in headlights. confused, you turn around and soobin is suddenly standing right behind you with the NASTIEST, MEANEST, most STEELY glare you’ve ever seen grace his pretty face. “minhyuk.” his voice instantly sends shivers up your spine (and down to your core). this ‘minhyuk’ is already backing off with his hands up in surrender as soobin goes, “if you don’t walk the fuck away from her right now, i will make you regret it.” GAH DAMN…. GAH DAMN…. the way you jump his bones later is unreal i’m just sayin. minhyuk is quick to apologize and leave you alone while soobin is quick to grumble out a “we’re leaving” with an aggravated pout forming on his face, the one you know so well — but holy fuck is this about to be the roughest, yummiest, BEST sex that you’ve ever had.

beomgyu omfg 😭 he doesn’t even TRY to have any chill. you’re out shopping together and he’s already hanging all over you in the first place, ever the clingy baby, so when some guy has the AUDACITY to still come up and try hitting on you, beomgyu is not having it. you’re in the video game section arguing over which league of legends dlc you guys should download when you get home, you stopping to test out smash bros on the newest switch model while beomgyu’s got his arms around your waist, head on your shoulder and rocking you back and forth obnoxiously — “GYU YOU’RE MAKING ME DIZZY” “well pay attention to me!!! 😩” — and neither of you notice the store employee that had been lingering in the same aisle, restocking the controller shelf and sneaking glances in your direction. he makes his move when gyu gets distracted by something off to your other side, arms untangling from your waist as he leans over to take a look at the other shelf with one finger hooking mindlessly through your belt loop. “there’s actually a pretty cool new feature on that one, here lemme show you 😉” you’re standing there like 👁️👄👁️ when the voice that is not your boyfriend’s is suddenly all up in your space, this guy reaching past you from behind, going through some game settings that you’re not even paying attention to because why is this guy’s sweaty chest pressed up against my back?????? “what the fuck” aaand beomgyu has tuned back into the channel. lip curled and a 🤨 look on his face that he doesn’t even try to hide; you’re both standing there like the surprised pikachu meme for a second before the cogs start turning again. “dude. why are you touching my girl?” shouldering his way between you, arm protectively going around your waist again as he blocks the employee off with his large frame. the guy’s hands going up as he defends himself, “hey, she was asking for it.” THE WAYYYYY THAT BEOMGYU’S JAW WOULD DROP ??!?! “what the fuck did you just say?” ohhhhhhhh he’s mad now.. facing the guy while keeping you behind him, dude’s eyes widening as he realizes his mistake — “uh, i didn’t mean-“ “i don’t care what the fuck you meant, you don’t get to fucking talk to my girl like that, you piece of-” you have to DRAG him out of the store and he’s ranting the entire way, finally grabbing your face and kissing you firmly when you get to the car before grumbling “you weren’t asking for shit..” league of legends be damned, he’s fucking you good the second you get home.

taehyun….. 👁️👁️ is it hot in here already….? you guys don’t go clubbing often, but when you do, your boyfriend is like a blinking neon sign that reads “touch my girl and i’ll run you into the ground 😀.” he hates leaving you alone even for a second, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust “all these fucking horndogs that wanna get with you.” his words, not yours. barely drinks anything at first cuz if he has to pee then he has to leave you alone 💀 eventually you convince him to be more chill, have some drinks, and you’re enjoying yourselves — pressed all up on him on the side of the dance floor 🤤 — until begrudgingly he finally excuses himself to the bathroom. you stay put, bopping your head along to the music as you sip at your drink, leaning against the wall to avoid getting knocked into by any dancing bodies. perhaps this backfires, however, when one of those bodies, fairly drunk and heading straight for you, cages you in with his arms before you can even process his intention. his breath reeks of alcohol as you flatten yourself as much against the wall as you can, eyes flitting nervously towards the direction of the bathrooms, praying taehyun will be quick as this manchild croons to you about how he’s been watching you all night and couldn’t wait to get you alone like this. “my boyfriend’s gonna fuck you up,” you mutter, and fuck him up he does. in a flash the guy is on the ground, reeling from the gut punch he just received, taehyun standing there with a terrifyingly calm look on his face. “what do you think you’re doing?” there’s a warning in his eyes, a warning that this bitch ignores as he stumbles to his feet, throwing all kinds of colorful words at the both of you, before stopping mid-tirade as taehyun steps forward calmly, gripping the guy’s collar in his fist as he stares down at him and says with gritted teeth, “you have 5 seconds to walk away before i shove my foot so far up your ass that you’ll be tasting leather. try touching my girl like that again and see what fucking happens.” the raging storm in his eyes paired with the level tone of his voice has your thighs squeezing together despite the situation, and when the man scurries away, you almost feel dizzy at the burning kiss taehyun gives you. muttering “we aren’t coming here again” as he immediately leads you out to the car, heading back home where the filthiest fuck of your life awaits you 😍

kai tends to get quiet when he gets jealous. his instinct being to close himself off more, becoming a careful observer rather than an outright confronter; which is why you’re taken so off guard by the open display of back the fuck off that he dishes out one day when you’re at a convention together. you’re exploring the different booths hand in hand, gushing over the merch tables and limited edition figurines, debating whether or not you should add to your shared plushie collection — when suddenly from behind you comes a low “damn, what a nice ass.” you almost don’t catch it at first. you almost don’t process that it’s being directed at you if not for kai freezing beside you, gaze snapping over his shoulder to the crusty man stood eyeballing you shamelessly. you’re both in shock for a moment until an uneasy feeling creeps over you, and kai can tell. “what did you just say?” your eyes flicker up to him and widen; you’ve never seen him look so serious. his tone is careful, but you can tell that he’s angry. the man is rolling his eyes and saying something like “i wasn’t talking to you, kid, was i?” as he reaches forward as if ready to tweak at your skirt with his fingers. you quickly back up into kai and his hand is flashing out at lightning speed to shove the man’s arm back. “you need to step away.” he’s firm now, holding his ground even as the man sneers at him and starts, “yeah? or what-“ “you need to step away right now before i fucking make you. do not try me.” you’re GOBSMACKED, is this really your sweet plushie loving boyfriend ??!!?!? whatever sexy protective spirit possessed him, you hope that it stays, because the man is visibly shaken even as he scoffs and leaves the booth behind. you turn to look up at your boyfriend whose brows are furrowed over dark eyes, and he’s quickly asking if you’re okay, asking if you want to leave, rambling out questions of concern that have you interrupting him with a simple statement: “i’m gonna suck you off so good later.” his face turns bright red as he stops functioning for a second before groaning and mumbling all these things about how you should be treated like a princess and an angel and.. let’s just say that you definitely feel like one later that night after he’s done with you <3

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kquil · 2 months

Text

JAMES POTTER | 01:15 ⏤THE PRETTY MECHANIC

SUM. : james borrows sirius' new motorbike and ends up breaking down on the road, thankfully he remembers a mechanic shop nearby and heads straight for it - he doesn't expect to meet the prettiest mechanic there though

TAGS. : fluff ; modern au ; muggle au ; mechanic reader ; biker james ; reader is oblivious ; reader is just doing her job ; james being the love sick puppy that he is ; james is a loveable dork ; james breaks a promise ; sirius doesn't have to know ; legal vandalism? ; vandalisim is never legal kids ; don't try this at home ; james and sirius are BFFs!

LENGTH : 1.1k

NOT PROOFREAD OR EDITED

James was FUCKED!...

He had borrowed Sirius’ new motorbike but now it was shutting down on him and he didn’t know what to do! This has never happened with his best friend’s previous bike before. That bike was easy to handle, not at the beginning, but over time, James had grown familiar with it and now that he was on a new bike, he didn’t even know where to begin with trying to remedy the issue – whatever the issue was!

“Padfoot’s gonna kill me if his sweet new ride breaks down,” James’ voice shakes as he panics silently to himself, “and it’s all because of me…”

James remembers spending an entire week trying to convince Sirius to allow him the privilege of riding his new motorbike. A matte, all black Triumph Daytona 660. It was a beautiful ride, and one that Sirius was proud to own and made him promise to handle with the greatest care. Sirius’ love for the motor vehicle was contagious and made James just as much of a fanatic over bikes. James had his own Suzuki SV650 in red and black finish.

Handling of Sirius’ Triumph was unparalleled, not only did it look artful on the road but it was also incredibly agile. The footpeg was well placed and, accompanied with the raised clip-on handlebars, the position it locks you in for a speedier cruise was so much more compelling compared to his Suzuki. The Triumph definitely didn’t shy away from staking its claim as a sports bike but that only meant it was more addicting to ride.

And now, here James was…

After breaking down at the side of the road, he had been pushing and pushing the bike all the way into the previous town he had passed and was now on his way to the mechanic shop he had caught a small glimpse of when passing. He worked up quite the sweat but didn’t pay it much attention; too worried over Sirius’ disappointment and anger. James made a promise to take care of his new motorbike and he had just broken said promise. Staring up at the mechanic sign, James took a breath and clung onto the slight hope that whatever happened could be fixed.

“Damn,” the new voice makes James’ head snap towards the open garage of the shop, “is that your bike?”

“Uh…” James struggles to form any words because, how could he when you were staring at him with such pretty eyes and sweet-looking lips? When you were dressed in the typical motorbike mechanic overall-type uniform, all black and clearly oversized, swamping your figure in the most adorable way. Just a moment ago his heart had been racing in fear of Sirius’ fury but now it was racing for an entirely different reason. You’re so pretty… pretty and with the kindest eyes. Your lips are moving… so you’re probably talking to him right now but he can’t hear anything when his eyes are so focused on the way your lips shape around different words. Oh! But he bets your voice sounds as pretty as you so he should probably start listening to you again.

“--ou okay?” you finish with worried eyes and James could only guess what you were just saying.

“Y-yeah!..” he bashfully turns away from your gaze, “Sorry about that,”

“It’s alright,” when he turns back to you again, James has to stop himself from sighing dreamily and openly drooling over just how pretty you were. But you were smiling at him! And so sweetly too that his insides melt around the butterflies fluttering around his stomach, “what can we do for you today?”

“My uhh…my friend’s bike. I was just borrowing it and it broke down a few miles from here,” he admits as a frown marks his features with guilt and despair, “I-I don’t know what could be wrong with it…”

“Don’t worry,” James watches you tilt your head in a gesture of welcoming him inside, “we’ll can take a look for you,” if James thought you were pretty before, now he think you’re angelic – he can’t help but believe in your words fully and feel all his worries wash away, banished by the shine of your bright smile and warm gaze, “I’m sure we’ll get you back on the road in no time!”

Forget melting into a puddle, James was evaporating into mist!

The problem with Sirius’ Triumph Daytona 660 was that it ran out of fuel and James was too busy panicking and stressing over being a bad friend for breaking his promise. That was the good news, the bad news was that he totally just embarrassed himself in front of the cute motorbike mechanic AND now he has no reason to ever see you again!

Desperate times call for desperate measures…

…James faces his Suzuki SV650 with his well beloved hockey stick in hand. A sacrifice has to be made and he doesn’t mind it being his bike. Should he aim for the front light or the back? He read somewhere that submerging the engine in water whilst running it would get water in and the air intake wouldn’t be able to compress in the cylinders and end up bending the conrods and smashing the valves. The pool would work for that one.

James looks at his hockey stick again before making a final decision. He can do this for now and when you fix his bike, he can say he ‘accidentally rode his bike into his pool’. Yeah that would work! James raises his arms above his head, aiming for the front light of his Suzuki and takes a breath before swinging down—

“James!” Sirius’ panicked shout makes him seize up entirely, his powerful swing down paused mid-air, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” his best friend had been staying over and was wondering what he had been doing spending so much time in the garage and came walking into an unfathomable scene.

“Uhhh…” I want to see the pretty mechanic again!

“The ‘pretty’ what?” Sirius pulls a disbelieving face. This was all for a girl?... It’s not surprising considering the way James used to act around Lily but vandalising his own motorbike?

Shit! I said that out loud.

“Yes, yes you did…” James can’t bring himself to answer. However, he didn’t have to as Sirius stalks over to the toolbox and grabs a wrench. He didn’t even need to explain himself. Both share a smile before beginning to do a number on his once very beloved Suzuki.

“Thanks Siri,” panting, James wipes the sweat off his brow and faces his best friend with a boyish grin. Out of everyone else in the world, of course Sirius would have his back and not ask questions–

“Wait– why were you at the mechanics in the first place?”

“Uhhh….”

“James?...”

A/N : like most of my timestamps, i wrote this incredibly sleep deprived but inspired and couldn't wait so here you darlings go <3 please forgive any spelling or grammatical mistakes and i hope you enjoy the fluff hehe~

NAVI.

TAGLIST : @melinajenkins @aastonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @chaosofmanyfandoms @storyofaromance @loving-and-dreaming @somewereinthegalaxi @ashreblogsficshere @cassandra-nerezza-black @stray-bi-kids @ttkttt

@notasadgirlipromise @desikudisworld @volturissideslut @arilxup88 @fallencrescentmoon @topaz125 @xxrougefangxx @starchaser-lily @probablypossesedbysatan @agent-tempest @veryberryjelly @th3-st4r-gur1 @sousydive @delusional-4-fake-people @linaax @girl-detective16 @riaa-moony @ericityyy @ahukk0 @ghostgardn @rosalyn-s @seungtelevision

#james potter x reader #james potter #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter imagine #james potter fanfiction #marauders #james potter x y/n #the marauders

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valentine-writes · 9 months

Text

their "i love you"s and other drabbles...

「 tws + notes: no tws, HEAVILY unedited, a little angst in sum partz but f it we ball (THERE'S SUMN WRONG W/ ME I NEVER DO THIS MUCH?), fluff, tried to add a lil bit of everyone, little thoughtz abt the characters,,, 」

↳ ft. ben reilly/scarlet spider, gwen stacy, hobie brown/spider-punk, jessica drew, lyla, margo kess, miles morales (1610 and 42), miguel o'hara/spider-man 2099, pavitr prabhakar, peter b parker, spider-man noir, and the spot/johnathan ohnn

「 gn!reader, romantic relationships <3 」

author's note: not my usual content but thought it wud b fun to whip up a few drabbles,, (´。＿。｀) diff format than usual too! all separate and stuff, w/ the characterz at the bottom being the ones the drabble applies to the most (ALL CAPZ MEANS I THOUGHT IT FIT THEM SUPER WELL!!!!) thought it wud b fun,,, altered lyrics are italicized, itz jus a pronoun change 2 make it gender neutral (❁´◡`❁) edit: my tags. do not fit. so i had to redo them. reblogz r super appreciated ^_^ i jus wanna make sure all fans of these characterz are being fed content <33

[ please don't forget about me - pompey ]

"and if you see me everyday / will I lose my shine?"

↳ always terrified of not being exciting and new to you– like one day, their appeal will fade. not like they understand what drew you to them in the first place, but they never asked. maybe you're just hanging around for the hell of it. maybe one day, they'll watch you leave and they'll have nothing to convince you to stay

"how many bad jokes will it take? / or awkward quiet times?"

↳ they wonder if they're already losing you slowly. everytime they speak to you, it's like they're trying to compensate for something. begging you to look at them– but not too close,,, just in case you notice how brutally flawed they are, beyond just the quirks you find endearing. maybe one day you'll look too deep into their eyes and you won't like what you see

▸ JOHNATHAN OHNN/THE SPOT, peter b parker

[ soft sounds from another planet - japanese breakfast ]

"i'll show you the way to hurt me"

↳ loving again is the biggest risk anyone who's been hurt like them could take. you make it worth the danger– the possibility of the pain they've grown all too familiar with. maybe for today, caution can be set aside. when it comes to you, they wouldn't mind letting their guard down.

"in search of a soft sound from another planet / in search of a quiet place to lay this to rest."

↳ they have to admit their past has burdened them in ways they can't even begin to communicate. they know you can't fix everything that has been broken in their lives. still, the comfort you provide is never taken for granted. you are their safe space– the soft sound from another planet. their quiet place to finally lay it all to rest. and suddenly, the aching in their chest doesn't eat them up inside as much as it used to.

you make it easy to love again.

