#lower operating temperatures

[forter-from-meteos]

so you live on the hot fire planet right? so realistically you're pretty hot (literally)? so being naked in "normal" temperatures would maybe kill you, or at least burn something/someone else, right?

#then again you can telepathically control lava so who knows #you being a firime #the idea's been in my head for a while so might as well make art of it #i've got a bunch of little thoughts/headcanons about firimes and firim #they've invented lava-based generators powered by their lava control #which are highly desirable if a bit inconvenient to install on ships made for lower-temperature beings #and require a firime to operate of course #they can't see color and have relatively poor vision (there's color on the suit because it was created in conjunction with other species #and the brightness of them is different enough to be distinguished without color) #their arms are prehensile through their entire length and are highly sensitive (they can actually taste through the tips) #there is a significant hotted population on firim. there is not a significant firime pouplation on hotted #because the lack of fully molten rock makes it rather unsuitable #jeljellians are lava-ish enough for firime lava control to work on them #ok that's enough i need to put the actual tag tags #meteos #art #firim #digital art

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - unhealthy relationships, mentions of gore/human experimentation, forced marriage. written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Recently, all your mornings had started the same way: ten or so feet below the ground, buried under the satin sheets of an otherwise empty bed in a stone chamber decorated with all the love and tenderness of a hospital room, freshly cleaned after the death of its last occupant.

Blearily, you stumbled out of bed, grimacing at the feeling of the cold, rough floor against your bare feet. Temperatures in Snezhnaya rarely rose above freezing, and while your husband didn’t seem to mind the cold, you weren’t so resilient – shrugging on your heaviest robe before so much as opening your eyes. A mug of coffee was clumsily assembled in your minimalistic kitchenette (a feature you insisted on, after being forced to share a communal ice chest with one of his more dissection-focused segments), then a cup of tea; herbal and rich, a blend from Sumeru he had imported every few months. For as many years as you’d been with Zandik, you’d never been able to make sense of what he considered worth his time and what he disregarded as frivolous wastes of effort and mora. You supposed you could only be thankful you fell into the former group, lest your body be the next to adorn his vivisection table.

Once you’d managed to shake the chill and bring yourself to a state of near-consciousness, you stumbled out of your bedroom and into the corridor, ignoring the curious looks of young researchers and patrolling soldiers and shrugging open the steel door at the end of the hall. The smell of rot and preservatives hit you as soon as you stepped into Zandik’s personal laboratory, but your eyes only glazed over the dark puddles splattered across the floor, the amorphous mass covered with a white sheet and laid across a metal table before landing on your husband – slumped over his desk, his face buried in his arms and ink staining his fingertips, his left cheek. With a sigh, you made your way to his side, placing both mugs on the edge of his desk and resting your hands on his shoulders. Letting your eyes fall shut, you lowered yourself to his height, resting your lips against the top of his head and only pulling away when he began to stir.

He'd always been a light sleeper (in comparison to you, at least), and it’d never taken much to rouse him. You straightened your back and as if on cue, he bolted upward, gaze darting to the door, then his operation table, then you – where it would stay. A slight grin pulled at the corner of his lips as he pushed his chair away from his desk and tapped his leg, and without protest, you climbed into his lap; straddling his thighs and burying your face in the crook of his neck. One of his hands found its way to your hip while the other took to rubbing small, slow circles into your back. You waited for him to settle underneath you before breaking the silence. “I want to go home.”

Home, meaning the gothic, looming mansion you usually resided in when he wasn’t working out of one of the Fatui’s countless underground facilities or traveling abroad. It was also dark and drafty and a far cry from your previous home, the home he’d taken you away from the day he married you, but you’d been able to decorate it to your preferences and you didn’t need to go through ten of his soldiers just to step outside. He hummed, the sound passive and dismissive, and you frowned into his shoulder, nudging gently at his chest. “I’m serious, Zandik. Everything smells like blood and you haven’t come to bed in days. Being around all these chemicals is going to be the death of me – that is, if boredom doesn’t do the job first.”

Another hum, this one slightly more thoughtful. “You know I would pluck the stars from the sky for you,” he started, his voice still low and coarse with sleep. “But I am here on the Tsaritsa’s orders. Are you sure you’d have me test the good will of an archon for something so mundane?”

