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my-own-walker · 10 months

Note

requesting kit with younger reader, where he picks her up from college and takes her for a milkshake but then they have sex in his car and after he has to drop her down the street because her parents don’t approve of him

Oh! You Pretty Things

note: this is cuteeeeee. thanks for the spicy kit request. i was getting bored of writing inside-the-asylum kit hehe

warnings: sm*t, p in v, oral m receiving, teasing, cursing, kinda overstim, not really tho

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The second hand moved so slowly on the clock, I thought it might be broken. Class always went slower when I knew I’d be seeing Kit afterward. Thursdays were our day.

My parents didn’t know. They hated the idea of me being distracted from my studies by some silly boy. I was, in fact, sticking my neck out by going to college as a woman, so I had to succeed. But, the new decade called for liberation for us women. I was proving a point by being able to date and do well in school.

I digress. I met Kit after my father's car got a flat. He showed up in his tow truck to save the day.

'Scummy, those mechanics,' my father quipped as we drove away.

I walked to the gas station Kit said he worked at the next day, set on getting him to ask me on a date.

We'd been secretly meeting up for dates ever since. He'd come to pick me up after my last class of the day every Thursday and take me out somewhere. I could, at times, sneak away to see Kit on other days of the week, but Thursdays were a set date. My mother and father had no idea. They thought I would stay late to study.

In my daydreaming daze, I almost didn't notice my classmates getting up to leave. I gathered my things hastily and rushed out of the room and into the bright daylight of the afternoon. The sun's light on the pavement was nearly blinding. I shaded my eyes with my hand as I walked to the curb, looking desperately for Kit's car.

Within seconds, his shiny black car came slowly up to the side of the street.

'Hey, pretty thing! You goin' my way, doll?' he called out of his window, acting as if he were a creepy stranger. I giggled and got into the passenger's side.

'You have no idea how nice it feels to do this,' I sighed, kicking my shoes off as Kit drove off.

'Rough day, beautiful?' He wore his work uniform. Some jeans, a white undershirt, and his button-up with his name on it. His hair was perfectly tousled, and the shirt was unbuttoned so that part of the white undergarment was showing. He looked soft and warm, and his smile lit up his eyes.

'Just a very long one, and I'm starving.'' I said, drawing out the word 'very.' I flipped down the visor and slid open the mirror, smoothing my hair and fixing the line of my lipstick while regarding my reflection. I pulled the tube of peach lipstick out of my bag and touched up my pout, making faces at myself all the while.

'Havin' fun over there?' Kit laughed.

'I'm beginning to think this shade is old hat,' I sighed. 'Maybe I should try red like Marilyn.'

'I don't care what color they are so long as I get to kiss 'em,' he smirked, taking one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my upper thigh. I didn't even notice how far my dress had ridden up my leg since getting in the car.

I blushed and giggled, tucking the front pieces of my hair behind my ears. I will admit, I was still in the lavender haze with him.

He pulled into the parking lot of the small roadside diner in our town. It was quaint, tucked away in some trees, filled with truckers from out-of-state and old ladies meeting for lunch. It was a stone's throw from Kit's job, and the perfect place to hide away. Somewhere neither of my parents would dare go.

We sat at the tall counter in the center of the place. This was part of our little Thursday routine. I would always come out of class absolutely ravenous. We'd pick far-away or unknown places to eat before truly spending time together.

'You want somethin', my pretty thing?' Kit asked as the waitress stood in front of us.

'Honestly, a milkshake would be a gas,' I smiled up at the waitress. 'Strawberry.'

'That's all you want?' Kit asked as she walked away. 'Are you sure?'

'Yeah, Kit, I'm alright,' I replied, feeling around in my bag for a light for my cigarette. 'Shit, I must have dropped my lighter somewhere. It's not here.'

'Don’t worry doll, I got you,' he drawled, flicking his own open and holding it under the cigarette clenched in my teeth. I took a long drag and exhaled. The waitress returned and placed my drink in front of me, and Kit's meal in front of him.

I looked over at Kit and caught him taking me in. He looked me up and down and chuckled softly.

'My, you are a dream,' he cooed, placing a hand on my chin to bring me in for a kiss. I went in for a peck and was alarmed to find that Kit wanted more.

'Baby, not here,' I said through gritted teeth, pulling away quickly. I looked around to make sure no one saw. 'You're an animal.' I laughed and he returned the smile.

'I just can't control myself around you, pretty.'

'Well then hurry up and finish your food so we can peel out,' I giggled, pushing his shoulder playfully.

There was an old abandoned schoolhouse in town 5 minutes away from my house. Kit and I would find ourselves in the back parking lot frequently. Tucked away from the public eye in his car.

As soon as Kit parked the car, he dragged me into the back seat with him. We made out furiously, like two caged animals that were finally set free. It was a small space, but we sure made it work.

I took over, immediately pushing Kit's back up against the door, placing my hands on his chest to hold him down. His white undershirt was soft against my palms. I could feel his heart pounding furiously beneath my fingertips. A pace that signaled to me just how much he wanted this.

We kissed for only a short time before clothes started getting removed. First, I aided him in removing his work shirt. Then, I worked to undo his belt and unbutton his jeans. He slid them off quickly. I took that time to remove my panties, throwing them hastily to the front seat.

His erection was noticeable through his white briefs. My hand immediately reached to touch it, only for it to be held back.

'Not yet, sweetheart,' he smiled. He pushed me back into the door on my side and continued making out with me. His hands groped all over my body, paying particular attention to my breasts. 'Oh this dress just won't do,' he muttered.

My high-necked smock dress was fit for school, yes, but not for this. He reached behind me and unzipped the fabric smoothly. He tugged the material and it slid down to expose my bra. Kit smiled as he looked into my eyes, then turned his attention back to my chest. He peppered kisses all over my sensitive skin, making goosebumps raise all over my body.

First, he slid my left bra strap off my shoulder, creating a bit more slack and revealing more of my skin. He took his time to kiss all of the areas of skin he hadn't before, going agonizingly slow so that I would get hot and bothered. He loved when I was hot and bothered.

Next was the right bra strap. The ceremony continued. His ritualistic dance of adorning love to every inch of my body made every horrible minute spent without him worth it. His mouth inched closer and closer to the very edge of my bra. Eventually, I gave in to the teasing and reached back to unhook the damn thing myself.

Deciding I'd had enough, though, I pushed Kit back again. This time, all the way down so that he was laying across the back seat. My hand reached for his bulge and stroked it. He whimpered in pleasure. I took the waistband of his briefs in my fingers and tugged, making his dick spring loose.

I lined myself up with him and slid his throbbing erection into my slick middle, feeling every inch of it go deeper and deeper into me. I cried out involuntarily and began bouncing on it, feeling our two bodies connect naturally. My walls tightened around it. He moaned softly.

'Oh baby, yeah,' he spat through gritted teeth as I continued to ride him. I stooped down and kissed him passionately, still keeping a rhythm. His shaking hands reached up to grope my breasts again, this time more firmly. He slid his hands down to my waist and held it, almost as if he were trying to feel some sort of control over me.

I continued moving my hips atop his dick. His length went so deep within me, I thought I'd scream. I put both of my palms on either side of his chest to steady myself. His breathing got more ragged, and I could feel his heart racing still.

'Fuck,' Kit grunted, trying not to come so easily. He gathered what strength he had a lifted me off of his erection by my waist. I sat back and slid down to a laying position as he rose to position himself above me, both of us maintaining eye contact as we went. He wanted a turn on top.

I didn't even get a chance to settle before his large cock was inside me again. I yelped and screwed my eyes closed, existing at that moment at his very will. He held my wrists, which were resting just next to my head, down so that I couldn't move. I whined in protest but was silenced by his lips on mine.

Sweat formed on his brow. I could feel myself succumbing to the waves of orgasm. But, neither of us wanted to be the first to give in. I breathed heavily to steel myself, but it was to no avail. I came first, crying out and moaning loudly. He slid out of me and stroked my hair as the fits of pleasure overtook me.

Kit sat back against the door on his side of the car once again, breathing heavily. I regained my composure and sat up, sitting back on my heels. I stooped down and took his pre-cum covered dick in my mouth. I flicked my tongue over the tip and reveled in the whimpers and cries Kit was letting out. He grabbed and pulled my hair gently as I continued to suck him off.

'I-I'm gonna come,' he mustered, trying to warn me in case I wanted to stop. Instead, I let him blow his load directly into my mouth. I ignored the warmth and bitter taste as I swallowed. He moaned and threw his head back, eventually relaxing into his position. I wiped my mouth and sat back as well.

Recovered from his orgasm, Kit leaned forward and laid half-beside and half-on me, resting his head on my chest. I sighed in contentment.

'God, you're good at that,' Kit whispered, laughing softly. I laughed too. He grabbed my hand and brought it up to his lips to kiss it. He kissed the back of each finger as well to emphasize his gratefulness. He nestled closer into me. I nearly fell asleep listening to his breathing even out.

I gasped suddenly when I looked out the window and saw the sun setting. 'Shit, Kit, we have to get me home!'

We both worked quickly to redress. He helped me with the tough job of zipping up the back of my dress. I scrambled out of the back door and into the passenger door, slamming it shut and bringing the visor down to once again look at myself in the mirror. Kit clambered up to the front from the back seat and settled himself in.

He turned the key in the ignition and started the car up. He paused, though, before going. I looked away from fixing my lipstick for a moment to see what was the matter. Kit shifted in his seat and reached for something that was under him. In his hand was my panties.

'I uh, think you're gonna need these,' he chuckled, blushing. I smacked his arm and snatched them from his grip.

'Oh, hush! Stop! It's not funny,' I protested, half-laughing as well. I shoved them into my handbag demonstratively. 'Now hurry up and drive!'

The ride home was quick enough. The sun was still setting as Kit got to the end of my street. He had to drop me there to avoid my parents seeing anything.

'Are you sure you're gonna be okay walking over there this late? I don't need anyone snatching my girl,' Kit spoke.

'I'll be fine, Kit. No one really walks my street. Plus, it's not even that dark,' I assured him.

'Well okay, but I'll be parked here watching ya, okay?'

'Just don't be too obvious,' I warned.