▸ GWEN STACY, MIGUEL O'HARA/SPIDER-MAN 2099

[ our lullabye - miracle musical ]

"i was made for you / you were made for me"

↳ it's hard to believe that you're more than just a distant fantasy sometimes. they can't deny how much they've yearned for a love like the one you two share. something so sweet, so real. it's nothing like the movies or the fairytales, but is anything ever? even when things are messy and complicated, it's undeniable how perfect it all feels. how everything about the two of you just fits. they're inclined to thank every shooting star they've ever wished on, every birthday candle they've ever held their deepest desires in as they blew the flame out for the day you two met. by any manner of higher power or forces unseen to the human eye, they're certain fate was on their side to give them such a blessing.

"i'll love you 'till you're gone / our song goes on and on"

↳ they're determined to hold on as long as possible. all good things cannot last– but they try not to dwell on that thought. they hold onto the hope that you're the one thing that will stay. your love feels divine. radiant, in the way it overtakes them fully. they almost feel undeserving. so, no matter how small or how grand the action, they try to remind you every day, "i love you"s woven into their every being whenever you're around.

▸ lyla, SPIDER-MAN NOIR, johnathan ohnn/the spot

[ i will - mitski ]

"everything you feel is good / if you would only let you"

↳ sometimes they feel you holding back. they can't help but notice the tension in the room as you suppress the things you want to say, silence the thoughts in your head. they know it's not easy to be earnest all the time. but they love you– they care for you. and all they've ever wanted is for you to be authentic. if it's pure, how could it ever be wrong? maybe in your own time, you'll be able to unravel in front of them. they're by your side every step of the way. to finally have you open up to them– to be real, to be honest– it would mean the world to them. they want to show you they love every single part of you. they love you when you're upset, when you're crying, when you're angry– because it's you.

"so stay with me / hold my hand / there's no need / to be brave"

↳ they offer every reassurance they can give you. you no longer have to fend for yourself. those days of being alone are over. you can crumble apart if you need– there's no need for constant bravery anymore. you did such a good job picking yourself up, time and time again. now, they outstretch a hand to you, a silent way of saying, "let me help you this time."

▸ ben reilly/scarlet spider, gwen stacy, HOBIE BROWN/SPIDER-PUNK, JESSICA DREW, lyla, MILES MORALES (1610), PAVITR PRABHAKAR, PETER B PARKER tbh all of them but shhh

[ right side of my neck - faye webster ]

"you looked back at me once / but i looked back two times"

↳ absolutely smitten with you. it doesn't matter how hard you fell. they. fell. harder. and maybe it's not obvious to you. but they've never had someone who made them care so much. some part of them feels immature for feeling so in love,, like a school kid with a puppy crush. they find it ridiculous, how absolutely lovesick and enamoured they are with everything about you. whatever you feel and express towards them, they feel towards you three times as much. they try everyday to show it.

"the right side of my neck / still smells like you"

↳ you just seem to leave a part of you with them always. they can't ignore it– can't seem to escape your presence, even when you're not physically there. it felt like spiralling to insanity at first. but they've learned to appreciate it– find comfort in it, even. the way the smell of your shampoo lingers on the pillow they leant you when you stayed over, the way that the mug of tea (made just the way you like it) is still on the kitchen table from the morning after– you left your t-shirt once and you had to ask them directly for it back. they like keeping pieces of you near. it reminds them of how loved they are.

▸ BEN REILLY/SCARLET SPIDER, gwen stacy, HOBIE BROWN/SPIDER-PUNK, MARGO KESS, miles morales (1610 and 42), pavitr prabhakar, the spot/johnathan ohnn

[ you love me - kimya dawson ]

"but when i met you, right away, i knew / you would never, ever, ever hurt me"

↳ you're used to pulling away. leave before they can leave you, before they even try to make you miss them– but the second you met them? they were insistent on proving that they were harmless. they could never dream of hurting you. and they see as you pull away, scared to get too close– and yet, every single time, they open their arms back to you.

"and the road's still long but you come along / and you hold my hand, and you understand"

↳ "when you're ready" has become second place in their favourite three word sentences. they remind you of these words constantly.

"when you're ready" means they don't mind that it's not now. ""when you're ready" means it doesn't matter how long they have to wait for you, they will. when you're ready" is another form of "i love you"

▸ MARGO KESS, MILES MORALES (1610), pavitr prabhakar, PETER B PARKER, spider-man noir

[ (you) on my arm - leith ross ]

"i wanna buy you pretty little things / and never ever lie to you"

↳ wants something simple with you. craves a form of sweet, normalcy. the mundane tasks and events of life seem far more appealing to them when you're in the picture. no, they never really imagined ever having a quiet life, yet the hope for one with you lingered. to buy you little gifts, to be the best they could possibly be to you, to drive around with you for the hell of it. they're certain anything could be heaven if you were there to accompany them.

a quiet life sounds nice.

"i'd be better armed if you agreed to take it"

↳ having you on their arm just makes them feel secure. keeping you close while showing you off to the world– showing you've got each other. they're a bit sappy for little things like this. everywhere you go, they never fail to extend an arm out to you. something about you makes them feel safer than ever.

▸ jessica drew, miles morales (1610), MILES MORALES (42), peter b parker, SPIDER-MAN NOIR

[ peach scone - hobo johnson ]

"so I fall to ground, collect myself and get ready to take over your heart / or at least your spare time"

↳ they try so incredibly hard to be the one for you. no matter what they try, they just seem to fumble and mess it up. they stumble over their words when they try to compliment you, they get weak in the knees when they try to make a move, and no matter how much they spend deliberating, and deliberating– they've got no clue how to win you over. hopefully you find their clumsy attempts endearing. they're making a fool of themself. and maybe, they haven't really said anything yet– but they're happy to at least hang around you in the meantime

▸ BEN REILLY/SCARLET SPIDER, gwen stacy, MILES MORALES (1610), spider-man noir, the spot/johnathan ohnn

[ dan the dancer - mitski ]

" he liked them more than life itself / i'm sure "

↳ he was quiet in the way he expressed his adoration. still, he did everything he could to ensure you would never go unloved. the way he looks into your eyes, taking you in like you are the loveliest thing on earth... it's only fitting. you're his world. maybe in the silent moments, when his fingers gently brush your cheek, admiring you– you'd begin to understand this.

▸ MILES MORALES (42), MIGUEL O'HARA/SPIDER-MAN 2099

[ lover // over the moon - alice phoebe lou ]

"i'm a lover / i feel it now / i'm a lover / just never knew how"

↳ they don't even try to hide how much they enjoy your company. you're special to them– why would they try to hide that? at this point, whenever you feel arms wrap around you from behind, you've learned to see their grinning face when you glance over your shoulder. maybe they've never been particularly shy about most things,, but now they're just twice as loud. it's inexplicable, the things you do to them. they hadn't anticipated being so utterly soft,,, not like they're complaining

▸ hobie brown/spider-punk, PAVITR PRABHAKAR

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vikuo-kuma · 4 months

Note

OH, YOU'RE THE ONE FROM TIKTOK, AND I COMPLETELY AGREE WITH YOU!! I'm not sure if your request for Mashle is open, but if it's not. It's okay!! Rayne Ames trying to protect reader. but in angst-like Thankiu <3

Only For You..

A/N: Spoilers I think, also I hope this is to your liking 😭😭— it might feel rushed 💀.

Edit: not me getting exposed slightly 😔

Warning: Angst, death, maybe gore?, fluff at the end though.

—

He was right there. So why couldn't he save you? You had your back facing against the enemy, the big boss himself, Innocent Zero. Holding your own against the him just to buy Mash a few more seconds, however, you had completely forgotten about your own defense. During this match, you had already used a large sum of magic, causing your nose and eyes to bleed profusely. Leaving you out of breath with no chance of healing your wounds.

“Y/N BEHIND YOU!”, Rayne had managed to shout out, he was trying to reach out for you, wanted to pull you away from the impending danger. But you were meters away from him and he was weakened. So, as you turn around, it has felt that time had slowed down. Witnessing Innocent Zero’s sharp arm stab right through you, impaling straight through your stomach. Your widened eyes slowly looked up at the tall white figure, his dark eyes looking back down at you like you were some insect.

WHY COULDN’T HE SAVE YOU?! Rayne’s eyes looked at the scene that was happening in front of him. The white figure took its arm out of your stomach, making you fall to the ground as you bleed out from your mouth and torso. The dual colored male tries to stand up, but failed trying to get even an inch off the ground. “Y/N!”, Rayne tries shouting for you, but no response.

As you could only hear a ringing noise, while lying there. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t hear anything, your vision started to fade. You felt alone.

—

Where were you? You couldn’t really tell, as you wandered around a white space. You continued to traverse the space, seeing strange images pop up while you go. Those images looked familiar, like they were scenes that were apart of your life. Headings forward, you see a bright light, it was more blue than the rest of the room.

You were confused, letting curiosity get the better of you, you decided to go even closer to the blue light.

—

Time had reverted, fixing everything. Every destroyed building, every injured person, it was all fixed.

Rayne just awoke from his weakened state, finally he was able to stand up. After transferring his magic, he had gained it back through the time revert. His head was pounding, as he instinctively placed his hand on his forehead. Y/N! The dual colored hair male, rushed out the building, looking around frantically for a (h/c) person.

He continued his search, looking at every corner possible, ignoring the pounding in his head. “Where are you..?”, Rayne had muttered under his breath, his stern face unchanging.

Finally, there you were, lying against a tree. Your wounds were healed, sealed up even. The large gash on your torso was gone. He looked at you attentively, trying to find any signs of you breathing. Then, he saw it, your chest rising as you breathed. It was really out of character for him, but the dual colored hair male hugged you, tightly. Laying his head down on your shoulder, as he takes in your scent.

“You’re alive..”, his voice wavered.

#anime #mashle magic and muscles #mashle x reader #anime x reader #fantasy #shounen #character x reader #fanfic #x reader #fluff #angst #tw death #rayne ames #rayne x reader #oneshot #spoilers

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cupids-chamber · 1 year

Text

— HOW WOULD YOUR PARTNER REACT TO SEEING YOUR OLD TWEETS SIMPING FOR SOMEONE BACK IN YOUR WORLD ?

Gender neutral reader / Fluff / Slight crack but taken slightly seriously / some suggestive jokes (Octavinelle part) / Partially edited and re-read so mistakes may occur / Lazy writing / 0.9k words

A/N: Anon was lowkey simping in my inbox, but yk what.. this is a safeplace.. so y/n's tweets are gonna be me simping on main. Also very lazy forgive me I'm tired.

★ HOW DID YOUR LOVER/CRUSH FIND YOUR OLD TWITTER ACCOUNT? You will never quite know.. It took awhile.. But for some reason he was able to get ahold of your old phone and somehow, by some magic of sorts.. Surely the great 7 favored him, because not only was he able to get on your phone, but guess your password as well.. And even find his way onto your twitter account.

— DEUCE SPADE ♠️ ; Your partner may have been quite dimwitted and dense in typical topics, but Deuce had a knack for mechanics and it was quite sweet of him to offer so kindly to help fix your old phone up, since you didn’t like the quality or durability of the one Crowley had given you; so of course you agreed; that and Deuce’s face was adorable. You were also quite curious if you could download apps from Twisted wonderland on a phone from your previous dimension, and you were even more curious as to if you could contact and use things you had already downloaded on the phone using wifi from here? Maybe you could contact people from over there..

Deuce worked hard to fix your phone, and of course he had to check it before giving it back to you! He couldn’t hand you an unfinished project, then you’d find the poor blue-bird incompetent! Turning on your screen it loaded and displayed your twitter account in full view for him, ‘Is this app similar to magicam?’ Deuce thought to himself, he couldn’t help but mindlessly scroll through the app and your various posts.. He was left quite conflicted.

Deuce actually didn’t think much of it, partially because he trusted you quite a large sum and because he was also rather dense and couldn’t quite understand what exactly you meant with those posts. The only reason he even started to see doubts was when both Ace and Cater pointed out your behavior on the posts.

Sure Trey and Riddle tried providing somewhat comfort, well the best they could; towards their poor first year. Deuce didn’t favor jealousy, his mother always taught him how dangerous a feeling as dark as jealousy can be. His mother also taught him to communicate his feelings, so that’s what he did.

Deuce chose to communicate with you, it took him some time. But Deuce is beyond aware of how dense he can truly be.. And he loved that you were ok with that.. Deuce expressed his discomfort, and though it was hard to process, he understands your posts were mainly a humorous joke, and that you’d never truly feel attracted to.. that..(He also gets so much more clingy, he doesn’t realize this thought)

— AZUL ASHENGROTTO, JADE LEECH, & FLOYD LEECH ♡ ; Azul was truly a favored witch, blessed by the great 7. No.. you’d say the Octavinelle trio was blessed by some unimaginable fortune. As Floyd played around teasing you, and chasing you around.. Jade handed Azul your phone.. You didn’t quite realize when the tall eel had taken your phone out of your pocket and handed it to his brother.

And now it was in the hand of the great sea witch himself. “Oh— what’s this?'', Azul opened up the little bird icon on your phone, thinking it wouldn’t be anything as surprising.. Nothing he hasn’t already found out and collected as blackmail when he inevitably asks you out and just.. In case you were to.. Let’s just say by some unpredictable future, reject him. Of course he’d deal with the tweels nagging about that later.

Floyd stops in his tracks, as he closes in on viewing your phone screen with the pair.. The trio then move onto your profile.. “Wait.. isn’t that— MY PHONE!”, before you could fight to grab it back, Azul reads your first three tweets out loud.. For everyone in the office room to hear.

Let’s just say no one predicted that.. And you remained frozen in your spot.. What could be more embarrassing than your crush’s literally going through your private tweets about some.. Questionable things.

The three of you stood there in utter silence, well Azul had lots more to add onto that blackmail folder. It took a while before Floyd finally chose to break the ice between you three.

“Hey shrimpy— do you have a voice kink by any chance?”

“FLOYD!”

— MALLEUS DRACONIA ♛ ; Malleus has been a well composed person, he does get confused.. But that's because he’s unreasonably dense. It’s quite surprising, his obliviousness in some cases makes him so unintentionally funny and you quite literally hate how people would rather be afraid of him then get to know how ridiculously hilarious he could be.

That’s not to say he lacks in any field, he’s quite smart and though it takes him a while to process certain modern lexicon it’s still a fun experience. And it’s funny seeing him try and implement certain phrases into his day to day life; one time he said slay while Silver was training, and Silver lost his balance while Sebek had a breakthrough about how you ruined his wakasama and turned him into Lilia.

Now despite these improvements, you really should have told your little crush about the aspect of typical privacy.. And phones. Because you found him scrolling through your twitter account, looking star-struck and frozen as your phone reflected a certain tweet you had made previously.. Oh how you’d explain this one to the green haired gremlin.