“Yes.” You’d seen him butcher orphans and burn villages to the ground. If he was still in his goddess’ good graces after so many centuries of relentless carnage, you were sure she wouldn’t mind a sudden relocation. “There’s nothing you do here that you couldn’t do in your own laboratory.” You thought for a moment, then added, “Unless you’ve decided that you love your archon more than you love me.”

His smile faltered, something possessive and pointed catching in his eyes. His grip on you tightened, but he recovered quickly, letting out an airy chuckle as he bowed his head and nuzzled mindlessly into the dip of your shoulder. “Two more weeks,” he promised. “Then, I’ll send you home – one way or another.”

“One more week.” You sat up, cupping his face and forcing him to meet your eyes. “Or I start spitting in your tea.”

“One more week if you start spitting in my tea.”

“You’re a vile, repugnant little man.” You leaned forward, kissing his cheek. “Deal.”

You spend the rest of that day lounging across the velvet-cushioned loveseat in the corner of his lab, skimming through your dozenth pulpy romance novel and watching your husband dismember corpses with a vigor you hadn’t seen since the first days of your marriage.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yanderecore #yancore #genshin impact imagines

[silent-stories]

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

Pairing: Eddie x F!Reader

Summary: Eddie is in the hospital after what happened in the Upside Down but no one will let you in his room, so you wait sitting on the floor in the hallway until Wayne lets you sneak in.

Warnings: angst, blood, fluff

You were sitting on the floor as there were no chairs or benches of any kind in the hallway, your back was against one of the faded walls that looked like they hadn't been painted over in years. The dark corners of the walls let you know that no one had worried about the mold in that place.

You thought the doctors had purposely placed him in that cold, dark wing of the hospital, almost forgotten by everyone.

Probably the heating there was off or didn't work because the temperature was decidedly lower than in the others wings of the hospital and this made you understand how little the doctors cared about the only person who occupied one of the rooms there: Eddie.

It had been a week since you'd come out of the Upside Down dragging a barely breathing Eddie out, it had been a week since you'd seen him for the last time, his chocolate eyes misty with tears and full of fear closing as he rested his head on your lap in the backseat of Steve's car.

You remembered how his bloody hand had found yours as Steve was driving to the nearest hospital and you had to hold back from crying just because you didn't want to let him know how bad his condition was.

Only when his hand had stopped holding yours and you thought he was dying you begin to silently sob, your tears mixing with Eddie's blood.

He couldn't die. There were so many things you'd never told him.

Nancy had told you he was still breathing and you couldn't help but believe her words and use them as your only hope at that moment.

Your trembling hand had caressed his hair and your fingers stained of blood went through his hair until you reached the hospital. The look Nancy gave you as they were taking him to the operating room was that of someone who understood that Eddie was more important than a friend to you but no one had talked about that.

In the week since that night, you hadn't seen him once. You knew he was still sleeping but he was better, his situation was stable and he was going to wake up soon but despite all the times you begged them to let you see him, no one gave you permission to enter.

You jumped up when you saw a nurse walking in front of you and you put yourself between her and the door locked by the keys that only some of her colleagues and the doctors had.

The nurse rolled her eyes. "What do you want, again?"

"I wanna see him." You said like it wasn't what you'd been asking every day for the past seven days.

"You can't." She replied curtly, putting her hands on her hips with an annoyed air.

"Please." You insisted, your tone of voice couldn't hide your desperation.

She shook her head. "Girl, we've told you a hundred times. You're not family and he's a criminal. You can't see him."

"His uncle can!"

"Just one hour a week."

It was disgustingly little and she knew it too but she didn’t seem to care.

"Girl, he's a criminal. And he hasn't woken up yet anyway."

You clenched your jaw. "He's not a criminal."

"That will be decided by the police."

You took a deep breath to try to calm yourself.

"I'm begging you."

"You can't."

"But he's always alone."

"He is still sleeping!"

"But I want to be with him when he wakes up!"

The idea of ​​Eddie waking up alone in a bare and probably too cold room made your stomach turn.

You just wanted to see him, talk to him even if he couldn't answer you and maybe read him some of his favorite books.

You just wanted to be there.

And they didn't let you.

You didn't want that when he woke up his first thought would be that all his friends had abandoned him.

"Now get out of my way or I'm calling the security." The nurse snapped.

You looked into her eyes, hoping to find a shred of sympathy.

"Girl, move away and go home. This is my last warning."

"Please, you don't understand. Eddie is innocent and he doesn't deserve to-"

"Get out of my way!"