He leaned over and grabbed my face, pulling me in for one last, passionate kiss. When I pulled away, my lipstick was all over his face. I just chuckled to myself and opened the door.

'I love you, you pretty thing,' he called after me.

'I love you too, Kit,' I smiled.

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Literally cannot lie I got a bit, uh, bothered myself writing this one LOL. Let me know if you liked this one!

#evan peters #evan peters fic #ahs #evan peters x female reader #evan peters x reader #kit walker #evan peters oneshot #kit walker imagine #kit walker x female reader #kit walker x reader #ahs asylum #kit walker smut #ahs smut

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mysterycitrus · 25 days

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if you could erase a comic authors works and have them be written by anyone else (of your choosing), would you erase scott lobdell or tom taylor?

tom taylor is a performative egotistical hack with an annoying twitter account but id still keep his work over a literal sex criminal who unabashedly hates women and set abolitionist discourse in comics back about two decades

ive talked about it before but my personal ideal run would’ve been an outsiders book set in space, with roy and kory and dick as the mcs. outlaws is bad for the same reason that most of the new52 is — they supplant comic canon with lots of text boxes insisting that characters have a pre-existing relationship, and spend no time actually establishing or portraying it. we see this now even tho it makes no sense timeline wise (jason and roy are besties even though roy is at minimum 7+ years older than him and was on the titans with dick?)

because dick and kory and roy all have long standing relationships together and with each other it would’ve made for a compelling story. there’s so much baggage and so much love there. if u got someone like winnick who can be (occasionally) trusted not to turn books into a batfest we could’ve gotten quality roy and kory character moments too, something that functionally did not exist in outlaws autonomously from making jason look cool. or id get gretchen felker martin to write a jason book cause at the very least she seems to understand the inherent hypocrisy behind his personal politics

tbqh id rather we talk about how dan didio facilitated not only the terrible treatment of babs, roy and kory, and basically every legacy character outside of bruce but also kept lobdell on as a writer despite the numerous allegations against him and the unquestionably toxic environment he created in comics. it’s not a coincidence that the moment didio was booted lobdell followed suit on the same shoe

#i hate them both but one is unquestionably worse #dick grayson #roy harper #starfire #koriand'r #anti rhato #dc comics #the ask and the answer

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led-bloody-zeppelin · 5 months

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decade accurate marauders era wardrobes - lily evans

hair: long and auburn, often worn down and parted in the middle. styled with curtain bangs and two chin length pieces that frame her face.

clothes: consists of muted shades of brown, red, green, and yellow. waistcoats, fitted tops tucked neatly into trousers and skirts, turtleneck sweaters, dresses with short hemlines, and the occasional band tee. lots of plaids, suede, and buttons.

miniskirts were a popular but controversial item of clothing that have origins in 1960s london. prior to the 60s, it was completely unheard of for a skirt's hemline to ever be above the knee. however, during the course of the early to mid 60s young women in london began to wear their skirts shorter and shorter. as the miniskirt began to grow in popularity, it also gained negative attention as well with critics dubbing it as "mad" "vulgar" and "just awful". despite the heavy criticism, the miniskirt only continued to rise in popularity amongst women all over the globe, and with this played a key role in growing feminism and womens liberation movements. the miniskirt was comfortable, didn't restrict movement, and most importantly, allowed women to have autonomy over their bodies and how they wanted to present themselves. the history and meaning behind the miniskirt is why i feel lily would especially love miniskirts and still wear them despite the fact that they somewhat lost popularity in the 70s. she is a canonically brave and intelligent woman who stands firm in her opinions and isn't afraid to make them known. i believe she would have strongly identified in the feminist movements of the time and would wear miniskirts as a sort of her own personal protest.

i don't really see her as a big t-shirt wearer tbh. t-shirts were largely viewed as undergarments until t-shirt printing became easier and more accessible in the 60s and 70s which began the trend of graphic/slogan tees. she definitely loved abba and fleetwood mac though so they're the exception.

for some reason waistcoats are very lily to me. they came in all sorts of sizes and designs and i know she looked good in every one she had.

shoes: clogs, knee high lace up boots, and loafers. not much of a platform on them but still very 70s.

accessories: oversized square framed sunglasses, newsboy cap, headband scarf and a small purse.

THE one and only iconic lily evans cap™

she has an array of different colored and patterned scarfs that she uses to tie her hair back with.

#yeah remember when i said i was planning on doing sirius next. i lied im sorry🧍🏿‍♀️#i WILL get to him though!!! hopefully sometime this week!!!#i have so many thoughts™ on sirius' sense of style but unfortunately i have so many other important things that i have to do #and these take a long time for me to do #tysm for the people who followed me for the series + left nice comments on the james one i did i rlly do appreciate it 🥹#lily evans #lily potter #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #the marauders era #mwpp #mwpp era #decade accurate marauders era wardrobes #<- the tag i'm filing all these under

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just-late-roman-republic-things · 27 days

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A wild Sewpronia appears! She's here to kick ass and trans gender!

Sewpronia is a gallus, a devotee of Magna Mater from ancient Rome. The galli originated in what's now Turkey - or maybe Greece, or Mesopotamia. They arrived in Rome during the Second Punic War, after a prophecy declared the Romans couldn't win without the help of Magna Mater.

Galli were assigned male at birth, but they dressed femininely. They may have been what we'd now call transfeminine, nonbinary, or a "third gender" in Roman society: "They say they are not men...they want to pass as women," as Firmicus Maternus said.

It's always messy to use modern identities for ancient cultures. But for our purposes, Sewpronia is a trans gal. Her name is a pun on Sempronia the conspirator from Bellum Catilinae, because every woman needs to commit a little treason sometimes.

Her white and purple tunic, yellow shoes and makeup come from a description of the galli in Apuleius' Metamorphosis, the black and bronze jewelry are based on a gallus' grave found in northern England, and her long bleached hair follows the description in Robert Turcan's The Cults of the Roman Empire. Underneath, she has a strophium (bra/chest wrap) and subligaculum (loincloth).

Roman women wore this bikini-like outfit when exercising, as shown in this Sicilian mosaic:

The galli had a curious place in Roman society. Men who were seen as too effeminate were looked down upon, and being compared to a gallus was typically an insult. I'm also not sure whether Roman citizens could become galli, or only non-citizens could, or if this changed over time. But everyone accepted that there was a place for the galli and their goddess in Rome - even Cato wouldn't have disputed that!

Please excuse any historical inaccuracies or poor styling choices I made - and send me any good sources on the galli you know so I can learn more! In the meantime, I'm going to make Sewpronia more cute outfits. She appreciates them much more than Cato the "shoes are modern decadence" Yarnier.

Sewpronia and Cato are based on Allison Hoffman's AmiguruME doll pattern. Happy Trans Day of Visibility, everyone!

#sewpronia #cato the yarnier #crochet #galli #gallus #trans day of visibility #trans #queer history #jlrrt speaks

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avocado-slander · 2 years

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Random ask game asks

Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts?

What's one thing that's stereotypical about you?

Play any instruments?

A show everyone criticizes that you like

A music artist everyone criticizes that you like

Last show you watched

Last movie you watched

Last song you listened to

Last book you read

Your top five most listened to artists this month on Spotify (if you don't use Spotify just say the artists you listen to most)

Ever drank alcohol?

Every smoked anything?

Do you prefer to eat-in or take-out?

If you could time travel what decade would you go to first

An actor everyone loves that you don't like for whatever reason

Something not in your regional dialect that is in your vocabulary

Color of your eyes?

Do you need glasses?

Speak any other languages?

Have any tattoos?

Want any tattoos?

Have any piercings?

Want any piercings?

Do you prefer the hot or cold weather?

Cats or dogs? Or some other pet?

Trendy over comfortable or comfortable over trendy?

Say one thing bad about something you love

Do you prefer to read digitally or from a physical book?

Do you put milk in your hot tea?

Do you know how to play any popular gambling games?

If you have sibling(s) are you the oldest middle or youngest?

A character you relate to for whatever reason?

A quote (from anything) you really love

How many pairs of shoes do you have

Do you have trouble saying any words because of your accent/speech problems?

Earbuds or headphones?

Showers or baths?

Early bird or night owl?

Candles or scented spray?

How often do you change your clothes?

Chess or checkers?

Something you can do that you think is cool?

Perfume or body spray?

What's something that genuinely scares you

LED lights, the room light, or sunlight?

What's something you do differently than everyone else?

If you have hair how often do you style it in some way?

Nail polish, press on nails, or acrylic nails?

How many pets do you have

What's a nickname everyone calls you?

A card/dice/board game you love?

Do you have any fidget toys? If so what's your favorite?

Do you drive?

Your go-to genre of music?

Are you a good multitasker?

Silence or background noise?

A famous movie/show that you've never seen

Any sport you would like to play?

Can you write in cursive?

Is your handwriting neat or at least easy to read?

Colored pencils, markers, or crayons?

How many pillows do you sleep with?

How many blankets do you sleep with?

Do you ever plan to get married one day?

Do you ever plan to have kid(s) one day?

Do you subscribe to any religion?

Something in your room that you think is funny for whatever reason

Would you rather be an actor, singer, comedian, or would you do something on YouTube/twitch/some other site

Are you scared of the dentist?

Do you wear makeup?

If you could be any character of the opposite sex, who would you be?

In the literal sense, are you an introvert or extrovert?

What's something in your room that makes no sense without context

Favorite show as a kid?

Something you know you liked as a kid that you don't remember much from?

Favorite subject in school?

If you could visit any place in the world where would you go?

A show/movie thats been on your watchlist forever but you for some reason keep putting off

Is the name you use online your real name? (Real name does not mean deadname)

Do you have a favorite sibling?

If you were to have a kid what names would you have in mind?

Do you think things like anniversaries are a big deal?

Mobile games or PC/console games?

Do you believe in things like ghosts?

What was your first pets name?

Long sleeve + shorts or short sleeve + pants

Can you do any voice impressions?

What was the first fandom you were genuinely into

Do you prefer womens or mens products?

Scrunchies or ties?

would you be fine having your partner completely provide for you?

Plain clothes or vibrant and eye catching clothes?

Worst date youve ever been on?

Movie date or restaurant date?

Do you split the check or expect only one of you to be paying it?