Gets more clingy, and possessive. Also he unintentionally says some of the most threatening yet attractive things. (Border-lining: “Are you trying to kill me or is this your way of flirting”)

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s-4pphics · 11 months

Note

i NEED to see a street racer ellie x grid girl reader fic IM ON MY KNEES FOR THIS🙏🏾🙏🏾

OHHHHHHHHHHH WEVE DONE IT AGAIN IMPULSIVE HCS

wc;cw: 800 or sum, streetracer!ellie, gridgirl!oc, ellie being a car nerd and hot, mentions of sex MDNI, mentions of ciggies and illegal shit

streetracer!ellie…… passes out

she always loved cars :3 her dad owned a mechanic shop and used to watch him repair all the damaged cars that showed up

when she was thirteen he finally let her help him replace the tires

and then change the oil

and then fix the ignition

eventually taught her how to drive stick😝😝

and 2 years later she knew the anatomy of vehicles like the back of her hand

she was on her dads payroll 💯💯 shout out to mechanic!ellie😞

when she found out ab street racing she got obsessed with it. 2 fast 2 furious is her favorite movie of all time

her youtube history was wild😞😞 30 hours of devon aoki edits saved

so when she got invited to a race by one of her friends when she was a junior for her birthday she almost passed out

the screech of the tires on the pavement and smell of gas gave her heart eyes

she swore she was going to participate in a race after they both left that night

SIKE she thought everyone laughed at her when she showed up the next day in her dads beaten up family van LMFAO

the bullying was devious fr😞 she cried a little when she got home

but ofc her friend helped her ass out and high jacked his brothers old nissan

the overseers allowed her to participate but nobody bet on her except her 2 friends. that $20 pitch didn’t help her confidence much but she loved them😞

she was nervous and filled with adrenaline and tried so hard not to gawk at the hot girls that waved their grids around

when they waved their flags and signaled for the racers to go….

ellie was out that bitch fr😞😞 SKKRTED ON THEY ASS BIG PURRR

VVRRRROOOOOOOM LIKE BFRRR

she hit every sharp turn every curve every bump like it wasn’t shit

she made everybody eat they words that night. HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEENIE😝😝

some overseers gave her $300 outta pocket that night and she wasn’t even on the list to race

her and her friends went every weekend. would leave campus and go straight to the tracks fr

she started getting a little fan base after a month of racing😞😞 girlies from school would come just to see her

but she didn’t pay them any mind💯💯 she payed them a little mind

n 5 years later…. most betted on racer in the city YUHHHH

she makes racks every weekend… and she brings it all home to her dad so she can take care of him 🥺🥺

he doesn’t question where she gets the cash from but he always feels nervous when she leaves the house🥺🥺 poor old man he just wants his baby to go to college

she owns one mclaren senna but never takes it anywhere😞😞 it just sits in her garage lol she paid for that shit in cash tho big bags big stacks

drives a fucked up supra when she races😂😂 she tries to cover up the scratches and large dents with cute little spray paint jobs of fire and sparkles and shit😂😂

she named it renee and slaps the trunk like she slaps ass every time she gets behind the wheel :3 thinks it’s good luck

smokes cigarettes mmmm fuuuck

such an aggressive racer like omgg she gets so competitive and pissed she's so hot

tatted to hell. full sleeve

TERRIBLE RECORD!!!!! arrested twice and was on parole :/

but at least all the grid girls got a little crush on her 😳😳 titties out ass out bc they want her attention

all the male racers hate her bc of it… she don’t care tho suck her dick💯💯

she’ll never say it but…

she definitely stares too long at one grid girl whenever she shows up in her little croppies and booty shorts😞 she’s fine as hell ITS NOT HER FAULT💯💯

too bad gridgirl!oc doesn’t pay ellie any mind anymore :((she had the prettiest smile and such good pussy

that ooey-gooey. that sloppy. THE WORLD'S BEST CREAMER💯

did i mention they're ex's? YEAAAH CLOCK THAT TEA

every time ellie fills up her tank she can’t stop thinking about the time she bent her ex over the trunk and railed her from the back

she may never feel that pussy again 😞😞 it makes her wanna cry

when she met gridgirl!oc for the first time two years ago her world changed for the better

her zits disappeared, her hair got softer, her crops were watered

they fell in love immediately…. like instantly

they were inseparable. up each other's ass. in each other's cars. in each other's guts. so so happy

until they weren’t

their breakup was soooo fucking messy.

cheating accusations. screaming contests. EVEN A PREGNANCY SCARE???😳😳😳

a hot mess. and their relationship ended in flames :(

but that doesn’t mean ellie can’t peep every once in a while😛😛 that ass is still fat as fuck regardless of the beef >:)

#ellie williams smut #ellie williams au #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams hcs #streetracer!ellie #gridgirl!oc #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #lesbian

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letomills · 27 days

Text

Download: SFS / Mega

This is a rework of callum91's age conversions of cfhaircurlsup, with a bunch of recolors (yes I do hair too now apparently).

I ended up editing callum91's meshes to the extent that they are no longer compatible with their Maxis-match recolors, but not to worry, I made new Maxis-repo'd recolors to replace them. I also pasted maya40's retextures onto the new meshes, and made my own recolors of the Maxis textures to fit the palette I use for my game.

Full previews and details under the cut.

In the archive, beside the edited mesh file, you will find 3 recolor folders.

❧ Maxi palette These recolors are repo'd to cfhaircurlsup (except for the grey one that I had to make) and familied with it. I pinned them to OFB so that they appear in CAS as if they had shipped with OFB like the CF version.

They will pick up any texture default you may be using for cfhaircurlsup.

❧ Leto palette

I don't have the skills to do the soft shiny retexturing I had in mind so this is just the Maxis textures, recolored to match actions by Pooklet, Digi and AlmightyHat. Mailbomb & pipebomb are for EF only, the others are for PF-AF. Mailbomb is linked to dynamite, pipebomb is linked to caim. All are binned and familied properly, no duplicate textures.

❧ maya40 palette

Textures by maya40 taken from this post, I just copy-pasted them onto the new meshes. Mailbomb is for EF only, the other recolors are for PF-AF. Binned and familied properly, no duplicate textures.

🔬 The meshes

Part of what I edited can be summed up with pictures:

And the reason the new meshes aren't compatible with old recolors is that on callum91's meshes, the names and/or numbers of the groups didn't match what Maxis did on cfhaircurlsup, and I wanted to fix that, mainly to make the repo'ing easier, so I did.

This is my first hair upload, as far as I can tell everything works as intended (I learned by observing @deedee-sims's files 😌) but let me know if you see something that could be improved.

The outfits worn by the sims on the titlecard are from here.

#sims 2 #download #sims 2 hair #sims 2 maxis match #sims 2 cc #ts2cc #s2cc #s2cc historical fantasy

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first-edition · 9 months

Text

Sunday love

Pt2

(Dont really care but there are spelling and writing errors i didn’t feel like editing)

"Southern belle"Reader × Cowboy! Bucky

Sum- You're back home visiting your mother and sister only to be introduced to your sisters fiancé and his best friend, who just happens to be town heartthrob.

CW- fluff, Fem reader, talk of scars, hint of alcohol consumption, smut, p-in-v Unprotected-ish, breeding kink if you squint, kissing, pet names, oral fem reviving, short hand job, profanity.

You sit in the back on the ambulance as the paramedics finished wrapping up your arm.

“Thanks.” You say they nod. You hop down from your seat seeing your mom Steve and your sister rushing to you.

“I’m fine I’m fine don’t-“ you sigh as your mom pulls you into a bone crushing hug.

“Erk mom air.” You say she pulls back

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know about after that hug but the split arm yeah I’m fine.” You snidely remark.

“You got your self into a right bitch showdown.” Peggy says

“I didn’t even do anything. I walked in and she chucked the bottle at me I already gave my statement to the police.” You say

“You can sue her. We can get lotsa money” Peggy says

“Stop…where’s Bucky?” You ask frowning not seeing him around.

“Inside still he’s pretty pissed about the bar.” Steve says.

“Take my mom as sister home would tab I’ll go see him.” You say walking passed your family and back to the establishment.

Entering you see Bucky holding a broken glass in hand as he sits on a bar stool.

“Bucky?” You ask walking up to him he immediately looks up and stands placing the glass down and rushing to you.

“You alright?!” He asks

“I’m fine just a scrape” you say holding up your heavily bandaged forearm. He frowns at you knowing it’s bull.

“Got 14 stitches.” You say.

“Fuck.” He says.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. Besides I’ll get a cool scar almost as cool as yours.” You say.

He chuckles.

“You want help cleaning up?” You ask.

“Not while ur injured.” He says

“Come on, I’m numbed up pretty heavy right now let me help at least till anesthesia wears off beside I let Peggy take my car so I’m stranded here.” You says

“Alright fine I don’t want you touching the glass or lifting shit so just sweep.” He says

You nod as you walk over grabbing a broom. And begin the chore of cleaning

————

You and Bucky clean and talk, laugh he mops up the spilled alcohol contents and moves the tables back.

There’s a static nose and music begins playing.

“Ah I forgot about that.” Bucky says looking over to the increasingly old jukebox.

“What?” You say

“My great great granddad had that installed here it once in a while it’ll go off and play music I thought I got it fixed, guess it’s back up again whatever.” He says

“I think it’s cool.” You say he gives you a small smile before going back to cleaning. You involuntarily hum along to the music which happens to play the song you listen too on repeat when ever it’s Sunday.

“I want a, a love that’s on the square, can’t seem to find somebody, and someone to care…” you softy sway and sing along.

Bucky takes notice to your antics and puts down the mop walking over to you. Your back facing him. He places his hand on your lower back kindly turning you to him before taking the broom Out of your hand placing it to the side.

“What are you doing?” You giggle as he takes your hand in his pulling you closer to him.

“Dancing with you.” He says a smile forms on your face as you look up at him. You softly sway to the music as if he’s from the 40s.

“My parents would listen to this song every Sunday and dance in the kitchen. It was thier wedding song.” You ramble.

He looks at you perfectly content as he pulls you closer to him chest to chest.

“When my dad went off to afaganistan my mom would dance with me in the kitchen to it…I um…I rember when the marshal came with my fathers uniform and flag and told my mom he was gone…she hugged his uniform and danced by herself all morning, this song on repeat.” You say resting your head against him.

“Later I found myself listening to it every Sunday.” You say

“Hmm that’s one another thing we have in common now.” He says you look up to him. He brushes his thumb against your chest.

“What our dead fathers?” You joke he chuckles and nods.

“That and Sunday means something else other than the end of the week day.” He says. He’s about to explain but you cut him off pressing your lips against his kissing him. He kisses back. Continuing where you both left off in the barn.

His hands roam your waist and yours untangle fingers in his hair he walks you back into a table as you sit utop it. Your hands move from his hair to his chest and stomach where you can feel his abs through the black shirt.

Your hand move under the shirt only breaking the kiss when he pulls back for a second to speak.

“I-i dont have anything.” He says his bright blue orbs dusky.” He sighs

You shake your head. Bringing his hand up you your arm as you runs his finger over the raised scar and bump letting his feel the implant.

“I got it covered.” You say he chuckles shaking his head as you pull his shirt off and over his head. He leans back to you to continue the kiss only for you to stop eyes glued to his toned front. Seeing scars littering his chest.

The most prominent one where his black and gold prosthetic meets his skin the marks of scratching and poor attachment from the silver one he had before.

“I-I know it’s ug-“ he says getting cut off by your lips on his chest kissing his scars as your thumbs feel along his abs. He groans his grip on your hips tightening. Your kisses move over to his prosthetic scar grazing it before kissing his neck and finding his lips giving them a peck.

“You’re beautiful.” You say.

He sighs not sure he’s heard anyone call him beautiful before and he quite likes it.

Placing his hand hand on your cheek he kisses you again passionately. Trying to Unbutton your flannel he rips it down the middle buttons flying off. Revealing your bras the motion from the broken shirt causes you cleave to jiggle making Bucky stir in this pants.

He kisses down your neck to your cleavage licking and sucking marking your chest and neck up easily. his hand snakes up your back and skillfully unclasps your bra. It falls off your shoulders and chest exposing you to him.

He gladly takes your breast in hand gripping it as he suckles in the other your nipple being swirled around his tounge. Making you cry out for him.

He pulls back a string of saliva snapping as his once bright blues are dusk with a sheen of lust. They flick to your bandages arm.

“Mm-mm” you say moving your other hand down your bodies palming his dick through the straining black jeans.

“Ah-f-fuck.” He gasps his metal hand gripping the table. The wood splitting under his grip as you slip your hand into his jeans feeling just how painfully hard he is.

You relieve him by pulling off his belt and snapping the button off his jeans. He pulls them down revealing his cock. Somehow it’s pretty. Perfectly shaped and colored.

Biting your lip you take it into your hand stroking it send a shiver up Bucky which prompts him to place his metal hand around your neck making you gasp and grip his cock.

“S-sorry.” He grunts pulling his hand away only for you to grab it again keeping the cool metal flush against your neck.

“Don’t pull away.” You gasp.

“I-“

You cut him off by kissing him he kisses you back after being reassured.

His hands move your waist to your pants unbuttoning and pulling them off.

“Lay back doll.” He says you let go of him laying back holding your self on your elbows.

His hand moves from your neck to your lower stomach pressing down lightly. His other presses a thumb against your clit making you gasp before he presses two fingers into your cunt. He groan at the feeling of you.

“F-fuck..” you shakily moan as he immediately find your g-spot pressing and stroking it.

“B-Bucky..ngh.” You lay flat on your back no noticing he kneels down face to face with your gorgeous pussy.

Holding out his tongue he presses it to your clit tasting your swirling. A choked gasp leave your mouth not expecting him to feel this good. If he can do this with his mouth and fingers what wonders can he do with his dick.

Lost in pleasure your hand covers your mouth out of habit as you quiet yourself. He pulls away from you standing as he feels you clenching around his digits, ultimately denying you of finishing.

“Look at me doll.” He says you open your eyes seeing him as he kisses up your body giving your thighs a squeeze as he pushes them up so set himself between you.

“Take that hand off your mouth and let me hear you scream my name.” He says says. His southern accent erupting from thick throat. The comment alone could make you cum.

You take the hand from your mouth.

“Good girl.” He speaks again before glancing down angling his dick to you. Your eyes go wide at the comment once again. You rock your hips brushing his tip against ur entrance.

“What? You like that…hmm being called a good girl?” He says his pupils blown with lust.

“Y-yes..” you say

You feel him push his length into you. His moan makes you melt as he basically whimpers to the feeling of you stretch around him.

His hands cup your breast as he begins to thrust the fat of your breasts jiggle prompting his to kiss your buds.

your nails scratch into his back as he leans forward to kiss you muffling the sounds you make. You can hear the sound on metal scraping against the wood of the table under you as you pull him closer to you rocking your hips against him.

His metal hand grips your thigh as he draws in a shaky breath breaking contact with ur lips.

“SH-shit y/n…” he gasps as you feel his cock twitch inside you making you smile. Your smile immedetly fades when he pulls out of you all together the empty feeling pissing you off.

“I ain’t cumming before you doll.” He says pulling you down to the edge of the table and lifting you before flipping you over and lightly pushing your front back down to the table before he thrusts back into you.

“A-ah ah…fuuuck.” you choke out the moans as his dick strokes your g-spot over and over immediately making you cum with a whimper.

You claw at the table as he absolutely rails you into oblivion. His hand moves from your hips to your cunt his fingers instantly finding your clit circling it overstimulating you.

Your knees go weak as you start you crumble under the pleausre.

“Stand up.” He barks at you slapping your ass. You listen legs shaking as he wraps his arms around your waist holding you up. You feel the familiar knot forming in the pit of your stomach once more. Buckys thrusts stagger as he cums with a rough thrust leading you two your second orgasm.

You feel buckys lips kissing your back and shoulders. He moves youre hair to the side kissing your cheek. He makes his way to youe neck only to hesitate when he sees the forming bruise.

“Im sorry..” he says before slipping out of you. You frown at his sudden pulling away you stand only to go baby deer and your legs give out. Before hitting the ground you’re caught by him.

“I got you.” He says holding you up. His eyes search your body seeing the reddending skin where he was gripping you.

“Mm my eyes are up here.” You say looking at him. He looks up at you.

“You alright I didn’t hurt you did I” he says running his thumb over your neck. You shake your head and look back at the table seeing it cracked and scratched and visibly damaged.

“I think the table is worse than me.” You giggle looking back at him.

He nods before pecking your lips.

“H-hold on.” He says reverting back to his quiet self as he sets you against the table. He pulls up his pants and walks over to a cabnet pulling out a blanket before walking back to you wrapping it around you.

You smile at him. He scrambles around the room picking up the articles of clothing placing them next to you as he then helps you redress as he give you his own shirt for ripping yours.

“Would you maybe like to stay? I could take you home in the morning.” He says.

“You sure? I dont wan to intrude i-“ you begin “please. Stay” he says.

“Okay.”