You looked in her eyes one last time and eventually you moved away, watching the nurse disappear into Eddie's room and come back after a few minutes, leaving you with a glare.

You sat down on the floor again and brought your knees up to your chest, waiting for something you didn't even know what it was.

After another five days, you met Wayne for the first time. You recognized him from Dustin's descriptions of him: grey hair and often wore a plaid.

You wanted to talk to him but you honestly had no idea what to say.

While fighting monsters in another dimension with your nephew, I think I developed some feelings for him and now I have nightmares every night of him dying but nobody will let me see him?

You exchanged just a glance before he entered Eddie's room using the key the nurse had given him. The slight doubt in the man's expression hinted that he was wondering what the hell you were doing there, sitting on the floor in an empty hallway.

You watched him disappear behind the door, feeling a slight envy beacuse it was something you couldn't do.

You didn't realize you'd fallen asleep when you woke up with a jolt as the door opened again.

"Jesus Christ" You muttered rubbing your eyes, you had no idea what time it was because there wasn't even a damn clock on the wall but since Wayne was leaving, you must have slept for at least an hour.

"Hey kid, what are you still doing here?" The man asked looking down at where you were sitting, though he looked defensive, his gaze was gentle as Eddie's always was.

"Oh well they…they never let me in. So I stay here hoping someone will take pity on me." You said the last part with a slight chuckle even though it wasn't far from the truth.

"You're here to... see Eddie?" The question sounded almost incredulous.

"I... yeah, I am." The fact that his uncle had a hard time believing you were there for Eddie almost broke your heart.

You stood up and held out your hand.

"I'm Y/N. I'm…I'm a friend of Eddie's."

The man shook your hand. "Wayne."

You smiled for the first time in about ten days.

It was a rainy night when Eddie finally woke up. You hoped that thee lightning didn't remind him too much of what happened in the Upise Down.

Three nurses rushed to his room and you stood in front of the closed door, helpless. Eddie had woken up and he was alone and that was exactly what you'd been trying to avoid for days.

You'd talked to Hopper now that he was back and he was doing everything he could to prove Eddie's innocence but he said he needed a bit more time.

After a few minutes they went out.

"So?"

"So what?" One of them asked as if your question bothered her.

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine." It was the only answer you got before the nurses left locking the door again.

You stood there for a few seconds undecided whether to sit down again or ask if anyone had called Wayne to let him know Eddie was awake.

You stared at the door. It didn't feel particularly thick.

You certainly couldn't break through it but you could have done something else.

"Eddie?"

You waited a moment, hoping your voice had reached him.

"Y/N?" He said your name like he almost didn't believe you were there.

Tears filled your eyes when you heard his voice again but for the first time in days they were tears of relief and joy. It was so good to hear Eddie's voice again.

Your Eddie. The boy you've known for so short but who managed to stole your heart anyway, the boy who deserved none of all the awful things that had happened to him, the boy who almost died for a city that hated him and that still did.

You dropped onto your back against the door as tears began to stream down your face. "Yeah- yeah it's me. How... how do you feel?"

"What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night." You could almost see his confused expression.

You sniffled. "I didn't want you to be alone when you woke up but those assholes won't let me in." You made a sound that was a mix between a laugh and a sob.

After a moment of silence you heard his voice again, his tone was concerned. "You're not crying, are you?"

You chuckled wiping your tears with the sleeve of your shirt. "Maybe."

"What happened?"

"What?"

"You're crying. What happened?"

"Jesus Christ, I'm crying because I'm glad you're awake, you dumb fuck."

There was another moment of silence, you could only hear the sound of rain against the roof of the hospital and some thunder rumbling in the distance.

"Eddie?"

You heard a chuckle from the other side. It was soft and it was some of the most beautiful music you've ever heard. "I've missed your insults."

You shook your head with a slight smile on your lips. "You didn't answer my question. I asked how do you feel."

Silence fell again. Every time this happened you were afraid you would never hear the sound of his voice again.

"I almost died." He said, like that was the moment he realized it.

"That's why I'm asking you."

"I remember you holding my hand."

"I did."

"I wasn't afraid."

"You weren't?"

"No. Because you were holding my hand." His voice was gentle and he said it like it was obvious he would die happy if you were there with him.

Your eyes started stinging again and your vision became blurred from tears. "But I was. I was so scared for you."

"For me? Nah, there are things more important than me, princess."