Favorite fast food place?

How do you make your coffee?

Do you pay attention to the music or the lyrics more?

Are you more energetic or tame?

Are you witty?

#ask games #ask game #random asks #questions

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thimbledoll · 10 months

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The Dressing Doll

The Warlock's room was a disaster, every inch of it littered in skirts, petticoats, socks, and other accoutrement as he searched for the right combination of items for his doll. Satin mused to herself that it looked as though a lace elemental had made the room its nest.

After what seemed an eternity, Alistair finally emerged from the mountain of clothes with his prize in hand. "I knew I had it somewhere… This one just matches the blouse too well to not wear it, especially with the cardigan and tights," the Warlock said, holding the skirt aloft.

In the one tiny corner of the room not covered in clothing, the doll stood by as her Warlock navigated the mess he had made, the mess she would have to clean up later. When at last he had cleared the obstacle course, he held it out for her to step into.

Slipping her stockinged feet into the skirt, she had to admit, it really did pull the whole outfit together, especially once a petticoat was added. Moving to the hallway mirror to better see his handiwork, she saw reflected the picture of pseudo-Victorian fashion he so enjoyed.

The puff of her skirt and her blouse's sleeves combined with the tapered waist the skirt cut an incredibly elegant figure. The red and white pinstripe of the skirt drew out the matching whites of her blouse and stockings and the reds of her shoes, cardigan, and hat.

It was a gorgeous outfit heavily contrasted by her Warlock's own appearance. Dressed in jeans and a worn-out, hooded sweatshirt, his scraggly beard and hair that hadn't seen a barber's sheers in a decade created a clear picture of a man who cared nothing for his own appearance.

"As always, this doll must thank you for your assistance, sir. She truly has no eye for these sorts of things," Satin said.

"It's… it's nothing. I find this entertaining, you know that."

"And yet you apply none of these skills to your own fashion, sir. You own more clothes for your doll than you do for even yourself. It begs the question, why…?"

Alistair sighed, exasperated. "We've been over this. A. That isn't 'begging the question' and B… if I'm going to have a doll to assist me around here all day, then she may as well be one I enjoy looking at. After all, that is the Purpose I Made you with, is it not?"

Satin could feel in her core that something about what he'd said wasn't quite right. It was close, but as always, it didn't resonate at quite the right frequency with her being. It gnawed at her. Something indiscernible pushed her to try a different tack this time.

"If this doll could ask a small imposition, would sir humor her today?" she asked.

Alistair was taken aback. Satin never really asked for things. Not since the very day of her Making could he recall such a thing. It seemed the least he could do for her, given circumstances.

"Alright, so be it. As long as it doesn't distract from my day's work too much. What is it you want?" he answered, trepidatiously.

"Please play dress-up with this doll, sir."

"We just got you dressed, doll."

"No, sir. This doll asks that you join her in dressing up."

"Oh…" Alistair paused before thinking aloud. "I don't really own anything that would go with what you're wearing… My wardrobe's more built for comfort than it is looks…"

"There are plenty of clothes here for you, sir," Satin replied, indicating the remains of his search.

"What? Nonononono. Those are yours. Besides, they'd never fit," he protested.

"Sir, this doll has seen her design specifications. Our body proportions are identical. They'll fit just fine."

The Warlock's air of confidence and bravado wavered as he countered, "They-they're women's clothes, in case you haven't noticed."

"You yourself, sir, have told this doll that part of being a Warlock is rejecting the impositions society puts upon you. Why hold on to this one?"

One by one, Satin dismantled Alistair's arguments as adeptly as he could dismantle her, until the only defense he was left with was staring at the floor, stuttering, "Then… then they wouldn't suit me…"

"This doll begs to differ. Come, let this doll figure it out, sir."

Taking her Warlock by the hand, she led him back to the bedroom, to a spot atop the bed which she quickly cleared off. Once seated, Alistair nervously fidgeted, wringing his hands over and over. Muttering to himself, he mused, "A Warlock showing fear before his doll… Pathetic…"

Satin chose to pretend she hadn't heard him, turning to the task she'd set herself. Looking at the options before her, the doll couldn't even begin to figure out how her Warlock did it every day, turning all the varied options into a complete assemblage that complemented itself.

Still, something drove her forward. She didn't need the best outfit. Perfect coordination wasn't required here. There was some other quality she was looking for, something she could identify as she picked various pieces from the piles. Some stockings here. A shirt there. This skirt or tha—no, it was definitely that one. Somehow she could tell which ones were right. She could feel them, feel them resonate in a way nothing quite had before.

All the items gathered, she brought them over to her Warlock. He'd apparently taken to covering his face to try and hide his feelings. His fear. His embarrassment. His shame. Still, there was work to do.

One by one, she removed each piece of uncared for clothing from Alistair. He offered no protest, moving as needed to assist, but hiding his expression all the while. Satin was slow, careful, deliberate. It was a delicate process, as she peeled back layer after layer of armor. Reduced to his drawers, Satin could build him back up. In a mirror of their daily routine, she helped him into each article of clothing she'd picked for him. Slipping his feet into the tights. Buttoning his blouse. Lacing his shoes. Until Alistair no longer stood before her.

Placing her hands atop his shoulders, she walked him out to the full length mirror in the hall. Speaking to him for the first time since he'd wordlessly agreed to her request, Satin said, "It's done. Please, sir, take a look."

Slowly, he lowered his hands. There, in the mirror, he finally saw it.

He swished to the left and so did his reflection. He turned his foot out and so did his reflection. He spun around in his skirt and so did his reflection. He smiled like never before and so did his reflection. Finally, he cracked—and so did his reflection.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he cried out, "Why? Why? Why?! Why isn't this enough?! Why doesn't it work?! I look like a joke. I look ridiculous. I look like… I look… I look hideous… No one would ever… I could never… It doesn't work… It was supposed to work…

"This hair." Crack. "This beard." Crack. "This fucking face!" Crack. With each outburst, the crack in the mirror spidered and spread. "They. Don't. Work! They don't fucking work! They're wrong! It's wrong! It's all fucking wrong! It was supposed to work!" CRACK.

He broke. He bawled. He cried out the bloody, primal scream of a person whose very spirit was being torn in two. It was all Satin could do to hold herself together against the Magicks he cursed into being as she held on to him, crumpling together to the floor.

When at last he'd caught his breath, he continued, "Why do I want this to work? Why do I need this to work? Why am I the problem? Why isn't this enough? Why…? Why…? Why do I finally see me…? Why does that make me feel so sick, but so…?"

Satin could not say where the right words came from, but without hesitation she responded, "It's ok. No matter what you are you. No matter what you made this doll. No matter what this doll is here. We'll… we'll find the answers, si—We'll find the answers. Together."

So they lay upon the floor, the doll consoling her Maker, as the world, the pretense, and the mirror shattered before them.

End 🧵

(Old story reposted from Twitter)

#empty spaces #dollposting #witches #warlock #microfiction #fantasy #gender dysphoria #transgender #transfem #my writing

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taylortruther · 1 month

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"where's an example of a couple with inverted roles, in which the male part is as famous as Taylor and the female part walks in Joe's shoes, where something similar happened and nobody criticised the superstar simply because he was a male?" Anon must know literally nothing about the history of uh, all art, because powerful men build their careers off sliming women literally every day. Justin Timberlake kicked off his enormous solo career with a song that makes Britney Spears out to be a cheating slut whose whorish ways ruined their relationship. Ted Hughes spent decades erasing the ways he abused Sylvia Plath and carefully framing her as a crazy little storm of her own making and became one of the most celebrated poets of the century. I can't even begin listing the Golden Age Hollywood break-ups that amounted to "man did heinous thing to woman, made woman out to be a crazy/stupid/evil bitch, her career ended, he became an icon" because I will never stop. (And none of those are even comparable to Taylor, because she literally only ever writes songs about shit that happened. But I hope you take my meaning.)

also to say nothing of the very powerful men who regularly use their power to control women in entire industries

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syoddeye · 2 months

Text

For the Record

Price x f!Reader | Ongoing

For as long as you can remember, the unit next door has sat vacant. It's nice not having neighbors to bother you or complain about the noise your band makes. That is, until three English fellas and a Scot move in.

Read only on AO3 | Playlist | Pinterest | ~1.5k excerpt below

The street lamps start turning off by the time you make it home from the gig. Well, they would be if the city and powers-at-be actually bothered to fix the street lamps on your block. There's the one at the far end that's flickering, struggling to keep on keeping on in the shadows.

It felt corny to feel kinship with a lamp, but you did.

The old neighborhood is the sort of place officials avoid unless there's an election, cops ignore until they need to meet quota, and is completely erased from any tourism guide. Your street is a mixture of decrepit, fallen-in homes, neglected apartment buildings, and half-occupied duplexes. Then there's your personal slice of the rotten pie: old Brownstone #1 on the corner. It's one of two on the block, remnants of a proposed housing project from at least a decade before you were born that quickly had its funding redirected, or so the story goes.

Whatever the history, the brownstone wasn't just a unique fixture. It was yours. Owned, no shitty landlord in sight. You thanked your dearly departed grandmother every time you traipse up the steps and throttle the ancient door to get it to unstick. When Grandma Bea passed five years earlier and left the place to you, completely paid off, your parents were nearly hysterical. They didn't believe she'd leave you a thing, let alone her house. And they certainly didn't think you could handle the responsibility. The way your father yelled at the reading of the will still haunted you.

"Old broad must've been sicker than we knew if she left it to you."

Back then, you felt guilty when you picked up the keys. As all families do, your parents had near-surgical precision with how they chose to belittle and insult you. According to them, there were a hundred reasons why you didn't deserve a house. You were a college dropout. You got picked up for underage drinking. You got a tattoo before you were eighteen. You slept with men, women, and almost anyone who turned your head. Plus, all the other garbage you got into as a teenager and early twenty-something.

So why did sweet, saint-like Grandma Bea leave you the brownstone?

You liked to think it was her last great act, solidifying her place in heaven or sainthood, to give her house to the girl least likely to do anything with her life. Or maybe she simply hated your dad and her other kids, you didn't know, and you weren't about to pull out the Ouija board to ask.