#bucky x reader #Southern bucky xreader #Cowboy bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky smut #bucky barnes one shot

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cthulhu-with-a-fez · 2 months

Note

i started naruto a few years ago and made it to like the second arc in shippuden before stopping so i never made it to the kakashi backstory but....your notes compel me. tell me more.

okay so like take this with several grains of salt because the sum total of my sources here are "my understanding of the plot and characters as synthesized from the Abridged Revised Illustrated Edition my datemate's been writing me over the last two months", a handful of clips, and the only three (3) episodes of this 600+ episode show i've seen in my life, none of the three of which were relevant to the kakashi backstory

h o w e v e r

oh my god. my dude. my man. [holds him up like longcat] there is so much wrong with you and i'm enthralled.

so like here's the thing. here's the big takeaway that i'm understanding. this whole series is an ongoing exercise in generational trauma bullshit and everyone trying so hard to course-correct from their own tragic backstories that they accidentally set up their kids/students to have completely different but still somehow exactly the same tragic backstories, and naruto's chronic case of shounen anime power-of-friendship-itis is, i mean. yes it's him being the platonic ideal of Pure Of Heart And Dumb Of Ass but it's also a direct response to seeing ninja society's perpetual tragic backstory generator and going "this is bullshit, why are we even fighting? tell me what your side is, and i'll tell you what our side is, and then we can figure out how to make our sides the same side so none of us have to fight about it at all!" and honestly i love that but this ain't about him

so like. to explain kakashi we have to explain kakashi's father sakumo first. because sakumo was one of konoha's powerhouses, been on tons of successful missions, well-liked, well-respected, one of the earliest and loudest adopters of konoha's then-new and radical pivot towards a ninja being people first and disposable tools never ideology.

he really, genuinely believed in that.

except then he and his team went on a mission. and it went really, really badly. and he had to choose between completing the mission objective or saving his teammates' lives, and he chose their lives, because those who fail their missions may be scum, but those who abandon their teammates are worse, right?

... no, actually.

just because the ideology had been circulating and people were broadly toeing the party line didn't mean they actually believed in it, and sakumo's mission failure was already causing critical backlash.after sakumo made it back to konoha he was a fucking pariah for it. he was never officially reprimanded, but he didn't need to be if people went out of their way to personally spit at his feet, and... one day young kakashi comes home to find his father's body on the floor, wrists slit and suicide note devolving into begging apologies beside him.

this, as you may imagine, fucked him up, and didn't exactly predispose him towards believing the party line about the value of life.

he gets put on a genin team that was. basically the alpha build of the sasuke-sakura-naruto team dynamic. because it was him, and rin the healer girl with a massive crush on him who he never gave the time of day, and obito the Loudest High-Vis Uchiha Who Ever Lived who had a massive crush on her, and minato their teacher who was doing his absolute best to try and get them through to understanding each other, which is an Ordeal

because kakashi at this point has internalized that the party line is pretty lies for the gullible, that his teammates are only there to drag him down, and it drives obito nuts because that's the same exact bullshit that his family keeps spouting that he's rejected as thoroughly as a 12.9-year-old can, how does kakashi not see that it's bullshit? and there's rin who's looking at kakashi like i can fix him?? and getting upset when he doesn't let them in at all or even really visibly care that they're trying, and it's one hell of a dysfunction junction but minato is working on it.

... and then the worst happens. their team is caught out alone and everything goes wrong. rin is captured and obito's body is half-crushed under a rock and one of kakashi's eyes got slashed out and none of them are going to make it out of this, at this rate, until obito calls kakashi closer and tells him to take his eye. take the sharingan. he'd give him both but the other one got squished. kakashi will do more with it than obito ever did, so use it to save rin. please. and here's kakashi in the middle of field surgery on his dying teammate finally, horribly realizing that sometimes the win condition is, actually, protecting your friends, and he's already lost. but he can still try to save rin, it was obito's dying wish.

by the time he found her it was already too late.

the people who'd captured her had tried, poorly, hastily, messily, to seal one of the Tailed Beasts into her, and she was already dying. she had a demon thrashing in her soul that was tearing her to shreds around it and all kakashi could do was mercy kill her

and she thanked him for it.

and he goes back to konoha, sole survivor of his team, charred by the newfound comprehension of why you have to care and what it feels like to lose what you love and with obito's sharingan in his head and rin's blood on his hands and something in him that was already hanging on by a thread finally snapped.

and the only thing he could think to do, the only way he could even parse that grief through, is to just... make himself into a living memorial to them. he started trying to live as obito. adopt his mannerisms, his interests, craft his entire adult persona around his memories of his friend like a grave offering, and quarantine the bleakly mercenary anything-to-get-the-job-done ice in him off into the hound mask he wore as part of konoha's black ops division, which he joined at the ripe old age of way too fucking young.

he uses the sharingan to incredibly brutally efficient effect, copying enemy jutsus and bringing them back until the library's overflowing with them. but in the end, no matter how many he can technically use, they're still just cheap copies. and so is he.

and in the meantime the uchiha are collectively losing their shit about this random outside kid having one of their eyes in his head and getting all kinds of dubious 'glory' with it, and oh, wouldn't you look at that, they have a prodigy too!

... yeah.

itachi gets shoved through the rank advancements on a timeframe of "whatever he did you have to do it faster and better." and then the kyuubi broke free. and minato and kushina died, and a fuckton of the home guard uchiha died, and suddenly he's the most able-bodied fighter in their clan overnight at age 11 and the uchiha pull strings to get him into ANBU as well.

and kakashi is his teammate.

kakashi is his teammate and kakashi sees in itachi a whole awful lot of the edges of the way kakashi used to be, sees itachi trying to live up to and embody the absolutely impossible ideal of the perfect ninja, and he tries so god damn hard to nudge him gently towards something, anything, other than that.

but in the meantime, the uchiha have been... scheming. with danzo, Guy With The World's Biggest Chip On His Shoulder About Not Being Hokage, who's been marinating in a paranoia spiral for years. danzo had tried to set himself up as kakashi's palpatine, and tried to get him to assassinate hiruzen, and kakashi hears him out, and turns right around and goes to hiruzen with it instead, and danzo is pissed. the uchiha are pissed. danzo warns hiruzen that they're almost definitely going to try again and they're gonna make the uchihas' little prodigy do it this time, and kakashi silently braces to have to fight and maybe kill his teammate he was trying so hard for, and then...

and then itachi, who'd been watching his clan get. worse. for a long time. finds his cousin shisui, his best friend shishui, bleeding out in the dirt, who tells him everything, tells him danzo tried to have shisui killed for finding it out, and it worked, he's dying, but he's not dead yet, so please. make it count.

.......................................... And Then The Uchiha Massacre.

and now itachi is one more person that kakashi tried to care about who got destroyed.

and then fast forward a little bit further, he's been retired from active-duty ANBU after a decade-plus of service because the sharingan is starting to burn him out, he's starting to lurch to a halt like unwound clockwork without something to Do, and... he gets given team seven. the worst of konoha's gremlin children.

a bitter, disillusioned loner with a chip on his shoulder and the skill to back it up, the healer girl with a crush on him that he never gives the time of day, and the Loudest High-Vis Pest In The Village.

you see where this is going.

kakashi who at this point has been coasting along by bouncing between mask-personae for years is now having to dynamically engage with life again because if he isn't present and actively responding to his team then there's a nonzero chance he'll turn around to find all three of them chewing on the drywall and he cannot default to scripted responses because they don't work on a pack of middle schoolers hellbent on squabbling til the cows come home. and it's kind of good for him?

but also, uh. [gestures broadly towards... Sasuke(TM) and the rest of the plot]

and yeah i'm not gonna get too much further into it because i'm not confident enough in my own comprehension of the timeline to do that XD but like.

hatake kakashi is a scarecrow of a man stitched together out of his dead best friend, a hunting hound, and his dead best friend again, who's spent his entire life behind one mask or another, who over the course of the series keeps surviving shit that by all odds he shouldn't have, or survives specifically because the people he cares about throw their plot armor around him before they die, and he has a personality mostly composed of the crumpled-up pages of the memetically worst-written trashy bodice-ripper novels ever published because obito used to love them and the inexplicable receipts of other people's love for him, and i want to put him in a gas station hot dog roller and perceive him.

thank you for coming to my ted talk XD

#answered asks by cwaf #snorlaxlovesme #kakashi hatake #naruto #yeah so like this very much is a thirdhand synthesis Take on it XD but oh my god. holy shit #this series is a masterclass in what is quite possibly the oldest story beat humanity has ever had #which is 'growing up realizing that your adult is fucked up because Their Adult was fucked up because THEIR ADULT was fucked up'#'and responding to it by either becoming them; becoming as different from them as possible; or a secret third thing'#anyway here i am showing up to the weeb-ubiquitous kakashi stan phase 20 years late with starbucks lmao #mr from-accounting you have so many things wrong with you and i love that for me

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unmaskthewriter · 8 months

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Blood Feuds, Ancient and Modern {John Marston x GN!Reader}

Summary: As the daughter of an infamous and wanted outlaw, you were always a target. Dutch never considered someone would go as low to harm you.

A/N: welcome back, dearest readers! I wanted (and still do) to write for John, I don’t know how to feel about this one though. 10/7 EDIT: I FIXED THIS TO BE GENDER NEUTRAL. I READ IT TO MAKE SURE BUT LMK IF I MISSED OR COULD FIX SOMETHING

Word Count: 1747

Warnings: angst, violence, mentions of minor character death

GIF IS NOT MINE! ALL CREDITS GO TO ADAMPAGE

You lay peacefully in the seclusion of your tent as the sun creeps slowly into the sky. Around camp, birds sing as members of the gang slowly begin to stir. Coffee is brewed and breakfast is prepared. Having previously made plans for the day, you awoke at dawn, getting dressed into a deep blue blouse and black pants held up with suspenders.

“G’morning, Pearson.” You greet as you pour yourself a cup of coffee and grab some food for breakfast. You look around the camp, observing that John was not yet awake.

“G’morning.” He nods to you as you swiftly drink your coffee and eat your breakfast. Afterwards, you approach your horse and saddle her before mounting.

“Where do y’think you’re going?” A gruff voice asks, approaching you. You turn to see Arthur standing a few feet away, beside his own horse. You could barely distinguish his features in the dark, and the hat he wore didn’t help.

“Mr. Morgan, why would I indulge you in any personal matters?” You toy with him, a small smirk playing at your lips.

“No reason. Just don’t get yerself killed. I don’t wanna hear it from Dutch or John later.” He waves before mounting his horse and riding off in the opposite direction. Your father, Dutch, was careful to let you out of camp, much less alone. He had already lost your mother, Annabelle, to Colm O’Driscoll’s thirst for revenge. He couldn’t bear to lose you either. You were too young to remember her.

“Let’s go girl.” You pat your horse's neck before gently kicking into her sides. You think back to John as you ride towards Rhodes. The previous night, you two had gotten into an argument.

You had been tipped off by a man in town that there was an ex-outlaw in the Bluewater Marshes sitting on a sum of money. John didn’t think it was trustworthy.

“We don’t know this place or these people! C’mon now, use your brain!” John shouted at you. You take a step back, shaking your head. You walk away before giving him a chance to explain.

You knew he had a point, John cared for you deeply. Your father knew, and trusted John enough to love and care for his only child.

Before you could make it to Rhodes, a few armed men emerge from the trees. You slow to a stop.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, gentleman?” You ask, your free hand resting on your holster. Before you could react, someone behind you had spooked your horse, causing her to rear onto her back legs, tossing you. You land onto the ground with a loud thump. You look around hazily, seeing a man stand over. You quickly reach for your gun only to be kicked in the stomach. It sends you back, the revolver sliding a few feet away.

“Your daddy shoulda been more careful. Ain’t too smart of you to trust us, huh?” The man chuckles before his fist makes contact with your face, knocking you out.

—

As the sun sank lower into the evening sky, Arthur had returned to camp. Dismounting, he sees John and Dutch conversing.

“I know you worry. Arthur!” Dutch approaches quickly with John in tow, “have you seen my child?” Dutch questioned. Arthur hitches his horse to the post.

“Uh, not since dawn… believe they was heading to Rhodes to follow up on that tip.” Arthur mentioned.

“They took ‘em! They shoulda known it was a trap.” John raises his voice, throwing his hands into the air.

“Who?”

“Those damn Braithwaites. They had given them a tip on some score out in the marshes. Kieran thought he saw a few heading that way earlier this morning.” Hosea explains carefully as he approaches. Dutch turns to John who is silently fuming.

“We will find them and bring ‘em back to you, and kill anyone who would have the temerity… to touch one hair on their head… so help me, God.” Dutch calmly stated. Inside, he was raging with emotions, none of them good. How could someone take his child? Was this some sick joke, or revenge for all he’s done?

In the meantime, the men who had captured you had hogtied you and pulled a dark sack over your head. You could faintly hear their discussion and laughter.

“How much do you think he’ll pay for this sack o’ shit?”

“A bit, I imagine. Mother told me that they are the child of that scum outlaw that’s been seen in Rhodes. And one of those outlaws he runs with is sweet on ‘em.” You pass back out.

Two days have passed before you wake back up. Sitting up slowly, you groan and look around. You were in a large, lavish bed that didn’t belong to you. You had been changed into expensive sleepwear, and your clothes were clean and folded on a chair in the corner. Beside the bed were a pair of slippers. Slowly, you push yourself out of bed, and shuffle over to the mirror. In the reflection, you see the extent of the damages. A bruised, and cut left eye that you could barely see from, a busted lip and bruised ribs. Shit.

You should have listened to John, you thought as you walked carefully over to the window. You could see a city bustling with life and excitement, the sun sinking low into the sky until you could barely see it anymore. You hear a knock on your door, and a maid stands behind you.

“Mr. Bronte has instructed me to dress you for dinner.” She stands there with her hands folded at her waist.

“D-dinner?” You ask, a headache growing as you hold your hand to your head.

“Yes. You’ve been asleep for two days. You would only wake for a glass of water or to go to the bathroom.” She explains, shutting the door behind her and walking over to your dresser.

“Hell.. I don’t even remember..” You whisper to yourself, watching as she pulls out this lavish outfit that compliments your features.

“N-no,” You tell her, “I want to wear my clothes.” You insist, shuffling over and grabbing them from the chair. She remains silent, pressing her lips together as if in deep thought before helping you undress from the sleepwear and dress into your pants and blouse. Afterwards, she leads you to a large dining room. At the head of the table sat a formally dressed man. You stop in your tracks.

“Ah, you’re awake.” He stands from his seat. The table was laden with different dishes, mostly pasta and wine.

“Mr. Bronte?” You ask, confused as the maid guides you to your chair, helping you sit.

“That’s my name,” He explains, sitting back down after you, “you’re my guest here in Saint Denis for the time being. Do eat, the chef is exquisite.” He explains as he begins making his plate.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Bronte, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I have to go-“ You stand from your chair, prepared to leave.

“Sit back down.” He demands calmly. You look at him and slowly sit back down.

“I do not mean to scare you. No harm will come to you here.” He explains. You nod quietly and make your plate. Mr. Bronte begins to regale you on the history of Saint Denis and the surrounding area as you both eat. You go through a few glasses of wine. Towards the end of dinner, a butler enters the room and whispers to Mr. Bronte. He stands, wiping the edges of his mouth with a cloth.

“Excuse me. It seems time has gotten away from us, and I have guests. Miss Penelope, if you’d be so kind as to escort our guest back to their room.” He instructs before leaving. The maid from earlier escorts you back to your room, watching you enter before shutting the door behind her as she leaves. You sigh, looking around the room.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

You navigate the novels in the bookshelf of your room, eventually choosing one to read as you sit in the lounge chair. You weren’t sure what you were trying to attempt by reading, you could hardly focus. You needed to be thinking of a way of escape, yet your mind wanders to the gang.

Did they even realize you were gone? Did John care enough to see past the argument to come to your aid? You wonder how your Father is handling everything. Hosea is probably running circles to keep your father’s head on straight.

You let out a sigh, returning the book to its proper shelf. You wander over to the window. Outside, the moon and stars had taken over, leaving the city dimly lit and quiet. Another knock interrupted the silent isolation the room provides you.

“Excuse me, some men are here for you.” Miss Penelope explains, standing at the door. You quickly turn, your heart skipping a beat as you rush out the room, and quickly down the stairs. The butler standing outside opens the door for you.

“Father.” You whisper as he stands and looks at you, fighting a smile. He nods to Mr. Bronte before approaching you. He gently hugs you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes… the Braitwaithes did this, not him. Let’s get outta here, please.” You whisper before he leads you outside. At the gates, John and Arthur are talking amongst themselves. It looks as though John hadn’t eaten or slept for days. Arthur lights himself a cigarette.

“John!” You cry out, running down the steps and towards him. He turns, lifting you gently into his arms. You wince slightly and he quickly sets you down, cupping your face in his hands. You lean into his calloused touch.

“Who did this to you?”

“The Braithwaites… John, I’m so sorry, I should have listened-'' You apologize, looking down in shame. He gently placed a hand on your chin, forcing you to look up to him. Dutch had caught up with you three and had began quietly conversing with Arthur as the two walked to their horses.

“Don’t… I’m just glad you’re alive.” He fights back tears, “if I lost you… I…” He tells you before leading you to his horse. Carefully helping you mount his horse, he does the same and sits in front of you.

“Let’s go home.”

#red dead fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption #john marston x reader #john marston #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #rdr2 #x reader #red dead redemption x reader

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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Villain: Lord Idric Lenzalla , Threadpuller

Oh what a Tangled Web he weaves

Setup: A penniless footman moves to town after inheriting his grandmother’s cottage, disgraced and socially ruined after being caught nicking the silverware. Looking for things to sell among the clutter of his new domicile he ends up stumbling across his grandmother’s loom and in the process of repairing and cleaning it he feels drawn to see if it still works. He works through the night and awakens in the morning to find that not only has he produced a tapestry summing up the events of his life, the most recent edge of it shows him being hired to work among the local lord’s staff and Lo and behold the tapestry has come true, granting the footman second chance at life. Or he would have, if he hadn’t been rejected after propositioning a maid servant and he began to think what else he might be able to change with the miraculous loom, at which point the contraption breaks just as Idric is weaving in his encounter with the maidservant and no matter what part he tries the loom will not be fixed, forcing him to live with his mistake half mended.

That is until a week or two later when he finds a dead cat in his yard, a bone protruding from its body that looks like it would be a perfect fit for the loom’s mechanisms. Thus we begin Idric’s decent into darkness, as he seeks to undo each new hiccup in his life, and each time requiring a greater and more grisly sacrifice. Salvaging dead animals turns to poisoning his neighbor’s pets and butchering their livestock, which leads to graverobbing as Idric vies for a promotion in his lord’s house to head valet. It’s not until he’s sitting down with a fellow servant, an concomitant bumbler and tattle that always made more work for him, that Idric got a sense that the man’s restlessly bouncing thigh would make a great replacement for one of the loom’s treadles that had just given out, and that he should invite the sot over for tea some time and show him his grandmother’s pride and joy.

The hand of Lolth is at work in Idric’s life, having sighted in the young man a seed of ambition and cruelty that she hopes to nurture into true monstrosity. Each time he uses the loom to enact his fantasies, going so far as to unweave events of his life to ensure other events later down the line, Idric lets more of the lie-weaver’s influence in, as represented by more and more spider imagry entering the tapestry over time.

Hooks:

The party is drawn to town by a request from Halthorn, the local lord, as the rumors of rampant deaths have spread along the trade road, and now the whole settlement is in need of some heroes to help solve the matter. When the party get to town however they discover they are in the company of one lord Lenzalla, who doesn’t remember inviting any sellswords to his court but will gladly sup with them before sending them on their way. In the fortnight since Halthorn dispatched the message Idric’s ambition and jealousy grew great enough to weave himself in his employer’s place, taking both his pretty wife and his estate for his own. Hearing tell of the party’s adventures over dinner however will give lord Lenzalla an idea: there’s an old ruin in the forest nearby, what if he weaved a fabulous treasure there and sent the party to find it, only after signing an agreement to split it fairly of course. Such an alteration will require several days of effort and the lives of three of his subjects, but he’s been stockpiling them in his dungeon for just such an occasion.

No matter what Idric says, there’s still a killer on the loose and the party’s stay on his estate and in town will give them a chance to question the locals about the killings and the mysterious missing lord Halthron. As it turns out, editing him out of everyone’s recollection didn’t stop them from noticing all the murders he performed in order to work his enchantment, or the old lord from actually existing, as he now dwells in a cluttered cottage (once belonging to an old weaver woman) as a memory addled hermit.

When Idric weaves, he sometimes feels as if he has multiple arms working in concert, as the spider queen works through him to create a false reality which adheres to his ambition’s design. The tapestry that serves as an anchor for this distortion now coils over itself, still affixed to the loom as it dominates an attic room the new lord Lenzalla has quardened off for his work. Should the Tapestry ever be damaged, Idric’s enchantments will begin to unravel, and should it ever be destroyed he will suffer a gruesome fate, transformed into a fateless creature all spiderlimbs and dead possibilities, which must be hunted before it can attempt to build a new loom from the corpses of innumerable victims.

The Raven Queen ( or other local god of Fate) will have quite a lot to say about Lolth playing around with such reckless causality, and will doubtless play a key role in snipping this loose thread through the use of omens and a few decisive interventions.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #adventure #5e homebrew #homebrew adventure #lolth #villain #mid level #low level #mystery #monster hunt #treasure hunt #town #Village #fate #Cursed item

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steviestits · 2 months

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royalty and hypnotism? maybe?

Sure! Thanks for the prompt!

Edit: This is a dark fic. CW for gaslighting, I guess.

Steve is a commoner born in a small town where his father is the mayor. He lives an average life and has never left the village in his entire twenty years of existence. All he knows is how to help out his fellow villagers and give selflessly as he's a dedicated member of the community, so it's his duty to work hard and labor.

That is until one day the king's carriage breaks down while on his way to a summit in another country. The only village nearby is Steve's, meaning the king must seek help from them for repairs. Steve offers up his services, which is when King Edward first lays eyes on him and is taken by Steve's beauty.

Eddie thinks that Steve's hands are way too beautiful to be put to work fixing carriages and doing errands for townsfolk. He wants to take Steve with him, but Steve doesn't want to go as he has obligations to the village. However, his dad forces him to go with the king, telling him that it would be good for the village if he went since it would get them a steadier line of supplies. (Also, Eddie purchased Steve from Steve's dad for a good sum of gold, but that's neither here nor there, is it?)

Wanting to help the village by gaining the favor of the king, Steve goes with Eddie once the carriage is fixed and is forced to travel to the summit with the king. The ride is amiable as unlike most nobles, Eddie seems to know about commoners. Eddie confesses was raised as one by his uncle until the former king died and with no other heirs, that's how Eddie found out he was the king's bastard son, which Steve never knew. Those at the castle prefer if no one knew the truth about Eddie's childhood.

They reach the summit, which is hosted by King Jeffery, a friend of Eddie's. Because they're friends, Jeff makes special accommodations for Steve, despite Steve's protests. Eddie tells him that he wants to take Steve from the peasant life so he can live like Eddie lives now. Steve is so beautiful that he should never have to lift a finger again. Of course, Steve continues to refuse and decides to stay in his room for most of the summit instead of joining him.

The summit is between four kingdoms who all share a border and because of this, they've all become friends. Gareth suggests Eddie use hypnotism to change Steve's mind. He's seen it done, and the results were amazing. The hypnotist manged to change the person's whole way of thinking. If he tries that on Steve then maybe he'll be able to enjoy the luxuries that Eddie is offering him. Though Eddie is intrigued, he's worried that it wouldn't work because of Steve's strong feelings for his village.

Grant suggests that they change Steve memories, too. He had an older sister that he never knew as they had died before Grant was born. They could come up with the story that his sister never died but was merely in hiding since childhood and they faked her death for one reason or another. He selfishly admits that he'd always wanted an older sister, so he'd be more than happy to help Eddie make new memories for Steve if it meant he gained one.

Plan decided, Gareth contacts the hypnotist and brings him to the castle. The hypnotist tells them that they need to change Steve's logical thinking while he's in the trance for him to believe the new memories that they wish to give him. He has to believe down to his very core that he is a princess and that Grant is his brother. So, they get to work collecting materials to sink Steve into the illusion that they wish to set up for him.

Steve still thinks the summit meeting is going on, so he isn't bothered by how much time is passing, only that he misses his village. He's a little confused when they bring in a man to see him and tell him that the man is there to help him relax. Though Steve is skeptical, he keeps his bitchy comments to himself then goes along with what they ask, not thinking that the man can help him relax given how far away from home he is.

The hypnotist successfully helps Steve sink into a trance. They start by doing his hair and makeup before dressing him in a gown. Thus, they logically convince the hypnotized Steve that he must be a princess since he looks like one. Commoners don't dress in the types of jewels and silks that Steve is wearing, after all.

This continues with them showing Steve childhood portraits and ones that they doctored to feed into the logic that Steve is a princess and that he's been in hiding since childhood. He's very happy to be back at the palace where he can be pampered and spoiled again. Given the evidence they show him, and since his mind is open to suggestion due to the hypnotism, Steve accepts this as truth.

It's announced the next day that the summit meeting was about the princess and those from Grant's kingdom rejoice that their princess was never dead and is now back safely with them. Steve doesn't question any of it as the hypnosis successfully created new logical memories given what he was told while in the trance.

Steve returns with Grant, but Eddie visits him often, spoiling him as Eddie feels Steve deserves to be spoiled. Eventually, Eddie asks for Steve's hand in marriage, and Steve accepts. The two get married, and both kingdoms are happy to have such a beauty as their queen with no one ever suspecting Steve's true origins.

#show: stranger things #steddie #my fics #alex answers #wip wednesday #but on a monday

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fel0ny-01 · 6 months

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Call of Duty Characters as Taylor Swift Songs: 1989 Edition

So Rep and 1989 did tie but it makes sense to start with 1989 first so I can go in order of official release date! I hope you enjoy!

Price: I Know Places

As cringey as it sounds, it almost makes me feel like this song features some things he would tell the boys (which is how it reminds me of him) Like,

“They got their cages, they got their boxes and guns”

“They are the hunters we are the foxes”

And this one relates to the missions where you need to check your light monitor thing in the first game.

“Lights flash and we’ll run for the fences”

And of course,

“They take their shots but we’re bulletproof” and “You know for me, it’s always you” which I think reflects his love for his boys very well.

Gaz: Style

Honestly I don’t have much of a reasoning behind this one except Gaz literally never goes out of style.

“And when we go crashing down we come back every time” this reminds me of how many times Gaz has almost died but he bounces back so quickly.

I also think he’d dance to this one in his room alone.

Soap: Bad Blood

This perfectly sums up the entire Graves Betrayal thing. Especially the lyrics “Still got scars on my back from your knife” and “Band Aids don’t fix bullet holes”. He definitely listens to this to hype himself up in the gym when he’s trying to let out all his rage in a workout.

(If you were on the ‘Graves and Soap had a thing’ before the entire betrayal, “you know it used to be mad love” fits there too.)

Ghost: Out of the Woods

This fits Ghost so well. I think he constantly feels like he isn’t out of the woods with constantly being targeted/feared by people as his reputation makes him seem like this beast on the field. And definitely just in general being asked if they’re clear on missions.

But I also think some lines can be told from Soap’s perspective from the alone mission. Especially the “remember when you hit the breaks too soon?” When Ghost literally rams into the stand with the car? And the “20 stitches in a hospital room”, no doubt his bullet wound would need stitches.

If you are a beloved Ghoap shipper like me, the entire bridge could kind of be a nod to what would have happened after Alone.

“When you started crying baby I did too and when the sun came up I was looking at you”

“Remember when we couldn’t take the heat, I walked out and said “I’m setting you free” - such a nod to all the fics where Ghost gets so scared to be with Soap because he thinks he’s dangerous.

“but the monsters turned out to be just trees, and when the sun came up you were looking at me” - Soap showing Ghost he’s not as bad as he thinks he is and Ghost finally believing it.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #cod mw2 #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #john price #swifties #Taylor Swift #call of duty x swifties #cod characters as Taylor songs

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internerdionality · 2 years

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Lightly edited rant containing unpopular opinions. If you like Christmas, that's fine. Please just move on and don't read this. I'm not interested in helping anyone through a fragility meltdown today.

It annoys me when people say Happy Holidays. It feels like fake multiculturalism and only *slightly* better than people who just wish everyone Merry Christmas. Sometimes I actually *prefer* Merry Christmas because at least they're being honest? IDK I really just wish people wouldn't force me into their celebrations.

Liberal American Christians love to talk about how "well practically every religion has a holiday in December so it's just a spiritual time that we should all acknowledge, darkest time of the year, bring back the light blah blah blah" but that's actually pretty much just BS?

Like, most religions have lots of festivals and observances throughout the year. Plenty of other times of the year have groupings of holidays. The winter solstice isn't any *more* important on a global scale than the other major turnings of the year. So then why do we say happy holidays at midwinter and not at the other equinoxes and solstice?

It's because America is a Christian country, and Christian "values" and "culture" get forced on all of its inhabitants. And Christmas in particular is used as this *bludgeon* to inextricably bind Americanism to Christianity. And if you push back against it, you get seen as anti-American and antisocial. (Which, admittedly, for me is fair, but hey!) And that's not just from conservatives. I've had LOTS of discussions with liberals about Christmas and the "winter holidays" that can basically get summed up as "well, it's just basically secular and has universal themes of family and love and generosity so you should just be happy to celebrate it."

Except that Christmas *cannot* be separated from its Christian roots and tying it to American neocapitalism just makes it more toxic. I don't want to celebrate it and I'm *so tired* of living through two (if I'm lucky) straight months of forced observance of someone else's religion.

And yeah, happy holidays just reinforces that, it doesn't make it better. As a Jew, if you say happy holidays to me during Hanukkah and not during Passover or the Days of Awe, it's pretty obvious that it's about Christmas (and forced assimilation) and not about inclusiveness. If you say happy holidays for Bodhi day but not Vesak, that's not about multiculturalism. If you say happy holidays during Kwanzaa but not on Junetheenth, that's not about diversity. If you say happy holidays during Ramadan (on the rare occasions that Ramadan even falls in December) but not on Eid al-Adha (or vice versa), then it's pretty obvious that's not about anything other than making sure everyone else is forced to join in on YOUR celebration.

(And if anyone's going, "well, but everyone celebrates the New Year"—nope. While the US’ year end can be traced back to Rome, it was Christianity that spread it throughout the world and is responsible for us celebrating in midwinter. Other calendars vary wildly. Many aren't actually fixed to the solar year, but for those that are, beginning the year at the end of summer or the end of winter is actually more common than midwinter. But anyway, using happy holidays to refer to New Year's Day isn't much less Christian-centric than using it to refer to Christmas).

And like, no judgment to people who like happy holidays and want everyone to use it, I'm just tired.

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shootybangbang · 10 months

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[Talking Bird] Chapter 22: In which swallows are shot

[Ao3 link]

[Content Warnings]: implied/referenced sexual assault, implied/referenced incest

I'm immensely grateful to @reddeaddufus and @verai-marcel for editing this. Without their support, I could not have gotten nearly as far in this fic as I have.

Note: dialogue that is spoken in Chinese will be denoted with 《sample text》

Note for people who speak Chinese: for the sake of clarity, all Chinese names have been transcribed in western fashion as [given name_surname] instead of the customary [surname_given name]

————

“One more favor? Last time, I promise.”

“And what might that be,” Trelawney asks stiffly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the green rush of fields and forest streaking across the train’s smudged window, and crosses his arms as he settles into the cracked leather seat opposite your own.

The man is obviously still miffed by the state of his cheese supply. He’s taking up now the practice he always defaults to when feeling resentful: taking great pains to pretend that he isn’t. But you’d seen the way his face had fallen when he’d caught sight of his depleted reserves, heard what censures he’d hissed at Arthur when he thought you out of earshot— judging by the effort it’s currently taking him to keep himself civil, he’ll be quietly sore about this for a month, at least.

“Would you kindly ask the police to give Martin Street a wide berth on Tuesday? The Chinatown patrol on weekdays is still just old Bertram, I think. Five dollars should do it.”

“Martin St? That’s—”

“My former place of employment, yes.”