You slam the front door shut behind you, uncaring about noise. That was the other fantastic detail about the brownstone being part of a pair - the other unit had been unoccupied for years, as long as you'd been there. You had no idea who owned it, but you had your suspicions. Most likely, it was some rich guy's investment property that he lost track of in his portfolio.

Unfortunately, like the rest of the block, squatters frequently broke into the vacant property. Since you shared one thin wall with the place, you always knew when they arrived. You'd hear stomping feet, clinking beer bottles, and random shouting matches in the dead of night. However, unlike the rest of the block, they were never there for more than a few days. The cops would turn up and haul them out with little fanfare. It seemed like the only time cops ever responded to calls on your side of town, and you knew none of your neighbors, yourself included, would place that call.

Any damages the empty brownstone incurred, from vandals or otherwise, were promptly repaired. Then, it was left alone once more. It was weird, but at least you had more privacy.

After kicking off your shoes in the vestibule and hooking your keys to your jeans, you head straight back through the dining room and into the kitchen. As you pass it on the end of the counter, you switch on the radio, instantly filling the small space with soft, psychedelic funk. You wrinkle your nose instantly at the sounds, but this was why you loved college radio—weird-as-shit kids playing weird-as-shit music. Kept you on your toes.

Your hips can't help but sway to the frankly groovy music as you scavenge a halfway-decent dinner-breakfast: the last yogurt cup and a day-old bagel from job number two. You polish off the meager meal, make a note to finally grocery shop, and, for dessert, a clove. You held the stick in your mouth and commenced a search for a lighter. You were certain you'd given Amos your zippo at the gig, but the scamp didn't return it. You root around the junk drawers for a few minutes. The instrumental song from the radio fades as you locate a plastic, hot pink lighter from the depths, and in the lull, you hear it.

Glass breaking. It was faint, but you knew the sound, and it came from the backyard. Bootsy Collins's voice trickles out of the speakers. Reluctantly, you turn the dial down—and there are muffled voices. With a resigned sigh, you clutch the lighter in one hand and creep toward the mud room through another arch in the kitchen. As you pass the gap between the fridge and the wall, you grab the bat kept there.

Nearing the back door, you silently curse yourself for failing to install any of the extra deadbolts you keep buying and neglecting to put in. You stare hard out the small four-pane window of the door and almost have a heart attack as a beam of light bounces off the glass quickly. After a second, you continue, tuck the lighter in your jeans, and press yourself to the door.

Voices, two men from the sound of it, but faintly accented. British? Difficult to tell, but weird. You still again at the sound of shifting feet on gravel. Cautiously, you lean up and to chance a look out the glass panes.

From what you can see in the moon's dim light, there's only one man, and he's pussyfooting near the low, crumbling brick wall separating your yard from the vacant unit. He sports a ballcap, holds a flashlight, and crouches. He appears to root around on the other side of the low barrier, and though he's no longer speaking at an audible volume, you imagine he's muttering to himself. Where's his buddy?

You push onto your toes, and the wood creaks traitorously beneath your feet. In a flash, he's up on his feet, and the flashlight hits the window.

You fall into a crouch immediately and squint with a muted groan. After the gig, your knees protest the position, but you wait. When all is silent beyond the door, you wonder if you scared him and his friend off. More often than not, you found, tweakers and vagrants ran off at the first sign of someone sober. Not worth the trouble to have a witness and all that, you guess.

It's another minute before you peek outside again, and it looks all clear. A relieved sigh slips out, and you shoulder the bat then unlock the deadbolt. At least the would-be vandals didn't interrupt dessert. One at a time, you slip your feet into the old wellies kept by the back door and step outside. Atop the shallow stoop, you withdraw the lighter, flick it open, and bring the flame to your lips.

It's a nice night. Decent temperature, probably one of the last warm evenings before autumn sets in. You idly twirl the bat in your dominant hand and survey the sad little kingdom of dirt, dead foliage, and trash. Your eyes trail along the wall, and you can't resist. What was that dude looking for, anyway? Bits of broken stone scrape underfoot as you cross the yard and take a drag. Maybe he tagged it. Perhaps the guy stashed something. Whatever the reason, curiosity called. You steal a glance in both directions of the alley to be safe, but it's a ghost town.

Walking along the wall, the clove dangles in the corner of your mouth, and you squint to see where the man was kneeling minutes ago. Your grip on the bat tightens at the sight of a large dark shape, no, two dark shapes tucked against the brick. A chill runs down your spine as your brain rapidly identifies the objects - two black duffel bags. Being who you are and where you are, your mind goes to dark places, and you unconsciously tighten your grip on the bat.

This really isn't any of your business. But. It is right on the border of your home. Steeling yourself, you start to bend down to investigate.

Then, at the very edge of your periphery, there's movement. It ignites something primal, but it's like a misfire. A primordial instinct to fight wins out over the more logical idea of flight. You drop the clove, close your eyes, and swing blind.

#sy writes #sy fic directory #for the record #john price #john price x female reader #price x female reader #x female reader #x f reader

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captainmera · 4 months

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Hello! I've just gotten caught up with both your TOH fics and IBWR and let me just say, your writing is fantastic! I have a million things I want to ask you, but if you haven't already answered this one, it's what I'm most curious about; How do you do your research on things like puritan culture? Like what sort of questions do you search for to get the information you need about historical costumes and culture? Thanks a million and I can't wait for the next updates to all three!! (metaphorically speaking ofc take all the time you need)

Hello! Thank you for reading! :D/ I welcome questions like these!

Oh! Let me break this up:

COSTUMES:

Find passionate people who hyperfocus on the era you want to dive into. There are a ton of reenactors and seam-enthusiasts on instagram & youtube who do historical sewing, and all of them usually have one era/decade that they spend most time in. They are extremely enthusiastic about both showing their progress of making the costumes, what makes them accurate to history, as well as displaying the garments by happily twirling around in them.

So costumes? Find the nerds. They'll tell you all about how men's shoes went from silk ribbons to buckles.

These people are the best researchers. Not all of them have degrees or have a history background. But they read, live and breathe these things more than any degree could give them. Some of them even learn languages just to read a book about wigs, buttons, and gloves.

Following the nerds will get you to the points much faster than reading the books yourself. They'll pluck out the important details and, very enthusiastically, teach you about the important bits. It'll also stick much better if someone is excited to teach you something.

CULTURE:

Same thing here, really. Find the nerds. But instead of just looking at fashion, look at things like: Food, music, lower social classes, local entertainment, pub songs, drinks, jokes and humour, pets, baby names, folklore, superstitions, agriculture, architecture, interior decor, furniture, sleeping routines, etc.

Ask seemingly mundane but important questions, such as: Where do they shit? What did a dentist do? What's a quack? And are there famous quacks? How did they deal with crime? What was punishments? Did kids go to school? When was it acceptable to get married? What was socially taboo?

Things like that.

I like to start with asking myself: What is relevant for me to know, in regards to my story?

Because you are telling a story, not an essay on the era you're having as your backdrop. You don't have to include every single accurate thing. It's okay to be off on some details in favour of telling your story (in my opinion). You're not a historian.

With that being said, if something like crime and punishment is important to your story, you should look that up. If you feel that the way people dressed, and the social morals and taboos, might be something that adds both world-building, and would let a reader fall into the era more.. You should look into that too!

Culture adds flavour to the setting. It allows both you and the reader to see the invisible stakes. For example: The puritans were very gendered. So it impacts how men and women interact with one another. It can invite both humour, conflict and pearl-clutching. Because if you understand that it would be, say, unacceptable for a man to press his lips upon the skin of a woman's hand, and you can both tell and show this to the reader; when such a thing occurs, the reader will LE-GASP.

Youtube is also a good space to go to.

Write down names of important figures of the time. Musicians, politicians, criminals, philosophers, inventors, women, plays, etcetera.

Something that influenced the culture was also what people were currently discussing and discovering. What was invented at the time? What were the philosophies and poetry written? Who were the prominent speakers of the time?

Like how we, today, are talking about how "social media is bad and ruining the children!" What did people talk about back then? People have always yelled "But what about the children?!" What were the social fears and terrors? These things influences the culture.

MY OWN NOTES:

I would say that no source is a bad source, one thing will lead to another. Don't just look for videos/documents/books about the puritans! Look at the era as a whole, even the time just before the one you are looking in at.

Context is everything. What happened in 1635 is a result of the previous culture's just 10-50years before. Don't dismiss the little things.

You never know when; a curator explaining why a led-cup was an important to medicinal practices at the time; might be of use to you! (note: Drinking over-night wine from a lethal cup in small doses made you shit a river and vomit. This was believed to be all the bad in your body leaving you, and even out the levels of various liquids in the body. Like pee, sweat, blood, and mucus. That's why blood-letting was a practice, too, to even your levels.)

TAKE NOTES.

Like, listen to a documentary and have a piece of paper nearby that you can scribble down something important you heard.

Documentaries can be a bit of a drag to sit through just to find ONE piece of good information. But hey, as long as you get something useful right?

That's the short summary of it. Hope that helps!

#history #ask mera

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brayneworms · 10 months

Text

fearful, wonderful.

featuring. scaramouche.

tags. kabukimono!scaramouche, trans!scaramouche, yokai!reader, gender-neutral reader, slowburn, general allusions to war and death, yokai lore/imagery.

word count. 4.09k

notes. MINORS DNI

synopsis. the both of you are missing pieces. you will never be human. you will be more human than anything that came before you.

masterlist. prev. next. ao3.

I. EVEN THE IRON STILL FEARS THE ROT.

There are spirits that live in your eyes.

They live, they dance, they die, all in the confines of your sclera. Sometimes when you blink, you see them imprinted even in your mind. Some of them are your friends, some your enemies. It doesn’t matter at the end of the day. They live and they dance and they die all the same. You watch decades go by in a blink. You watch a flower sprout and bloom and die before you can even think to pluck it. Beauty is something that escapes you, the longer the years go on. The stars blur together in silver streaks across the sky, unending glistening tubers counting the years of your misery.

You find something like solace in Tatarasuna. Your village nests itself at the bedrock of a cluster of mountains that jut up against the Inazuman horizon. You’ve lived through the war, now you reach peace. Peace is a house with a red door and a lavender-melon tree outside. Peace is a community of humans who are all kinder and more well-meaning people than you. Peace is the children that play in the flowery meadows, the elderly women who hang their wet linens on the wires outside their homes, the men who chop wood and manhandle iron.