“Lee.” Trelawney’s superficial disdain drops the second he realizes the implications. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I could’ve said the same thing to you about a hundred times by now,” you retort. “But I never have. Because it’s not my business.”

“This is different.” He puts his hand to his temples like he’s incurred a migraine. A show of genuine regret. “This is my fault.”

”What’re you talking about?”

“Arthur can sometimes be… shockingly altruistic when it comes to women and children.” He pauses a beat, then amends, “When he thinks nobody’s looking, that is. I told him your situation thinking it might spark some sympathy in him, but if he’s decided to rope you in on some reckless scheme, then—”

“It’s the other way around.”

Trelawney looks at you sharply, with that analytic gaze you’ve always done your utmost to avoid— like he’s peering through a glass house containing all your faults. You stare instead at the small cluster of belongings nestled in your lap. The sum of all your present earthly possessions: the blue notebook, the keyring, and a handful of nickels and dimes you’d managed to wheedle from Morgan before he’d let you step into the train and out of sight.

“I ran an idea past him,” you explain, still not meeting his eyes. “He said he’d think about it. I’m eighty percent sure that nothing’s going to happen at all. But… I’d like the street clear anyway. Just as a precaution. And also the… y’know, the…” Lightly, you chew the inside of your cheek. “The contingency plan.”

“The contingency plan in the event of your death.” He sounds like he’d like to seize you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you.

You nod. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. But if it does, that claim’s gonna need to be filed as soon as possible.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll have two dead women on your conscience instead of just one.”

He stays silent so long that the pressure of that quiet builds and builds until the sigh he lets out, bereft of any theatricality, hisses rather like the defeated wheeze of a punctured balloon. “There’s no talking you out of this.”

“No. But when have you known me to be reasonable?” You offer him a smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. He does not return it.

“How exactly were you planning on setting this up?” he asks. “Because if you’d like me to serve as a distraction, or—”

“What? I don’t want you to serve as anything.” The confusion in his face confuses you. “You’ve got a wife. Your two boys. And besides, you’ve got no stake in this.”

You can see that irritating shine in his eyes spark up— the one that he always gets when he thinks he’s found a compelling argument, like he’s turned a pin and cracked open a difficult lock. A kindness in his countenance that might disarm you if you let him, and you know you have to shut him up quick.

“Well, you can at the very least tell me what time you —”

“Trelawney,” you interrupt. “You’re forgetting something. We’re business partners, not friends. I’ve owed you things. You’ve owed me things. This is the very last of it.”

He raises his eyebrows and sinks back against the cushioned seat with his hands folded in his lap. And he observes you now like he did in those early days, when every conversation had in it a deliberate and carefully delineated quid pro quo. “In any case,” he says. “I still don’t want to see you dead.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

But the words ring hollow even to you.

———

The tenement buildings on Mulberry Avenue are lined by rows of windows cracked and broken like poorly kept teeth, spilling out snippets of the lives they contain on a tepid suggestion of an autumn breeze. Their private melodramas float inconsequential as dead leaves: snatches of disembodied conversation, both tender and fraught with tension, and through the dispersed Babel of languages you can discern the disparate threads of base human existence. Two women bicker from across their respective balconies. A man laboriously practices English phrases in a thick, unrecognizable accent. A child sings brokenly in what might be Polish, and when her mother sings a fluid verse in response, you have to squeeze your eyes shut against the pang in your chest. On the back of your tongue, a phantom sip of river water lingers like a meal sampled from a nightmare.

You keep walking.

These days, crossing beneath Chinatown’s red and gold gate feels like just another level of damnation. You keep your head down as you walk, knowing how much you stand out even here: an Oriental woman walking freely in a white man’s attire. Your clothes are faded and torn, but even now are easily worth more than a laundryman’s monthly wage. A tattered condemnation of bygone ambition and broken aspiration. You glare down at your stained pants and, while deciding between whether to entertain self-hatred or its gentler cousin, self pity, nearly collide with a man hauling a cartful of hens to the butcher’s. The birds are placid in their wire cages, either ignorant of the knife that awaits them or utterly indifferent. As they pull past, a flutter of feathers settles atop the grimy cobblestones like flakes of auburn snow.

You climb up the corridor of an ashy bricked four-story building whose damp, dark stairwells never seem to dry out completely. The narrow window set in its turn lets in a creak of light in which motes of dust glint like suspended chips of gold, sanctifying the patch of black mildew that it falls upon in a meaningless blessing. When you trudge up to the third-floor landing, the guard sitting in his rickety hallway chair takes his cigarette out of his mouth and scrutinizes you with obvious suspicion. Prematurely returned and empty-handed as you are, you can hardly blame him.

《The shipment—》

You interrupt him. 《It’s been taken care of.》

《Lee,》 he says, not unsympathetically. 《You look like shit. What happened?》

《Got robbed.》 Before he can ask for details, the appetite for fresh gossip evident in the straightening of his back, you add, 《I’ll talk to Huang after I’ve gotten some food and a cup of tea in me.》

You plod to the last tenement in that unadorned corridor and slot the key to its lock, but the door catches when you try and pull it open, and you see the brass glint of the slotted latch chain still in place through the skinny gap. Heaving an irritated, bad-tempered sigh, you holler. 《Mei! It’s me!》

《Lee?》you don’t hear her footsteps– never have been able to, with that mincing way that she’s forced to walk. 《You said you wouldn’t be back until Thursday. Is everything—》

《Everything’s fine. Just open the door.》

She starts fretting over you before you can even sit down to unlace your goddamn boots. Her hands flutter a nervous cadence as she restrains herself from touching the bruise on your cheek. To compound things, Baoyu comes out from behind her skirt to curl his small hand tight in the fabric of your trousers, like he’s trying to anchor you before you can leave again.

The kid looks up at you with wide, unblinking brown eyes uncharacteristically serious for a four year old. He clutches his cloth sheep doll to his chest and asks, “Present?”

Fucking hell. Through the commotion of getting kidnapped, manhandled, and shot at, your customary duty of scrounging for some trinket with which to placate him had completely slipped your mind. “Ah, shi—”

He perks up. Seems to have a sixth sense for picking up the English words you don’t want him to learn, this kid. So you bite your tongue before it can flick out that damning last consonant and pivot. “I mean, sure. I uh…” As you rifle through your pockets with the ludicrous hope that something might miraculously manifest, a fit of inspiration strikes you like a conciliatory slap from god. You flip to Morgan’s sketch of Cotorra Springs in your ledger and begin ripping it out.

《He asked you for a present, didn’t he.》

《Yeah.》

《Baoyu.》Mei’s voice is stern, but she sounds more tired than upset. 《What did Mama say about begging Miss Lee for presents?》

Baoyu, already well-learned in the art of petitioning for leniency, looks up at you beseechingly. You sigh, then intercede upon his behalf. For chrissakes, it’s your fault the kid’s in this situation to begin with. 《I’ve been giving him acorns and shiny rocks,》you say. 《It’s fine.》

When you finish tearing the sketch free, you look it over one last time before the kid inevitably scrawls all over it with green crayon, same way he does over near everything he can get his hands on in recent days. There’s a new, and very verdant stain on the wall beneath the kitchen table where Mei had obviously tried very hard to scrub away a doodle of a lopsided forest.

The kid frowns and flips the paper up and down, squinting at it dubiously.

《What do you say?》 Mei prompts him.

《What is it?》he eyes the drawing with the critical eye of a disappointed patron at the Galerie Laurent.

His mother’s voice is clipped with expectation. 《Baoyu.》

《Thank you, Miss Lee.》 he says, dejectedly.

《You remember how to say it in English?》 you ask.

He frowns and furrows his brow. He looks angry when he’s deep in thought— a trait he’s somehow picked up from his father, despite the man’s gravedirt tenure for a full quarter of the kid’s life now.

“Thank you,” you enunciate.

“Thank you,” he repeats, already distracted. He looks longingly towards the corner of the room, where wooden blocks bearing penciled in capital letters on their sides line the wall in crooked, tottering constructions.

“Good.” You give him an absent pat on the shoulder. “Now shoo.”

Mei dogs your steps as you begin ransacking the kitchen cabinets for something other than dry beans and rice. 《You drew that?》

《No.》 You pick up a tin of sardines, consider it for a second, then firmly slot it back.

《I’m sorry, there’s not much. I was planning on going to market today—》

《Don’t bother. I’ll do it later.》

《No, you should rest! And besides—》

《I’m faster,》you interrupt, glancing conspicuously at her feet.

They’re half the size of your own, and bound with bandages beneath the tiny slippers she wears. Crushed beyond recognition into what was considered, she had once informed you bitterly, a lotus bud shape. Back in the motherland (that dream-wrought Avalon to which you owe your eternal classification, that country whose name you have heard sighed and cursed and whispered like a lover’s lament on the yearning tongues of so many workmen), she had murmured, clenching a cup of baijiu so tight that her knuckles had been moon-pale, girls from wealthy families have the bones in their feet broken and set again and again, folded inward and solidified with the distortion of healing. Suffering with it an education whose primary teachings lay in the art of transformation. How to wind golden silk over a ruin of mangled flesh until it resembled the newborn furl of a flower. How to thread a smile over the teeth-clenched rage of one’s own pinioning. How to limp and totter a cripple’s stuttering gait and call it a dance.

It was an education which Mei, the youngest daughter of a failing merchant family, had been bestowed at the tender age of six. And which she had continued to receive, owing to the metastasis of misfortune, through the later ordeal of having been exchanged to a pimp for just eleven silver sycees. The light had glinted off the ingots like shards of white fire, and she had seen the distortion of her own reflection in the rounded curve. A reminder that what was then warped could be contorted further still, the shape of her life twisted beyond reckoning.

She relents now at the reminder of her own debility, thins her lip and lowers her eyes as she crosses her arms tight. And the worst part of you, that which houses the old instinct to pinpoint ways in which you outcompete her, feels a vicious jab of satisfaction.

Well. The larder’s as good as empty. But there’s still tea left in the kettle. You reach for one of the painted china cups you still can’t bring yourself to sell, and Mei notices at last the bandage beneath your sleeve.

《Lee, your arm—》

《I’m fine.》

《Will you at least tell me what happened?》

You do not want to talk to her about this. You do not want to talk to her about any of it, really, and your heart clenches like a fist at the mere prospect of catching a glimpse of that lovely, sympathetic face of hers. The concern there, the genuine worry that brims like a perfect inverse of every hateful impulse you still keep primed for her— it makes you feel vaguely sick, for all your deliberate standoffishness.

Since Feng’s passing, there have been times where the two of you have nearly gotten along: halfway amiable conversations after Baoyu’s been put to bed shared over a draught of cheap rice wine. It’s always you who takes a step back before any real semblance of friendship can develop. And it’s always her who tries to smile and furnish some sort of excuse to allow you the opportunity to awkwardly slip away.

And when Feng had been alive? You’d been polite, but distant, much to his chagrin. Optimistic fool that he was, he’d constantly try and cajole you into conversation with her. Invite you over for dinner, then go out for a long smoke on the balcony, thinking perhaps that by merely stepping out of sight he might loosen the linchpin of your resentment. A fool through and through.

《Please, Lee.》

But considering what might happen next, you owe her at least the skeleton of the truth.

《Got robbed a day after I dropped off shipment.》You rattle the words off fast, as if clustered together they might conceal what you’ve chosen to omit. 《Looked pathetic enough that someone paid for my fare back. Walked back from the station, and here I am.》

Even an idiot can tell that you’ve left enough holes in your story that the entire legitimacy of it has been sieved out. Mei frowns. 《And your arm?》

《Got cut while I was getting robbed.》

Her eyes narrow. 《Who drew you that picture?》

《The man who found me pathetic enough to send home.》

《What was his name?》

You fill your cup and keep your eyes fixed on the amber stream of jasmine tea that trickles from the kettle spout. 《Don’t remember.》

《Listen,》 she says. 《You lie to me all the time. And I let you, because I know that if I say anything otherwise, you’ll tell me even less than you do now. But you’ve never come back hurt like this.》

《I’m just a little banged up—》

《I-If someone…》

Her voice breaks, and when you glance at her from over your shoulder, you can see a red rise of fear creeping up her cheeks. Guilt tightens your throat with the unrelenting grip of a hand at your windpipe. She speaks now like a flagging autumn wind. 《If a man hurt you like that…》

If someone did to you what your father did to me—

《... you don’t have to tell me. But everything you’ve gone through, I know it’s for me and Baoyu, and I— I’d like to know the cost of what that—》

《I don’t do it for you,》 you snap.

The retort comes out sharper than you’d intended it to. Mei blinks as though batting a speck of dust from her lashes.

《And not for Baoyu, either,》 you continue. 《I do it for Feng. So it’s him that owes me, not you. And that means it’s none of your business what the… ‘the cost’ or whatever is. And just so you know, it’s very annoying when you constantly pry into my affairs, but it’s even more annoying when you get all pathetic like this, so I’ll just fucking tell you, alright? The man who robbed me is the same man who brought me back home.》 You nod towards the door, where the kid is diligently coloring in Morgan’s sketch with purple and green crayons. 《And he drew me that picture on the way.》

Mei seems to be unsure exactly what kind of emotional response you’re currently trying to get out of her. She tries to settle her face into her usual placid, pretty mask of unbroachable porcelain, but the facade cracks as she looks silently from the drawing, to you, to the drawing again. 《Lee. I don’t… what?》

《You remember those bonds I brought back last time.》

She nods very slowly.

《I stole them off a man called Morgan. I ran into him in Strawberry the morning after I dropped off shipment, and…》

Maybe it’s the way that the ripening noon light filters through the burlap curtains, casting the magnified shadows of coarse fiber against the wall like latticework. Or maybe it’s the deferential tilt of your head as you mark the abstract pointillism the tea sediment settles into, as if reading the minutiae of existence will reveal to you some esoteric path. Or maybe it’s the cadence that runs through it all, the holy repetition inherent in all ritual, most of all the mundane, as you drain and refill the cup again and again. In any case, there’s a distinct air of confession in the arrangement. And accompanying it, an almost sacrosanct relief.

Through the better part of an hour, you tell her nearly everything. The mechanical resistance of the shotgun trigger against your pointer finger. A man’s bewildered profile caught in a halo of evening muzzleflare. Morgan’s promise of cruelty, his failure to follow through. Firelight and peaches, and cold tubfuls of soap and blood. The silhouette of a luna moth slicing a pale green streak through the dark.

You say nothing of the plan, though you give its tenuous outline a certain soundless consideration in the pauses between sentences. If she notices— and no doubt she does, she knows you far too well by now not to recognize the presence of what has been left unsaid, the unknown shape that casts its anonymous shadow when all else is lit— she says nothing of it.

《And,》 you conclude lamely. 《That is why I look like shit.》

Mei nods sagely and, with a thoughtful, contemplative air, offers up the worst idea you’ve ever heard. 《We should invite him to dinner.》

《A man kidnaps me and ties me to his horse, and that’s your reaction.》

《He brought you back to us,》 she says simply, and tilts her chin meaningfully at her son, who lies on his stomach as he embroiders a stand of graphite trees with bold blue scribbles, small legs kicking the air idle as a pendulum. Wholly oblivious to the grim alternative his mother leaves unspoken. As he should be.

《Too late for it now. Morgan’s long gone.》 You shrug as though that possibility doesn’t sting. Your chair skids screechily against the scuffed floorboards as you get to your feet. 《Anyway, I should be going. Huang’ll never let me hear the end of it if I keep him waiting much longer.》

After you’ve pulled on a jacket and swiped your cap from its crooked nail on the wall, something less than half your size and adamant as a small elephant barrels against your leg, nearly knocking you over. Baoyu hugs your shins with all his four-year-old might and sits down, anchoring you.

You groan. 《Oh, Bao. Come on.》

He shakes his head, glaring sullen daggers at the door. Too young to understand that his father is dead, but wise enough by now to glean that what crosses that threshold doesn't always come back.

《Not again,》 Mei hurries towards you as quickly as her bound feet will allow her. 《And he’d been so good about it recently, too.》

《Bao, I’m just going to the market this time.》

《Dun’ wan’ you to.》 His small fists are wadded so tightly in the canvas of your pants that you’re concerned they might tear. The poor kid’s as firm and persistent as bramble.