Peace is laying down to sleep on your futon every night with the knowledge of all your days spent, and all the ones yet to come. Peace is dreaming of friends long dead and mistaking for a moment that they will be there to greet you when you wake, only to open your eyes to an empty room, a cold hearth. You keep your teacups out of the cupboard, hanging from little wire hooks protruding from the sugi wood. They’re seto, hardly finely crafted, but you think built with heart. That is something humans are good at. Building with heart. They stir love into their creations.

You have never known yōkai to do the same.

You make tea in the evening. The sun crests over the purple sky, dips behind the mountains, shading your village in fiery light. You look out of the window of your kitchen; the glass has become cloudy over time, built up with moss and condensation piling between the panes, but you can see out, far out, across the lavender field. Two children play there, throwing a ball made of cloth back and forward. As your water starts to boil over the fire, their mother wanders out, takes them both by the wrist and hauls them back inside whilst they cry and whine.

There is something so human in that, you think. They know the meadow will be here tomorrow, that the moths will not consume their cloth ball in the night. And yet they cry. It is so human to want everything to linger in the here and now.

They have no sense of future or past. They seek beauty in its extremity, hunt for it under every corner, drink it like lifeblood.

You’re beginning to see the appeal, the longer you stay.

Your tea is earthy. It’s made from dendrobium.

You drink it outside in the dying light, and it looks like blood, and it feels like home on your lips.

You find Katsuragi one evening on Nazuchi beach. You know that he sometimes takes off his shoes and walks along the foamy shore, looking for crabs or turtles that have wandered into water too shallow and tossing them back to the tide.

Katsuragi is a softhearted man. He slants his hand against the sun to see you properly as you approach. Your footsteps sink deeply into the purplish sand—further than they should, for someone of your size. It is one of the many things about you that you’ve learned unnerve the humans.

You slide your geta off your feet as you approach the shoreline, hold them by the woollen band between two fingers. Katsuragi bends down and observes a jellyfish trapped in a rock pool.

“Don’t touch that,” you tell him as he reaches. “They sting.”

“Do they?” He looks surprised. “I’ve never been stung.”

You shrug. “Maybe they sense your kind intentions.”

“Ah, well, I’m absolutely brimming with those.” Katsuragi grins, then leans down again. You tap his wrists sharply.

“Let me,” you mutter. “I don’t feel it.”

“Of course. I forget.”

You don’t know if that’s the truth. Most of Taratsuna knows that you’re a yōkai, even if only because you’ve lived in the same place for around a hundred years and not aged a day. They have no clue how long you’ve lived before that, though. And they never will.

You cup the water beneath the jellyfish with two hands. It squirms in your grip as you lift it into the air; its feelers wrap over your arm like pale ribbons; its body is soft and rubbery and achingly vulnerable in your hands. You wonder if it knows that its attempts to sting you are in vain. You wonder if all things hurt the people trying to help them, only because they don’t know aid from sabotage.

It slips from your hands back into the water and disappears beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Katsuragi says earnestly. “You’re a good soul, Y/n.”

You don’t tell Katsuragi that there is a large part of you that doesn’t come alive unless you are hurting or being hurt.

“I’m not,” you say instead. “I’m tsukumogami. I have no soul.”

“Jellyfish have no brains,” Katsuragi shrugs. “But we care for them all the same, don’t we?”

One night—the night that everything changes—sleep escapes you.

Every time you close your eyes you see war. You are seto-taishō, and so it is all that you know. Rain pours down from the black sky in sheets, collects in the mossy gutters and pools on rooftops. The lavender meadow by your house will flood at this rate. You think of all those flowers coming loose from the topsoil like a hundred thousand frail purple corpses, awash downstream.

You keep a collection of scrolls tucked away inside a dresser drawer; they tell stories of your life, your past, your friends. All of it long gone and dead, yet their pictures remain. You unroll them tonight, loosening the velvet ribbons that catch them fast, lay out the worn parchment over your dining table. You run your fingers over the cracked and faded paint. What will you have left of them when even these scrolls return to dust? Your own memories? What a sick joke.

Their screams echo in your ears; you feel your skin press tight over your bones, like your heart is too big for your body, and you press your knuckles to your mouth to stifle a scream. Tatarasuna is good. The people here are good. You are not, and it is why you will never belong.

It is why you will never integrate yourself with them, because they are only humans, and their lives pass you by in a blink. You have loved and hated an uncountable number of humans, and they live and die just the same, and it hurts so badly that it’s all you can do to shut it all out. You’ve learned that it’s easy to become entranced with humanity, and their kindness, and their hope and resilience—but it is just as easy to become revolted with it. With their fleeting lives and their selfishness and their hypocrisy.

At first you think you hallucinate the knock at your door. It’s pitch black outside and howling a gale; lightning forks down from the sky habitually, blazing the landscape violet for a split second before it dissipates back into darkness. But then it comes again—more frantic, more urgent, and you set your scrolls to the side with a mounting feeling of suspicion.

You think about hunting for your weapons. It seems you truly cannot escape your nature, or you would have burned the things years ago. As it is, they lay stashed and growing dust under your wardrobe. In lieu of arming yourself to the teeth, you slip a delicate half-dagger into your sock as you approach to the door. You press your ear to the wood, hearing nothing for a moment but the dull roar of the storm outside.

And then another knock.

You crack the door open. A curtain of cold wind whips inside, making your lit hearth sputter and protest and choke out a plume of black smoke.

And Katsuragi says, “Hear me out.”

Your brow furrows. A crack of violet lightning splits the sky, and you see them. A figure so much smaller than Katsuragi that they were almost swallowed entirely. Head bent against the lashing rain, small and slender against Katsuragi’s thick corded-muscle arms. You blink, looking from the nameless figure back to Katsuragi. He lifts his eyebrows, beseeching.

Slowly, you open the door. Katsuragi sags with relief and steps over the threshold, and it's only as the both of them pass over it that you notice they’re holding hands. The sight of it looks bizarre. The figure behind him moves with both easy grace and childish uncertainty. Their lithe, pale fingers curl around Katsuragi’s fist.

“Thank you,” Katsuragi pants, swiping his dripping wet hair from his forehead. You close the door silently behind him, culling the howling gale. “You don’t know what this means. I barely do.”

“Explain,” you say quietly, eyes flickering from the man you recognise to the figure you do not. They stand quite still in the middle of your living room, dripping water onto the tatami flooring.

“Yes,” Katsuragi says, then promptly gets distracted. “Hey there, don’t stand so close to the fire,” he chides, seizing the figure by their wrist and pulling. “You’ll get burnt. Or your robes will set alight.”

They go without question, stumbling where Katsuragi’s gentle pull guides them. The longer you look at this figure in your living room, the more your hair is standing on end. “Katsuragi?”

“Yes. Sorry.” He hesitates, then jerks his head. You follow him into the hallway and he slides the door shut behind you; the figure in your living room watches, unblinking, until the very moment the door touches the frame. Wide blue eyes, like ice shimmering on a winter lake. “I found him at Shakkei Pavilion. Just wandering around. He had this on him.”

Katsuragi hands you something. Your eyes widen as your eyes come to focus on it—an elegant golden feather, unmistakable.

“Hung around his neck,” Katsuragi says lowly. “It’s a mark of the archons.”

“The Shogun?” you mutter, turning your head back to the closed door in disbelief.

“I see the resemblance alright,” Katsuragi says. “It’s strange. I don’t think he’s quite… human.”

Your spine stiffens. “What do you mean? He’s… yōkai?”

“No, not quite,” Katsuragi winces, looking awkward. “But… we walked in that rain for nearly an hour. I’m about to catch my death from the cold, and he was just… standing there like he didn’t even feel it. I don’t even think he was breathing.”

“I’ve never heard of anything quite like that,” you admit. “But… why bring him to me?”

Katsuragi bites his lip. “I can’t… in good conscience cast him aside,” he says quietly. “By the looks of things, he’s been abandoned once already. The—the look in his eyes, when he realised I was trying to take him with me… almost like he’d never even conceived of it before. But I also—I don’t have the time to look over him all day, not with my job. And yet… he hungers for it, I can tell. To be a part of something.”

“Is that so?” you say archly. “And how can you tell?”

Katsuragi’s eyes soften. “I see it on your own face often enough.”

Your jaw clenches. “Losing your sight in your old age, I see,” you spit. “Or maybe you’ve taken one too many hits to the head.”

A breathless chuckle. “But, see… I think him finding a place in this village will be good for him. I’ll pay a visit to my friend Niwa in the morning—he taught my niece to read and write, you know? He could learn to be a real person.”

You almost ask, why do you care so much? And then you remember that this is Katsuragi. Katsuragi who wanders the shores in his spare hours, finding sea animals who had wandered too close to land. All Katsuragi did was look out for lost souls. He collects them—things without brains. Things without souls. You cast a glance at the shut door again, picturing the figure behind it.

Things without hearts.

“So you want me to… what?” You look at Katsuragi in disbelief. “I’m not the one to raise him, Katsuragi.”

He shrugs. “He’s not a child. He is ignorant of the world, sure, but he seems to have lived much of it already. You wouldn’t be a parent. You’d be a friend.”

“A friend?” you repeat with derision. “I’m hardly fit to be anyone’s friend.”

“Well, I’m hurt.” Katsuragi grins. “All this time, I thought we were buds.”

“You’re hilarious,” you say acidly. “Be serious. Let Niwa house him. Do it yourself, if you care so much.”

“I can’t,” he begs. “Nobody else can. Don’t you see?”

And suddenly you do. You are the only one suited to look over him, because of one very specific thing you both have in common. You are not human. And neither is he.

“You don’t want him to be alone,” you say quietly. Katsuragi looks at you helplessly. “I think you’re making a mistake, entrusting him to me.”

Katsuragi gives you a crooked smile. “Who says I’m not entrusting you to him?”

The thing—boy?—has moved a little from where you both left him when you shut the door. His back was to you, and he was stooped slightly over your dresser, examining the small collections of kitchenware you had stored carelessly upon there.