Mei kneels beside him, gently tries to pry his fingers loose. And though she shares with you a private glance of exasperation, you hear no trace of it in her coaxing. 《Hey,》 she says, soft and solicitous. She rests her palm on top of her son’s head, angles her head down to look him in the eye. On her lips is that madonna-like smile that seems solely the provenance of doting mothers. For not the first time, you feel the quiet surge of jealousy that always comes with seeing wanted children. The tendrils of that which was denied, that which was lost inching out again from what you’ve tried again and again to keep buried.

《Remember what Mama said about Miss Lee this morning?》 she asks.

Baoyu answers with a furious shake of his head and buries his face against your calf. He clings even tighter.

《Mama said that Miss Lee always comes back. And she does, doesn’t she? Every time. I bet this time she’ll be back again before you even know it.》

No response.

《Bao,》 you say. 《That present I gave you this time was pretty terrible, wasn’t it.》

His muffled “mm-hmm” is immediate. Mei turns slightly pink. 《Lee, you really don’t have to–》

You raise your voice to drown hers out. 《So how about I get you a better one?》

The kid peeks partway from behind the crook of your knee, his revealed eye bright with wary interest. He’s precociously shrewd enough to give you his attention by degrees. His father’s son, indeed.

《Maybe… one you can eat?》

He peeks out a little more, but his arms do not loosen.

《It’s been a while since we’ve all had meat for dinner, hasn’t it,》 you remark, and from the reluctant tug of the boy’s smile, you know you’ve won. 《And even longer since we’ve had pork belly.》

《Pork belly,》 he says, with a shine in his face like you’ve dangled something precious on a string, and the black tangle of guilt in your heart twists another snarl.

《Pork belly?》 Mei repeats, doubtful. She puts her hand up and flicks her pointer finger a few sideways strokes, counting off the beads of an invisible abacus.

《There’ll be enough. I’ll get Huang to pay me today.》 You reach down to unhook Bao’s fingers from your trousers, and this time he comes away easy as anything. But his smile falls away when you pick up the market bag and pull open the door, and as you turn the key to click the lock shut, you hear his high, thin whimper. It turns to a wail that loses volume with every rapid step you take from him.

The guard calls your name before you can round the bend in the stairs. Six steps down, with one foot on the seventh, you swivel back to give him your attention, and from the dark of the corridor you imagine you must look like a pilgrim halfway to hell.

《The kid’s cryin’ again, huh?》 he asks.

《Yeah.》

He flips you a dollar coin that spins like a silver star through the gloom. 《Get him a pastry or somethin’,》 he says, and before the last word is out of his mouth, he’s already given you his shoulder in a show of apparent indifference.

How many times have you seen it? These little gestures of pity, presented like indulgences— shameful, secretive. As if with each token one can bury their own complicity. And how little you can judge them for it, seeing as you were a keen patron of it yourself in your lapsed past life.

In any case, a dollar is a dollar. You nod to him, and continue your descent.

— — —

《They’re called swallows,》 your mother said, and tried her best to describe to you, a five-year-old girl at the time whose only reality consisted of the narrow confines of the brothel, the swift, dark swathe that those fork-tailed birds could cut across the sky. How at times they seemed to plummet downwards like stones, only to swoop upwards mere inches from certain death.

You sat cross-legged on her bed, back turned to her as she wove and unwove intricate plaits through your hair. Your eyes watered every time she pulled a strand too tight, but you uttered no sound of protest. At even that tender age, you knew that the slightest disturbance might shatter this rare, fragile show of intimacy.

《They have black feathers.》She tugged the brushlike end of your long, dark braid and dusted it over your nose until you’d giggled. 《And red throats.》Her fingers briefly alighted to your small mouth, momentary as dragonflies. 《And they fly so quick that nothing can touch them.》

She squeezed your thin shoulders. 《That’s why I named you after them, Yan.》

It’s difficult not to think of her each time you walk towards the man who had owned you both, and it is during these small purgatories that she haunts you most. Though it is just a wisp of a haunting, as if even her ghost has largely abandoned you.

Remember the desperate way she had sometimes tried to love you, her averted-eyed affection. The wasted relief on her young face when she’d passed in her bed, dead of typhus at scarcely twenty-five. The twin poles of what she left you to reconcile.

You never mourned her. Not properly, at least. Hadn’t known how to, back then. But when the missionaries taught you to write— both English script and Chinese characters, back when the assumption that you’d continue their work among your countrymen seemed as absolute as the word of god— her name was among the first characters you’d learned. Mingyue Lee, named for the moon, but in perpetual wane for the six short years you’d known her. Her bones interred in some pauper’s grave on the outskirts of San Francisco, sleeping in the soil of a country she had died cursing. When you were nine, you scratched her name into a large stone in the courtyard with a knife you filched from the kitchen, so that on grave-washing day you’d have something to scrub.

The magnolias that dot the route to Viceroy Street are shedding their blooms. Their white petals have been blown to the edge of the sidewalk, where they collect in lovely, dying heaps. When you tread them underfoot, they muddy to the same indistinct shade of brown that collects between the cobblestones of this place. Horse shit and swamp muck and god knows what else, a pervasive filth so deeply entrenched that it has become its own strata. You count down the bronze-plated numbers affixed to storefronts and houses as you walk the path down to 33, and in the steady subtraction there brews a dread that makes you feel far too young and far too old all at once, trekking the twilight road between memory and present.

The Chuan Li Benevolent Society is housed in a nondescript building flanked between a curio store and a laundry, with nothing but a weather worn plaque beside the door to proclaim itself. Its peeling blue paint is flecked by the mud-sprays of passing carriages, and the awning that stretches over its entrance is missing so many shingles that it puts you in mind of a poorly scaled fish.

Putting it simply, it looks like shit.

But its innards are timbered and paneled with red lacquered wood, and from the ceiling of the parlor a chandelier hangs like a luminous octopus, each golden limb dripping with crystalline light that fragments prismatic across the ceiling. Furnishings alternately gilt and velvet, in a theme of burgundy as deep as wine or blood. Both things you’ve known to be spilled here in excess. An altogether gaudy depiction of a poor man’s conception of wealth.

Putting it simply, it also looks like shit.

You step over the neat doormat laid in front of the threshold, and proceed to trail a fading mosaic of mud across the floorboards.

《You know you’re just making more work for the maid.》Yulong, who is lying lengthwise on the parlor chaise with his shoes on the cushions, addresses you without looking up from the English primer he is reading. The other man in the room, some underfed grunt who you’ve never seen before, rudely asks who the hell you are. He marks a show of reaching into his jacket for the hatchet you know they all carry.

《Calm the fuck down, Wei. It’s just our railroad mule. Our railroad mule who’s, what… five days early? Ain’t you supposed to be in Strawberry right now?》

《I need to talk to Huang.》

《So you finally fucked up good, huh? Guess you lost the shipment.》

《Shipment’s fine. Tell your goddamn boss I’m here to see him.》

《Should watch that mouth of yours, boy, if you know what’s good for you,》Wei growls at you, hardly more than a boy himself. His cheeks and chin are scraggly with the proud, patchy growths of a first beard, and you glancingly wonder whether he’ll live long enough to see it fill in, this jumped-up kid with criminal notions.

Yulong closes his book with a snap of its pages and sits up like a man unjustly roused from sleep. His narrow eyes gleam as they always do— like he’s just been privy to some secret joke at your expense. Huang’s right hand man, and easily the most untrustworthy looking creature you’ve ever met. Each time you’ve met with his boss, he’s been standing in the corner, pretending like he doesn’t have his hand on his knife. He approaches you now with his lips drawn in an unfriendly smile.《Naw, that ain’t a boy,》he says. 《Just a woman playin’ at bein’ a man and failin’ at both. How you doin’, Lee?》

《Fuck you.》

《Bet you’d like to, since you ain’t gettin’ it from Feng no more.》

You slap him so hard that his head jerks sharply to the side. Yulong hesitates for a split second looking nearly remorseful, then backhands you with such force that you stagger against the wall, tasting blood.

《Tell the boss she’s here,》 you hear him say. Gingerly, you touch your split lip.

Wei’s voice is unsure, tentative. 《She’s bleeding. Shouldn’t we—》

《Just do it.》

— — —

Huang welcomes you into his office with an amiable greeting and an offer of chrysanthemum tea. His pleasant demeanor does not falter when you roundly refuse him, all the attempted disdain in your rejection about as effective as shooting a gun at an ocean wave. A bullet negated instantly by the cold, infinite dark beneath, the shapeless and breachless indifference of water to that which it drowns. The bastard pours you a cup regardless, slides it across the table on a painted porcelain saucer where it steams like a sigh.

He asks after your health, expresses polite concern over the evening-hued contusion (already fading nicely to a sickly dawnish green) on your face, putting on now the fatherly airs he’d withheld from the entirety of childhood. These days, he speaks to you as though those days of subjugation were an unfortunate accident. A misunderstanding that can surely be forgiven because it’s all in the past, and what’s the point of tallying sins? Be reasonable, Yan.

He folds his hands on the table like he’s guarding a hand of cards and says, 《I understand you and Yulong had something of an altercation in the parlor.》

From his place by the door, Yulong scoffs.《Teachin’ her some manners, more like.》

《Perhaps next time you might find a more delicate means of instruction.》 The fond look Huang gives you then sickens you like the first strains of an ague. Fever and chill that will not douse the other as the man peers tenderly at the only unrotted thing that still carries any trace of your dead mother’s existence. An apparition encased in flesh and bone.

You look just like her, but you have my eyes.

He continues, 《A woman’s face is her life, after all. And we wouldn’t want to ruin Yan’s, would we?》

As if he hadn’t already. 《It’s Lee,》 you remind him, teeth clenched.

He ignores this the same way he’s ignored it every other time you’ve corrected him. But you’ve persisted regardless, speaking your mother’s surname as though it might serve as an incantation to dispel the remnant of your former self. That flinching girl so eagerly servile, hoping that another task completed might be another beating deterred. Terrified little Yan, who had crawled under a table and hid when the city police busted that Frisco brothel, thinking that she’d been rudely introduced to another means of punishment. A white woman had found you there and knelt beneath your wooden shelter, gently asking your name in broken, halting Chinese. When she reached her hand out for you to take, you misread her intention entirely and curled up isopod-like, figuring that a blow to your back would hurt far less than one to your front.

Huang pulls a fresh linen handkerchief from a desk drawer, proffers it like reconciliation. 《Here. Clean yourself up.》

You lick your lips and the tip of your tongue locates the shallow cut at the edge of your mouth. Iron and organic rust, half-clotted. With a slow swipe of your forearm, you smear away the congealing blood with the back of your hand.

《Suit yourself,》 he says. The drawer rattles shut like a threat being withdrawn. 《So tell me then, Yan. What’re you doing back five days early?》

You pull your journal out from your satchel and thumb free the proof of sale tucked inside, then lay the receipt bearing Cheng’s ornate red seal (ridiculous how every one of these smugglers fancies himself a veer of legitimacy) on the heavy, oaken table that separates you from Huang like a bulwark or a gate, possibly both. 《The delivery went fine,》 you say. 《I went to Cheng right after I got into Strawberry and had him sign off on the paperwork. He’ll wire you his usual fee at the end of the month.》

《Very good.》

As a child, you would have worked yourself to the point of collapse at the prospect of that simple praise. And as an adult, there’s still a fragment of you that receives it with idiotic pride. Infuriating really, how those infantile hurts persist even now, as if the past lingers still in your ruminating blood. From a chamber in your subterranean heart, down the catacomb of every iteration of self you’ve laid to rest, Yan stirs from slumber and peers briefly through your eyes in a dark flash of memory.

You detail the rest of your ordeal with vagaries and half truths. Nothing outright false— walking that middle path again, as you always do. Lacking even the conviction to construct your own lies, you pathetic piece of shit. Dodging commitment the same way a bird dodges a shower of buckshot: which is to say that it can’t. Try to outfly the cluster of pellets all you like, but one is sure to find you and bear you down. And isn’t it fitting that it would be the pierce of the only real promise you’ve ever made that lodges in your breast, sends that dual pronged swallowtail fluttering bannerlike as it drops, red sash of blood ribboning upwards in the wake of that earthward plunge.

An outlaw accosted you in an alleyway, you tell Huang. He marched you up the stairs of your hotel with the cold barrel of his gun jammed between your shoulder blades, then tied your arms behind your back as he ransacked your belongings. Tied your ankles too, for good measure. He left you like that for hours, until another man found you and cut you free from your captivity. You cried and became hysterical and made him so uncomfortable that he had arranged an immediate means to get you back to St Denis, if only to get you to stop your tears.

You make no mention of the events surrounding the bandage on your arm. Or of Morgan’s sketch, which is currently being meticulously ruined by a four year old’s artistic renderings. Or how in a span of hours before, with the first touch of dawn spreading its dustlike penumbra over the floorboards, you had lain in bed for a full five minutes studying the accumulated shadows of the outlaw’s sleeping face, wondering whether under different circumstances you might have enjoyed the view.

Yesterday in the caravan, you scrubbed clean the bandana that he’d used to bandage your cut as you waited for your clothes to dry, wrung out the rust-colored droplets of your own loosened blood over the basin and watched as they broke perfect, circular lakes through a topography of soap suds. You laid it next to the furnace and watched the moisture wick away, folded it up, and only remembered to return it this morning, while waiting for Trelawney to finish buying train tickets at the station’s front booth.

Morgan had stood beside you in a secluded corner beside a rusted water pump, regarding you with the stiff formality of a spurned gentleman. All stilted vagaries and dismissive affect as he glowered there with his arms crossed and his hat tipped low. He leaned his back against a brick wall still damp with dew and seemed loath to even acknowledge you. Asking whether he’d given your proposition any further consideration seemed at that point only an excellent way to further his scorn. In the hollow of your chest, a setting, a sinking. Something bright clipped beneath a horizon, and only the quiet expectation of inexorable night accompanied it. You drew out the black square of his bandanna from your pocket like a flag of farewell, and said, “Hey. Morgan.”

“What.” His voice was flat as a board. Still wouldn’t look at you, the arrogant prick.

“Forgot to give this back last night. I, uh… I washed it for you. Here.”

He made no motion to receive it. Your proffering arm stretched towards him like an insufficient bridge as he shook his head. “Keep it,” Morgan said. “I got another.”

“Well thanks, I guess. I’ve always dreamt of having a raggedy old bandanna to call my own—”

“Tell you what.” At last, he lifted his eyes to meet your own, and the blue of his irises seemed a softer shade than you’d remembered. The hue of late spring blooms, forget-me-nots. “I’ll take it back next time I see you, alright?”

And when will that be? you hadn’t asked, all the better to ration out your own specious hopes.

God, but you are stupid, aren’t you. Thinking that there is any chance in hell that he hasn’t crossed the state line by now, leaving the city and the swamp and you behind to fade like a forgotten mirage in a torrent of road dust. Nary a backward glance, as is the nature of his kind. Loyal only to the promise of a payout, and for all his talk of coming back to collect, there’s hardly any chance of him doing so when the certainties surrounding you are slim to none.

Yet his bandanna rests in your pocket like a chivalric favor, and as Huang stares you down with reptilian stillness, saying nothing and blinking seldom, you slip your hand there and clench the frayed black fabric tightly in your fist. Black as mourning, black as swallows’ wings.

You had expected an interrogation. Questions and accusations lobbied, a showing of the straightforward suspicion that most tong men jump to when things go askew. Feng had been like that. At the slightest twitch of another man’s confrontation he’d be afire, the tension in him crackling like a live wire and at once the visible measurement preluding potential violence: how many words until we come to blows, how many steps to close the distance. No patience for subterfuge, no eye for subtlety. No foresight as to what deals might be germinating behind his back, what bargains struck with him at their center.

But a pimp is a kind of purveyor, and though he occupies a different role now, Huang’s merchant instinct has not left him. He knows well the maddening coax of silence, the expectant desolation that will drive a man to say more than he ought in an attempt to shape a foothold for himself in the midst of that emptiness. He lets you weave your narrative without interruption, and regards its component stitches with a masklike placidity that had frozen you to the marrow when you were Yan, but which crystallizes now as only a passing skin of frost. You brush past the tightening knot of unease wending in your gut and forge into the essentials of what you came here to haggle.