“What are you doing?” you snap, striding over. The puppet doesn’t flinch, exactly, but his body sort of locks up in surprise, and he turns those wide indigo eyes over to you with the sort of innocence you’d once thought only small children or animals possessed. The seto cup in his hand trembles.

“I was… just looking,” he says tremulously.

“You’re touching,” you grit out. “Touching isn’t looking.”

The puppet looks down at the cup in his hands, and then he slowly sets it down on the dresser. His features—somehow soft and pointed at the same time—are taut with faint confusion. “Is it valuable?”

“To me, yes.” You snatch the cup up and hang it back on its hook. The puppet’s eyes follow you, hopelessly confused. You sort of feel like you’re pointing a crossbow at a deer that’s never been hunted before.

“Easy, now,” Katsuragi intervenes—he raises his hands as though about to place them placatingly on your shoulders, but the venomous look you shoot him cowes him. He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, instead. “He didn’t know, okay?”

You bite your lip, staying schtum. The puppet looks from you to Katsuragi uncertainly. The silence swells.

Finally, Katsuragi stoops down to talk to the puppet. “So… you’re going to be staying here for a while, okay? At least until we figure out what more we can do.”

The puppet’s lashes flicker in surprise. “Will I see you again?”

“Of course,” Katsuragi says warmly. “I’ll stop by all the time. I just don’t have the time to house you with me at the moment, okay?”

“I’m not going back to the Pavilion?” the puppet asks quietly. “I… get to stay?”

Katsuragi raises his eyes and looks at you beseechingly.

This is a terrible idea.

You’re going to ruin this poor puppet’s life.

You throw up your hands in exasperation and nod.

As Katsuragi says his goodbyes, you go to the closet and pull out a spare futon and some blankets. There’s a spare room, but it’s about the size of a large cupboard and currently is used to store your old armour and weapons. The puppet will have to share your room. You unroll the futon in the furthest corner from your own bed, right under the window. Muted strips of moonlight fall over the sheets, stifled by the rainfall.

When you wander back into the living room, Katsuragi is preparing to leave. You hesitate.

“Don’t want to dry off before you go?”

He shakes his head with a demure smile. “Not much point. I’ll get soaked either way.” He walks over to you with his dark eyes soft and open. “Thank you for this. I’m grateful.” His voice drops. “So is he.”

You don’t voice any of the things that rise to your lips instinctively. This is a mistake. I’ll mess this up. I’ll mess him up.

I can’t teach life. All I know is death.

Instead, you shrug. “Whatever.”

With another pat on the puppet’s head, Katsuragi departs. The puppet’s eyes follow him warily before turning to you. The expression on his face is expectant, like he’s waiting for you to tell him what to do.

You cast an awkward look around. “Are you… cold?”

The puppet blinks. “I don’t think so.” He looks down at his soaked clothes as though they don’t even belong to him. “That’s rain outside, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

The puppet looks thoughtful. “I heard it often, in the Pavillion. I always wondered what it looked like. What it felt like. But I couldn’t feel much of it.”

“Right.” You shift awkwardly. “Well… you should change into some dry clothes, at least.”

The puppet blinks. Tilts his head curiously. “Why?”

“Just… you know.” Your tongue feels too big and awkward for your mouth, and you have to bite back an irritated huff. “It’ll feel better.”

The puppet still looks confused, but he only bites his lip this time instead of answering. The skin there, caught between his teeth, is smooth and unmarred. The clothing in question is, indeed, so wet that it’s sticking to him. The plain, unembellished karaginu is practically translucent against his fair skin, his dark katsugi veil clinging to his long, dark hair. And what hair—it cascades like a dark waterfall down to his waist, stringy with rainwater, framing a thin, pale face.

He looks like a woman, in this light. Pretty enough to be one, you suppose. The feminine clothing and hair weren’t helping.

You rummage in your cupboards for a spare jinbei, hands curling over soft eggshell cotton. When you press them into his arms, he looks hopelessly confused, and you heave a sigh.

“Undress yourself, and put these on,” you tell him. “Your bed is in that room, under the window.”

You turn your back, wandering into the kitchen to make tea. You take a cup—not your seto ones, they never get used for something as prosaic as teamaking—and spoon dried curdled leaves into it, light a fire under a pot of water. It bubbles happily away as the flame catches and sputters in earnest.

You look over your shoulder, intending to ask the puppet if he would like something to drink also (do puppets need to drink? Do they need to eat?) but your voice dies in your throat. His veil lies in a wet pile of diaphanous lilac silk at his feet. He has struggled halfway out of his karaginu, the top half pooling limply at his waist as he works at his belt.

“W-what are you doing?!”

The puppet’s head snaps up at your near-shout, eyes wide. His fingers fumble at his waist, and the sharp jut of his shoulder blades and spine contort as he whirls around to stare at you.

“Don’t change here,” you tell him incredulously. “Go into the bathroom or the bedroom.”

The puppet looks utterly bewildered and a little hurt. “What? W-why?”

“For privacy.” You take a deep breath through your teeth. He lived alone in a domain for Archons-know how long. Of course he would be unaccustomed to the concept of shame. Maybe it’s not right for you to introduce him to it—but you can’t pretend the sight of his bare torso doesn’t rattle you in all the wrong ways. Strange markings carve into his skin at the elbows and shoulders. They look like weird shadows, but you don’t keep your eyes on them long enough to gauge their meaning. All you see is an expanse of smooth, unmarred skin.

“I don’t understand,” the puppet says quietly. “Is my body offensive?”

“It’s not that,” you get out through gritted teeth, eyes glued to the wall. “It’s just… decent. Please go and change somewhere else.”

There’s a pause—and then you hear a quiet rustle of shifting clothing. Silently, the puppet picks up his sleepwear and treads down the hallway to the bathroom. The door slides shut with a sound like a sigh behind him.

You turn back to your tea, trying not to feel guilty. The water in the pot froths and spits now, starting to bubble over the cast-iron rim. You wonder if you hurt the puppet’s feelings. You wonder if he has any feelings to hurt.

Things without souls. Things without hearts.

What a pair we make.

Katsuragi’s trust in you feels like a sick joke.

You pour the tea, and whilst it cools, walk over to where the puppet was changing. He left his veil in a sodden pile on the floor, so you pick it up and hang it on one of the coat hanger hooks. It drips sullenly and relentlessly, a steady dull tapping against the tatami flooring. You cast a glance at the closed door, the one the puppet undresses behind.

Aid and sabotage.

Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know the difference.

After another ten minutes, the door slides open in a soft rush. The puppet pokes his head around the frame. “Am I wearing it right?”

The shirt is backwards, and when you tell him so a frustrated furrow carves itself between his brows. He wriggles his arms back out of the holes and twists the fabric around his torso—and then he looks up at you, and you think that if he had the capacity to breathe his breath would be bated. He looks as though his every happiness clings to you telling him he’s finally done something right. His eyes are impossibly big, like night-blooming lilies, begging for your blessing.

He doesn’t yet know that you are unfit to give it.

You nod tersely, drain the last of your tea. “Give me your wet clothes,” you tell him. “I’ll hang them up to dry.”

He scrambles to obey, shoving the damp pile of fabric at you with haste. He watches you hang them up like it’s the most captivating thing in the world, rosebud lips parted in awe.

When you show him his futon, his eyes gleam. He sets his body down gingerly, spreads his palm over the sheets. Feeling the fabric to an almost obsessive degree, clenching his fists so the white cotton bleeds between his fingers, rubbing his cheek against the pillow like a cat. As you settle into your own bed, staring emptily up at the ceiling, you hear him shift, a rustle as he sits up.

“Why didn’t Katsuragi want me?” he asks.

“He didn’t have time for you,” you answer. “He works a lot.”

There is a short pause as the puppet processes this. “Why did you want me?”

“I didn’t,” you grit out. “But I have you now.”

There is quiet, broken only by the endless rush of rain outside. Then the puppet sighs, long and deep and mournful.

“I might have known.” His words seep into the darkness, a million miles from the neutral, curious tone you’ve heard so far. His voice sounds hoarse and much older, suddenly, weighed down with a hundred years of pain. “Nobody ever really wants me.”

With that, he turns on his side, pulling the blankets up over his head.

You don’t know if he sleeps. You certainly don’t.

When you close your eyes after a few hours, you see spirits. They dance and they live and they die. The smell of blood wakes you up. As usual, when you bolt upright, gasping for breath, they are not there.

Someone is, though. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, someone is.

The knowledge of that soothes you back to sleep.

#🫀.scribes #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x reader #kabukimono x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin impact oneshot #scaramouche oneshot #wanderer oneshot #genshin impact x you #scaramouche x you #kabukimono x you #wanderer x you

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kpforpresident · 10 months

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Indulgent Tropes Prompt: Back together - Clexa ❤️

The two women both had their heads down as they walk briskly through the pouring, hoods pulled severely around their faces so as to keep out the worst of the downpour. Both so focused on their paths that they were unaware of their surroundings.

"Ouch!"

"Son of a-"

The taller of the two lands squarely on the ass, water flying dramatically in fat droplets as she plants firmly into a puddle. The shorter of the two was less lucky, skidding several feet into the small green patch between the sidewalks.

Blonde hair flies everywhere as the shorter one stands up in a huff and rips her hood down, mud flinging around her as she slips slightly before regaining her footing.

"Watch where you're going," she snarls, hands bunching into fists as the taller woman gingerly picks herself up, hood slipping back to reveal rapidly soaked brown curls.

"Hey, I was just walking, you are the one who bowled me over--Clarke??"

"Listen, it's pouring, and this rain jacket leaks-" Clarke begins to argue hotly, stopping abruptly to blink drops of water out of her vision. "Lexa??"

Lexa looks like someone had just swung something very heavy into her face, while Clarke pales incrementally as blue eyes flit over Lexa, assessing. The two women stare at each other for a long moment, rain streaming down unceasingly as puddles form in their shoes.

Clarke was the first to break the silence as she jerks her head toward the closest brick building, warm light pouring out of several visible windows.

"My office is this way, we can dry off there before you head out on your way."

Lexa nods silently, following Clarke's sodden figure through the gloom.

////

Later, Lexa thaws slightly as Clarke hands her a battered, off white towel and a steaming cup of tea.