It always snaps a sinewy strand of disgust in you, the way this part comes easy. Flexing the muscle that you and he have in common, the parlance of transaction. There is a rhythm to this that you know how to trace like a finger to a pulse. Open by asking too much, backtrack, pivot, chip at his offers with the knowledge that he is doing the same. Retreat and entreat, and pretend that you don’t see the approving acknowledgment in his face. That you are indeed your father’s daughter.

Huang is unusually agreeable today, and you get the disconcerting impression that he is placating you for something. The spoonful of sugar before the cupful of medicine, as they say.

He’ll have a new valise made within the week. No cost to you— these things happen, he says, nodding in artificial sympathy, and it’s far easier to replace equipment than personnel. A miracle, actually, that you were able to escape in one piece. You want your pay early? Well now, there is protocol to this sort of thing, figures to be kept. The treasurer will certainly be cross… but an exception can be made, just this once. And how very kind of you to offer to host the Tuesday morning poker game! Yes, of course you’ll be compensated. Really, Yan. All this suspicion, and for what? Has he not always played by the rules? Has he not always operated within the bounds that the tongs have set?

Even Feng’s murder, says the seething silence that stretches between you, had been sanctioned. Sam Wah himself had signed off on it in red ink, executioner’s ink. In the cold aftermath, as you stood bloodless and blank and senseless as new paper, the old man had met with you one last time in the Hop Sing drawing room and explained the terms of your expulsion, laying out his justifications as cleanly as black and white weiqi pieces on a game board. 《He should have known what he was courting,》 the old man had said. 《Two Chuan Li men dead. Another beaten so badly he can’t even hold a pair of chopsticks. There were calls for war, Lee. And if I could sacrifice just one man to stay that war…》

Damn it all, the shifting labyrinthine sprawl of custom and regulation and ceremony that governs this hell. And you, aimless and hopeless as a minotaur, wandering these unnavigable halls and waiting for the inevitable blade that will run you through.

Your negotiation with Huang seems to be drawing to a close, winding into insincere niceties that make you faintly ill to have to receive and resentful to have to reciprocate, when he says (magnanimously, as if he’s gifting you with some great benevolence),《And by the by, I thought you should know— I’ve arranged a new escort for you.》

You draw back in your chair. 《What?》

《I believe you’ve met before. Sam Bennett.》

《Sam Bennett? Sam Bennett?》 Jesus fuck. No. 《You can’t pair me with him. Last year, when I was still with Hop Sing, I—》

《You had him dismissed from the police force for upping his payoffs. Yes, I’m well aware. But the man has agreed to let bygones be bygones in the interest of commerce, and has promised to be on his best behavior.》

《That doesn’t mean shit—》

《Language.》

Shifting again, the corridors of the labyrinth. Reconfiguring into a straight arrow path to Theseus and his golden sword. And you have no recourse but to make your way forward. It wells up in you like a scream, the shivering skitter of a suppressed year’s worth of dread. Racing through your veins like a million frantic ants, your very blood on the trembling verge— and in the midst of this, Huang has the nerve to politely ask you not to curse. You would tear into him and bite open his fucking heart with your own teeth and nails if it would not bring the entire wrath of his tong upon your dead man’s promise. You would gnash him to splinters. You would shred him until he were nothing but insensible meat, until he resembled at last the miserable pile of bloodied and putrid rot you have always known him to be.

Yulong is here. Yulong is here. Calm down.

《He’d hurt me,》 you say, your voice shaking the same way your fist in your pocket does, wringing Morgan’s bandanna the way you’ve often imagined wringing Huang’s neck. 《The second he gets me alone. He will.》

《As I said before. He has given his word.》 Huang picks up his teacup and takes a long, savoring sip. Your own sits waiting still on his desk, the steam gone, the liquid that rests inside the sweet brown ochre of a dead leaf. 《But if you’re yet unwilling to continue playing courier… the original proposal still stands.》

The slavemongering bastard opened a parlor house on Harrison Ave when he came here. You have heard talk of it from some of the men. Dead-eyed girls in fine linen and closed doors from which fume the haunted soundscape of your childhood. He would add you to their number, noose you round the neck with a contrived contract and add with each day new debts with which to fetter you. And he would shut you in with him. He would have you take your mother’s place.

《And I suppose if that’s not an option, then I’ll have to take poor Meilan back. But such a shame for a child to grow up without his mother, and you’d know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you.》

His bland, nondescript shopkeeper’s face is as mild as ever, yet there in the pits of his eyes shines a cold and calculating light that you might have named satanic in your missionary days. But it is a child who cannot comprehend that the blackest quadrants of cruelty come not from the divine but are rooted instead in what is altogether too human to bear.

《It’s not a decision to be made lightly, by any means. I believe the next delivery is scheduled for—》Huang fingers the calendar set on the corner of his desk, looking thoughtful as if he hadn’t personally engineered your predicament.《— the 15th. I’ll give you until the 13th to give me your answer. But in the meantime…》

The drawer rattles open again. He withdraws a thick wad of new bills and laboriously counts out a portion with neatly manicured hands, then places a crisp green stack on the center of his desk. You have to stand up and lean forward to reach it, and you shouldn’t be surprised when he closes his fingers round your wrist— his grip tight and cold, the smile on his face still deceptively kind— but you freeze as though your very blood has done the same, rooting you there through the branching of ice through your veins, and you stare up at him rabbit-eyed, and you’re Yan again after all, you always have been—

From his corner, Yulong coughs conspicuously. He follows it up with a loud and truly impressive mustering of tobacco-tinged mucus, which he spits neatly into a nearby spitoon. It pings like the most disgusting and simultaneously blessed bell in existence.

Huang gently places your wages into your open palm. He releases you, and says nothing when you stumble a few steps backwards, then grind the heel of your boot against the floorboard so hard that it squeaks as you turn and propel yourself out the room, into the hall, through the door, and past the front of the building, the laundry, the shops, the faces of jostled onlookers whipping past in murmurs and blurred shouts of indignation, until you reach the iron water pump on the corner of Spruce Street. Its worn handle lets out a series of frantic and angry squeaks as you work it, and a gaggle of girls bedecked in French Quarter finery looks on in vague bemusement as you scrub at your wrist under its torrent of rust-specked, tepid water.

Your sleeve is still damp with it when you reach the butcher. And as you stand there watching the scale’s silver needle quiver as the man weighs out a strip of fat-striped pork, your eyes drift over the tubs of fresh viscera resting behind the glass. Kidneys gleaming a deep cabochon red, pale coils of intestines bunched up like fleshy snakes, a slab of cross-sectioned liver that shines as dully in the afternoon light as unburnished copper— the parceled out fate of a creature sectioned to its most valuable parts and bought piece by piece. The curtain to the back room has been swept aside, and in that blood-reeking, windowless dark dangles a meat hook thronged by a lantern’s eerie flicker. A dead sow hangs from it snout down, her insides hollowed out and her ribs starkly white in the dripping cavity of her chest.

Her ear has been slit. Beholding it, you recognize that notch for what it really is. A prelude to slaughter.

— — —

The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels.

Arthur flicks a scavenging fly off the lip of his soup bowl and stirs what’s left of the sludgy minestrone like he’s sifting for gold amongst bobbing chunks of string bean and gristly pork. In the far corner of the saloon, the piano player struggles through a rendition of Maple Leaf Rag, and the jarring, imprecise notes that litter the score seem appropriate considering the utter mistake that he seems hellbent on walking himself into.

If you were anyone else, I’d have never opened that door in the first place.

What a fucking joke.

You had said the words sincerely— he has no doubt of that, those clear eyes of yours so devoid of artifice— but they had obviously been meant for someone else: the avatar of the dead man you seem to see in him. Fong or Feng or Fang, whatever the hell his name was. Arthur lets his spoon drop against the rim of the bowl and gestures towards the barkeep for another shot of bourbon, figuring that the fire of it down his throat will burn away the foul taste at the back of his mouth.

From down the road, a work whistle sounds off and a gate opens like an unhinged maw, loosing from its depths an outpour of workers who stream down the city streets dusty as moths. Worn down men clothed in grease streaked shirts pungent with sweat, and boys among them lively with a youth that dilutes daily with each lever pulled, each heap of coal shoveled in these ashen-hued factories.

A cluster of dark-skinned teenagers, none of them much older than thirteen, runs past the saloon window as they jostle each other for sidewalk space. Exuberant still, the cruel cogitations of the city they inhabit not yet fully manifest for them, they are bright and loud and painfully earnest with an incandescence that will only ever dim in the years they have left. One of them cracks a joke that makes his fellows laugh, and as they make their way towards the slums a white man several feet away casts a disgusted look in their direction and crosses the street. Above it all, the smokestacks like funereal columns holding up the blue catafalque of sky spew soot indiscriminate.

“More of ‘em every year,” the man sitting beside him at the bar grunts.

“More what.”

“You know.” He nods at Arthur with the beleaguered camaraderie of a fellow soldier, huddling miserable in the trenches. “Coloreds. Blacks and Mexicans and god knows what else. Come in like a trickle, but before you know it the water’s at your neck and you’re just barely keepin’ afloat.”

Arthur scoffs. “You say that like the white folk round here are any improvement. They ain’t.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of them equality minded types—”

“Quit it, Pete.” The bartender sounds weary. “Don’t need you proselytizin’ to every new patron I got.”

Customers come and customers go, and their chatter flows about him like a stream rippling round an obdurate stone. The light that shines through the oily glass begins to take on the ruddying tint of early sunset. A man with a scraggly blond beard and a laborer’s look about him sits down at the bar, begins making idle conversation with the bartender. New in town, and staking out watering holes. Still acquainting himself with what distractions the city has to offer, and might he recommend whereabouts a man might find a decent place to play a hand of poker?

“Prob’ly Chinatown,” the bartender says, polishing a glass with a rag so filthy that the action serves only to counter his efforts. “Only thing worth venturin’ there for. Whole place reeks of piss.”

“Ain’t worth it, if y’ask me,” says Pete, whose opinion has been sought by nobody. “Them chinks’ll cheat a man outta every penny they can get.”

“Parlor on Martin Street’s decent.”

“That the one with the Chinese hostess?” the newcomer asks. “I heard of it. Too bad the ante’s steep as hell.”

“What you think her pussy looks like.”

Arthur nearly spits out his drink. From the corner of his eye, he sees Pete’s yellowed smile, his conspiratorial glance as he spills out his own dubious brand of wisdom. “Because from what I been told, chink pussy’s slanted just like their eyes.”

“Bullshit. What would that even look like.”

“Ask Jonesy. He says he’s had her.”

“I don’t believe a single word outta that bastard’s mouth.”

“Well if anyone knows, it’d be him. That degenerate’s mad for exotic pussy like no one else. Anyway, he says when that chink girl spreads her legs, her gash is sideways—”

When Arthur slams Pete’s face against the blunt edge of the bar, the brawl that ensues has a flavor of confusion to it, like the other man can’t understand what he’s done to deserve it.

As he stalks down the darkening streets with his knuckles smarting and his hair still dripping with cheap beer, he finds himself approaching the margin between the city and the swamp, where the lines of houses grow in grandiosity until they cease at the muddy wash of the wetlands. A breeze kicks up, carrying in its stream strains of insect song and mallard calls, the repetitious melodies of creatures so caught up in the business of rut that they will cry out incessant amidst a landscape rife with predation. Short-lived, they are. The breadth of their days narrow, and with the horizon of things held in each precarious hour, they have no heed for caution in the face of desire.

In the descending close of day the wooden bridge that leads into the Lemoyne wilds stretches into the rising evening mist like a structure half imagined. How easy it would be to ride towards that merciful anonymity, how freeing to leave every bit of this idiotic sense of obligation behind.

Arthur sighs. He adjusts his hat and turns back towards St Denis, where the lamplighters are kindling their metal forged charges one by one, glass-amplified fires sparking up in silent welcome.

— — —

Sunday morning, and the Christians are flocking to their god. From the alley off of Calliope Street, Yulong shades his eyes with his hand as he scans through a sea of starched collars and pressed linen dresses. All those good little worshippers so intent on saving the souls of the heathens, and so heedless of that which lies shattered in the wake of their compassionate imposition— they stream towards the stone cathedral that juts from the city square with its spires sharp as icicles, and in their midst he spots a brown-hatted figure weaving through the edge of the crowd.

Oh, Lee. Pretty as a knife.

Dressed like a boy again, and in a way that certain other men have utterly failed to recognize, it does suit you, given how well it shows the turn of your waist and the quickness in your step. You glance over your shoulder as you approach the alley. A rather futile act of caution, given how loudly the heels of your boots clack against the cobbles.

《Sound like a goddamn elephant stomping over here like that,》Yulong remarks when you come close.

《Oh, shut up.》

《Lemme see your face.》

《Really, Yu. It’s not that bad.》But you let him tilt your head up with his knuckle and squint at the cut on your mouth, though you fold your arms across your chest and roll your eyes as he does so.

The second Wei had left the parlor to inform Huang of your arrival, Yulong had crouched down and tried to help you up. 《Motherfuck,》he whispered.《You okay, Lee? I didn’t mean to hit you that hard—》

You swatted away both his hand and his offer of assistance with an impatient flap of your wrist.《Meet me tomorrow morning.》

《Where?》

《The alley. Eight o clock.》A bright bead of blood ran down your chin as you spoke and he had remembered with a plangent pang like buried regret the bygone days in which you would have welcomed him to tend you. That year which had held in all its seasons the lazy contentment of deep summer before its inevitable fall.

Your bottom lip is streaked now with a vertical scab the width of a horsehair, and your cheek holds in it an asymmetrical blush of rupture in the shape of his own hand, marked with a small white stripe from the imprint of the ring on his finger. He winces, and instead of the awkward apology that he’d spent all morning stringing together, blurts out,《The hell were you thinkin’, smackin’ me in the face like that. You knew I’d have to hit you back. Woulda looked suspicious as all fuck if I hadn’t—》

《That thing you said about Feng.》Your voice is reproachful, but not angry.《It was mean.》

He concedes this with a rueful twist of his mouth.《It was.》

《Yeah.》

《You wanna take another crack at me now, you’re welcome to it.》

You manage a bleak little smile. As you roll up your sleeve and bop your fist lightly against his shoulder, he sees the pink ring of chafed skin at your wrist— ligature mark the width of his thumb, striated like strands. Rope. His mouth goes dry, his throat tightens. He tries to force away from his mind’s eye the thousand haunted hypotheticals that had plagued him the night before. Lee hurt. Lee crying. Lee broken beneath some faceless white devil leagues away from retribution.

That last image had struck up such a blaze of inconsolable rage that Ruolan had sleepily sat up beside him, blankets rounding over her swelling belly as she pressed her lips to his shoulder. Was he worried about the baby again, she asked him, her voice husky in that way that made his heart and loins wound in sympathetic ache. She was nervous too, she confessed, crossing her arms around him in the soft warren of their bed. But she had a good feeling this time, and especially so far along…

He rolled over and hugged her with such sudden ferocity that she had startled. Ran his palm over the new life that beat in tandem within her and buried his face against her soft neck, and would not worry her by speaking his fears aloud.

《Lee,》Yulong says.《The sonuvabitch who robbed you— gimme a name. Or if you ain’t got that, go down to Kuang’s and give ‘im a description, get ‘im to draw you a picture. He’s good at th—》You shake your head, and it is not shame or revulsion or even simple dismay that clouds your face, but rather the sheepish embarrassment of a moonstruck schoolgirl.《Ah no, that’s not… I mean, it wasn’t exactly a robbery, it was more like a misunderstanding. As in he did take my money, but he also saved my life, and— god, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not why I’m here.》The breath you take rattles through your lungs like nervous conviction, and you close your eyes through the long duration of your exhale. When you open them again, the resolution contained there is thin and weary but nonetheless solid, and it plucks a chord of apprehension in him to witness. 《Yu,》you say simply. 《Help me.》

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #my work #talking bird

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