"Sorry about the state of the towel, the art building isn't exactly known for its pristine supplies and sparkly clean surroundings," Clarke says sheepishly as she squeezes a steam of water into a hand towel from her hair.

Lexa nods her thanks for the tea as they both sip quietly.

"I can't believe it's been a decade." Comes the soft murmur around Lexa's teacup. Clarke nods in quiet agreement as her hands smooth over the worn wood of her desk. "I mean, I knew when we broke up when you went to volunteer in Africa that it would be a goodbye, but I never expected it to be so......final?"

Keen green eyes assess Clarke's sad gaze as they both contemplate. Rain continues to pount relentlessly against the roof of the small building, cool water trickling down the glass.

Clarke shrugs out of her wet cardigan, Lexa's eyes surreptitiously following her every move as pale toned arms are revealed from behind sodden wood.

"So the. What brought you to my neck of the woods, Ms. Woods?"

Clarke busies herself as she asks her question, fiddling with various paintbrushes that have been left in various ceramic mugs around the large wooden shelves in the far corner of the art room. Large colourful rugs pad the cement floor, bright art of every style hung delicately by wooden clips across the wall facing the door. Lexa takes it all in silently as Clarke moves swiftly around the room, clearly readying it for class. Her hands still as Lexa clears her throat, preparing to answer.

Lexa sits her teacup down and intertwines her fingers, thinking as she watches Clarke fidget slightly in her wet jeans.

"I'm a professor now, actually. I teach Political Science and Ethics at Polis U. I'm just a visiting professor for the semester at Arcadia since your Poly Sci lead is on maternity leave. I didn't realize that this is where you had decided to teach the painting courses that you developed as a student teacher."

Clarke chews on her lip as she mulls over Lexa's confession, her fingers a steady drum on the porcelain of the cup. From across the room she pivots on a squeaky clog, both women now facing each other from across the cozy room.

"I can't believe all this time you've been only a few miles away." Lexa finishes in a whisper, unable to stop the wistful longing that clogs her throat on the last word.

Clarke nodded absentmindedly, still watching Lexa.

"I missed you, you know. Going from dating and pretty much being attached to your hip to full no contact was....hard. I think Raven was immediately sick of me about three days into it."

Clarke says it casually, immediately turning away to gather dried artwork from the clips into neat, labeled folders on the counter- presumably for her students to pick up after class. Lexa feels teeny icy fingers squeeze around her heart as the words soak through her chest to reside somewhere around her ribcage.

"I missed you too, Clarke."

It's all Lexa can think of to say as the ten years of time and life hangs between them like the spectre of failed loves lost and past. Unable to decide how to further explain herself or the choices that lead a lost and confused 22 year old Lexa to drop out of law school to join the Peace Corp felt like too much for a causal, happenstance meeting almost a decade after they had first met on their first day of college orientation.

"I should head out now, my lecture is at three and I have to go pathetically dry myself under the hand dryer in the ladies' room so that no one thinks I crawled out of the campus pond." She manages something between a wave and a flinch before striding quickly towards the door, feeling her ears burn bright red.

"Lexa, wait."

Lexa pivots in the door, hand lingering on the metal handle as she sucks in a breath, finding herself inches away from Clarke's face.

She still has that freckle on her chin, Lexa finds herself thinking absentmindedly before ripping her eyes away from the bewitching mark, fighting desperately to maintain eye contact.

"I- you. Hm. Do you wanna get a coffee sometime? My earliest class on Tuesdays is noon, and then I have a gap until three thirty. I'd love to hear about your adventures. And what fills your days now."

"I'd love that, Clarke."

///

Lexa practically floated to her next lecture, a huge smile plastered on her face throughout the entire block.

#this is also indulgent #and i love the idea of this #unsure what to call this AU though #if you have any ideas lmk kids #thanks anon #indulgent prompt asks #clexa

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barbeygirl · 5 months

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A quick introduction to 1940’s fashion

I've been so obsessed with Band of Brothers recently and I love reading the fanfics. Here’s my contribution, for your OC's.

(soon!) Part 2. Hair, makeup etc

(soon!) 1940's lookbook (photos)

The war had a major impact on 40's fashion. There were shortages and rations, and women were entering the workforce as men went off to war, leading to a more simplistic, utilitarian style.

Rations and regulations:

In the UK, clothing was rationed from June, 1941 to March, 1949, in varying strictness. So although you still payed for clothing with money, you'd need coupons to be allowed to buy them altogether. In the US, the Regulation L-85 (1942), rationed natural fibers and restricted how clothing could be made in order to save fabric. This meant regulating the skirt length, the fullness of pants and jackets, and even banned cuffs.

Silhouette:

The early 40's silhouette had strong, boxy shoulders, but by the mid forties and as the restrictions grew more strict, the silhouette softened to save materials. A nipped-in and high waistline stayed popular for the whole decade, and a hemline below the knee was fashionable until 1947, when Dior came out with the "New Look".

Fashion:

Because restrictions and shortages, the look was simple but stylish. Showy, over the top clothing was considered unfashionable to wear in wartime Britain.

The "military style" bled into every day fashion. It was common for men, who were not on active duty, to still wear bomber jackets, trench coats and aviator glasses. It's visible on women's fashion as well, which is why some of the clothing have a sort of a uniformly look.

Popular outfits for women were square-shouldered jackets with matching A-line skirts, shirtwaist dresses, and thanks to actresses, pants were now also a stable part of women's wardrobes. The pants had wide, straight legs and high waists, and were often paired with a colorful blouse or sweater and a matching jacket.

Hand knitting in Britain was at peak popularity during the war. Women on the home front were encouraged to "knit your bit" and contribute to the war effort by knitting for the troops. The warmth of woollen items also made knitwear popular for civilians.

Working women:

Women were entering the workforce to replace men, who went off to war. This required more practical attire, such as sturdy shoes, head scarves, overalls etc.

Some jobs (such as the WAVES) felt it important to emphasize that women wouldn't become any less feminine by working or wearing a uniform. This is why makeup, nail polish and feminine hairstyles weren't just largely allowed, they were encouraged.

Actress Veronica Lake, famous of her highly imitated "Peek-a-boo" hairstyle, where her hair covers one of her eyes, encouraged women working in factories to tie their hair up into safer styles to avoid injury. In this Safety Styles video, she has her hair up in a "victory roll" style.

The New Look by Dior:

After the long war, and as life was slowly returning back to normal, there was a want of "returning to femininity" among women. At the same time, some women feared that this ultra-femininity would set back all the progress they had made working outside the home during the war.

In 1947, Christian Dior released a new collection called ”The New Look” which featured a full, calf-length skirt. After the simple lines of the utility clothing, such a dress seemed desirable by contrast. The full skirt was also controversial for how much fabric it used, since rationing in the UK wouldn't end for another two years and there were still material shortages in both UK and the US.

Despite the controversies, the New Look was hugely popular and became the predominant silhouette well into the 1950's.

A/N: To keep this short, I had to paste and delete like half of what this originally was onto part 2. Also, lmk if there's interest in men's fashion ver. of this!

Hopefully this was legible. All the ”not my first language blah blah” stuff <3

sources: (links)

Imperial War Museum National Museum of American History centralcasting.com V&A Museum (free 1940's knitting patterns!!) NationalWW2museum.org

#giggling and kicking my legs bc I get to talk about fashion history #history #hbo war #fashion #fashion history #1940s fashion #1940s #oc inspiration

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muddyorbsblr · 2 years

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relinquish the crown outtake: at first sight

Masterlist

Summary: Loki has returned to Asgard after a journey all across the Nine Realms, taking a quiet walk along the palace grounds, when he's mistaken for an intruder. And he sees you for the first time.

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings (trust me you need these): themes of incest (he's adopted but still), mentions of blades, mild cussing [let me know if i missed anything and i will update immediately]

It was well after dark when Loki arrived back in Asgard, returning from a rather lengthy discussion on the conditions of their realm's peace treaty with Jotunheim. Well, truthfully, returning from nine centuries of conversing amongst the dwellers of the Nine Realms to gather consensus regarding Odin's rule.

Weak, he thought derisively. How dare they think my father weak simply because he chose to wed for love. He concluded that he simply did not know what it was like to be in Odin's shoes at the time. To be told that he was to marry within his own bloodline, as was tradition, and then to meet the love of his life?

Had he been in his father's predicament, he would have moved the realms and Valhalla themselves to be able to wed the woman he loved. If he were to ever be fortunate enough to actually find her.

He roamed seemingly aimlessly towards the palace gardens, undoubtedly his favorite place on palace grounds. The scent of all the flowers surrounding him was something he'd always associated with his mother and her comforting warmth. He was almost beside himself not to have his arrival announced right this minute, but he remained respectful of their hours of slumber, mindful of the time of day and the shroud of darkness that blanketed the Asgardian sky.

No. Tonight he would move in silence. In clandestinity. As he once did in his younger years, back when he was not even a man grown. Perhaps he viewed this as a challenge to himself as well, to see if he was able to slip past this new generation of palace guards undetected.

As he suspected, of course he was. And he almost made it to the final hall that led to the gardens before he felt someone pull his shoulder back sharply and poise a dagger to his throat.

What in the Nine Realms?

"Well well, what do we have here?" a sultry voice seethed in his ear. A woman? The palace stationed women as night guards now? How much had changed since he was gone? And trained them with daggers, too. "Give me a reason not to end you where you stand, intruder."

He quickly twisted himself out of the guard's hold and faced her in a fighting stance. "You'll have to try a bit harder if you want to end me." He took a look at her, fleeting but just enough to be taken aback by her eyes. The fiercest, most piercing eyes he'd ever met. The rest of her face was covered in a leather mask set in peacock blue, a match to the hooded cloak that covered her head.

"I haven't even begun to try," she spat out and lunged towards him. He deflected her blows with considerable effort. She was nimble, moving with a preciseness that could only come from at least a decade of practice, and strong. This was no guard. This was a warrior.

They were matched in every swing of their dagger, every sidestep, every deflection. All until she had effectively lured him to a corner and pinned him to the wall, her arm pressed firmly on his collarbone. "Do you yield, intruder?"

"Never," he hissed as his hand reached up and pushed her away by the bottom half of her face. Her steps faltered back and his grip had effectively dislodged the mask from her face.

She kept her face turned away from him and he watched in awe as she took her two daggers and joined them by the handle, her weapon now resembling Sif's. And with a flip of her hair, she faced him again.

And Loki got his first look at you. Norns, she's breathtaking, he thought to himself. The beauty of a goddess, the strength and agility of a warrior, a voice that could lead him straight to Hel without him putting up much of a fight.

A woman after my own heart. Perhaps he'd finally been fortunate and met the woman that he would move the Realms for.

You lunged towards him again, your blade ready to cut him at the jugular, but then he put his hands up as he sank to his knees, hiding his daggers back into his pocket dimension, and announced, "Alright I yield!"

You stopped mere inches away from his face and disarmed yourself, separating your blade back into two and sheathing them into the holsters you kept at your sides. "State your name," you commanded.

"I am Loki, Son of King Odin and Queen Frigga."

You immediately righted your stance, a small smile of familiarity gracing your face. Making him break out into a smile of his own. The feats he would perform, the trials he would endure, just to see that smile for the rest of his days. "Many apologies, your highness." You extended your hand to him. "I am Lady Y/N. Daughter of Lady Sif--"

Sif had a daughter now? he thought to himself. I must remember to commend her for having raised such a remarkable woman. Perhaps if I stay on her good graces she'd even allow me to court this Lady Y/N.

"--and Prince Thor."

He felt his world freeze over, his heart plummet to the ground. "My brother--?"

"Yes," you answered, the fond smile never leaving your face. He reached for your hand and you helped him back to his feet and right himself. "My father will be ecstatic to know you've returned."

You already started on your way down the hall when you felt Loki wrap his hand around your arm. "Erm…perhaps we could delay that announcement until the morning breaks. I'd much rather just return to my chambers after our little…altercation. Catch my breath. Rest. And…breathe." In truth, he didn't lose his breath from his fight with you.

He was struggling to breathe because despite already knowing who you were, all he could think about was how otherworldly you looked in the moonlight.

How your lips would feel moving against his in a kiss of pure decadence as he weaved his fingers through your hair.

How it would feel to hold you in his arms in a lover's embrace.

What a future would look like coming home to you, being the one man in the Nine Realms fortunate enough to be the one to take you to bed--

Stop it, he scolded himself. She is not yours. She cannot be yours. She is family. She's Thor's daughter for fuck's sake, he cursed at himself. Fully knowing that despite all that he would still think about exactly those lurid images the moment his chamber doors closed behind him.

Your giggle brought him out of his reverie and he brought his attention back to you. The rendition that stood living and breathing in front of him, not the image that will forever reside in his head that he could worship clandestinely. "Very well then," you spoke. "Guards."

Two palace guards walked to her and stood at attention. "Princess Y/N. Prince Loki." They looked to him with a touch of fear, while they looked to you with fondness, perhaps with the slightest touch of caution.

"Kindly escort Prince Loki to his chambers. Quietly. He does not wish to announce his arrival until the morning," you instructed with a playful gleam in your eye. You slipped your arm out of his hold and began to walk away down another call…perhaps towards the armory…or perhaps towards the library.

"Are you not to retire to your chambers yet, Princess?" one of the guards called out.

You turned around and proceeded to walk backwards down the hall, facing Loki and the guards. "The night is still young," your voice echoed through the hall. Then you turned back around and walked away from them, disappearing from the raven-haired god's view.

"It is both a blessing and a shame you only met her now, Your Highness," the palace guard addressed Loki.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Princess Y/N was quite the troublemaker in her youth. Quite comparable to your reputation, even. I cannot imagine how much more chaos she could have wreaked had she been raised around you."

"In her youth? Isn't she still?" He pleaded to any deity listening that the answer was yes, so that he could rid himself of the lewd inner workings of his mind.

"No, Your Highness. She was born 200 years after you'd left on your journey across the Nine Realms. She's been a woman grown for quite a while." They arrived at his chamber doors and bowed in his direction.

He took notice of the flowers adorning the doors to the chambers across from his. "Guards? Whose chambers are those? They were empty when I lived here last."

He suppressed a groan as they answered, "Your niece's. Princess Y/N."

Never call her that in my presence, he wanted to snap at them. The word felt like the frosty winds of Jotunheim all across his body, injecting hateful reason into his inner thoughts.

Not that that ever stopped him from thinking those exact thoughts for the coming decades. Up until you became his wife, and he was able to turn them into reality.

A/N: I told you they'd be back haha. Let me know if you don't want to be tagged in future outtakes of Relinquish the Crown and I'll make a note to only tag you in the stories outside of this "universe".

Taglist: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @redbluekjw @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @springdandelixn @fictive-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446 @salempoe @lokixryss @sinsandguilt @lokidbadguy @alexakeyloveloki @glitterylokislut @arch-venus25 @freefrommars @littlemortals @cakesandtom @girl-of-multi-fandoms

#loki x reader #dark!loki #dark!loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki odinson x reader #loki x female reader

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plasticfangtastic · 11 months

Text

Can we be lonely Together?

A Homelander x Stalker!Reader fan fiction

This is my first fic for this fandom (and in a decade lol) this is a bit of a slow burner and will have about 8 to 9 chapters.

This is a Gender Neutral reader (but honestly is just me shipping Homelander with Joe Goldberg... so feel free to see it as a crossover, just not going to make it clear at all in the fic.)

Summary: We were two mouses pretending to be cats, weren't we?

We didn't expect to find ourselves in this situation, but John... Homelander... you were perfect... none of this was a lie, these feelings I got are genuine! So I don't know why you're using such words like: Stalker, Psychotic bitch, Insane, liar! To describe me... after all I've done? To help you!?

You were wrong.

I just yearned to get closer to you. So what if I did my homework? After all it was you who played along.

I knew you knew... you were so loud.

R18+ (there will be smut, drug abuse and gore in later chapters) gore, stalking, killing.

Chapter One

Apologies

It pains me to say this… I'm genuinely ashamed, embarrassed more like it! To admit that I genuinely wasn’t impressed by you.

Your face had been painted on every surface to death... It has grown boring.

Nothing but an overbearing presence to the common man, but the average citizen didn’t loathe you, fear you, hate you or even found you pastiche! They simply adored you.

Your face was plastered on everything one could imagine and then some– I’m not just talking mugs by the Target checkout area or birthday cards, and keychains, but sausage packages in the supermarket! Your face wasn’t all that special to me… I used to think of you as nothing more than an aged jock from a John Hughes movie, the tights didn’t fool me, you wore the varsity jacket underneath the foam-- I had bets that you were going to be the worst the world could’ve manufactured if I ever met you.

Now… Now I see… I was wrong… contrite is the word that describes this social faux-paux of mine.

Now I see… just how… unique you were-- the whole world didn’t have the faintest idea of just the sheer amount of bullcrap you had to endure everyday. Gosh I couldn’t even fathom being in your shoes, the fantasy alone proved heavy, and you had to do it all while looking more well adjusted and prim than Princess Diana during her divorce.

I’m sure you’ll be so divine in that revenge dress too.

I mean… you sort of knew you looked good in women's clothes, Is okay I like adventurous men… I’ll admit I might've dressed you a couple times in my head… but don’t worry! It was all flattering.

Which in terms of flattering things… it's a shame that this is how you catch me, how we end this farce, this game of pretends... today you could be the cat… I wish at least I had the time to wrap up the plastic sheets, or wash all this off me.

I feel the weight hit my foot directly, I barely wince, but I’m not taking my eyes off of you, feeling wet bubbles and gurgles tickling my bare toes– all I want is to give you decades worth of misplaced attention to those red eyes of yours… I seen your face in a million different ways, but never had I seen it in such vivid technicolor-- There’s no red that can quite match your eyes… as they watch me from this eighteen story window, inside an apartment smaller than your closet (that’s New York city for you kids). I can admit to having fantasized being on the receiving end, it would be fitting for me, us.

This building is so loud, it overwhelms us both, but unlike you right now I don’t have to listen to the upstairs neighbors petty grievances, the next door lady wondering where her kid is at these ungodly hours, the stoner in the elevator, or the homeless man wondering if his dollar store hooch was tainted with something because right now there was the freaking Homelander hovering above him! So I listen to her… right at my feet… gargling… hacking… I didn’t cut deep enough, and we both can hear it… knife still in my hand, her mind is nothing but the flashing lights of a faraway train, it’s ever so silent as the train drives off, all she can think off is a trip to europe when she was a child, and the snow devoured the sun and the music, it was just her, the train, the snow and us now.

“‘Is not what it looks like?’ Is that what you want to say?”

yeah. I mean… Can I? I licked the knife clean as if it was residuals from an apple, trying not to roll my eyes at you.

“Evening… John… Homelander.” My hand is on the window latch letting the cold breeze in, your eyes suffocating me just like the bitch behind us… I almost whimpered as they lost their candor giving me back blue moons– What brings you here?”

You points behind me, unable to believe I just said that, I give way for you.

Always staring at me– I want to hear your thoughts… for the first time in all my years of life I am yearning to listen, feeling every particle of my being falling apart as they're begging me to listen to your thoughts once more… but I can’t… Right now I’m in Finland, is winter, is cold-- everything you aren’t… because I am sorry… I pry so much.

The way you watch me isn’t undressing me further, I am mostly bare, just underwear and sweat and my soul too tainted for you to want to seek, I can’t make sense of that smirk on your lips that has only now begun to reach your eyes… this somehow has amused The Homelander, your laugh scares me far more than your ray-guns– are you mocking me!? No you…you wouldn't be, you’re gentleman after all, if you wanted to mock me… you would treat me like Miss Barrett, or Kevin.

I mean… I don’t want you to hate me. We are perfect for each other. We would be perfect… so just… let me… explain.

“Where do you like me to start?”

Your foot crushed the skull leaving it nothing but a gummy, clumpy pancake under your booth, sick of hearing it mope and cry for any longer it seems, you immediately threw your cracked phone at my feet.

“The beginning.” The Homelander growled.

#homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #the boys #fanfiction #gore mention #I'm ESL so please forgive my english #should post chapter 2 after I get out of work #tomorrow obviously #Can We Be Lonely Together #personal #my fic tag #will fix grammar tomorrow

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