"Stop doing that all the time." A tear rolled down your cheek and landed on your lips. You felt its salty taste while talking.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking nobody cares about you. Because I do. Dustin does. Your uncle does. Mike and Lucas do. Your band does. God, even Robin, Steve and Nancy and Max do, okay?"

The rain had stopped and somehow, being able to hear Eddie's voice more clearly made you feel closer to him.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not leaving me alone."

You smiled through your tears for the second time, thinking you'd happily spend all night sitting on that cold floor talking to Eddie through some stupid locked door.

"I would never do that."

The second time you ran into Wayne at the hospital was the time he let you sneak in.

"If they catch me they'll stop letting you in too." You said hesitant. You really wanted to see Eddie but you didn't want his uncle to lose his chance because of you.

"I'll stay out here and make sure no one comes, okay?" He gave you a half smile as he turned the key in the door lock.

"Are you sure?"

"You and your friends brought him here when he was dying. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't be here now. I owe you this."

The memory of his bloody hand ceasing to hold yours crossed your mind for a second. It would have been one of those that you would not have easily forgotten.

"Okay." You said finally. "Thank you."

You entered the room closing the door gently behind you.

It was quite dark inside, the single window in the corner of the room had its blinds almost all the way down, and it was a little colder than you'd expected.

Eddie was sitting with his back against the iron headboard of the bed, a dark blanket wrapped around his shoulders was almost completely hiding the blue hospital vest he was wearing.

You thought her uncle must have brought that one.

You couldn't see the wounds on his body and maybe that was the only reason why you hadn't burst into tears yet, one on his neck was covered by white bandages lightly stained with blood.

A scratch on his cheek was superficial, unlike the other wounds which would have left deep scars.

"Hi." You said when his tired eyes despite having slept for days met yours, with a slight smile on your lips.

You had almost forgotten how they could shine despite the darkness of the room.

Or maybe it was just the tears he refused to let go.

"Hey." He looked at you like he didn't believe it was really you.

You chuckled. "You look like shit."

He laughed, some wrinkles growing on the sides of his eyes. "C'mere." He opened his arms, letting you know what he wanted.

You sat on the bed, quickly taking off your shoes to curl up next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to gently push him close to you after planting a kiss on his cheek, just below one of the scratches.

You held him careful not to hurt him.

"I've missed you so much, princess." He murmured as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling as if he wanted to remember your smell.

"I missed you too." You said as you pressed a tender kiss into his messy hair.

Your hand was slow and gentle as it caressed his back.

As you slowly pushed away, you brushed his hair away from his neck and your eyes fell on the bandages there. "Do they still hurt?" He knew you were also referring to those hidden by blankets and clothes.

"Not anymore now that you're here." He chuckled.

"Eddie." Your tone was almost reproachful.

He huffed. "Do you really wanna know? Like hell. But now that you're here I feel better, like every time I hear your voice through that damn door I feel less alone."

You pressed another kiss on his cheek. "My rockstar." Somehow feeling his skin under your lips reminded you that he was really there, that he was alive and that everything was going to be okay. "You'll be fine, I promise."

He chuckled at the nickname. "I don't really feel like one, right now."

You shrugged. "Once a rockstar, always a rockstar. And make sure you get back on your feet soon because I've yet to come see you play at the Hideout."

He smiled. "So you're still up for that date?"

Date.

When he had first mentioned it, when he was still hiding in the boathouse, none of you called it that. But it sounded good now.

"You think a little trip to another dimension changed my mind? It wasn't even my first time." You joked like you used to take a walk in the Upside Down every day.

He chuckled. "Good to know that."

As a calm silence fell between you, Eddie's hand found yours, resting in your lap. His pinky finger intertwined with yours before he pushed your hand into his.

You watched your intertwined fingers. "Don't let it go this time."

"What are you talking about?"

“When we were in Steve's car..." You took a deep breath. "On the way to the hospital, you blacked out and you stopped holding my hand. I watched it slip away from mine, blood dripping from your fingertips. It was horrible. "

"Princess-"

"So please don't let it go this time, at least for a while, because-"

"Princess."

You stopped talking as Eddie rested his other hand on your cheek, raising your head and making your eyes meet.

His thumb gently brushed away a tear you didn't even realize was crossing your face.

"I won't." He whispered, his lips only a couple of inches from yours. "I promise."

When his mouth brushed yours, you brought your free hand to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair as you pulled him into a real kiss.

His lips were as soft as you'd imagined and his kiss was as gentle as you were sure it would be, when his nose bumped into yours you both laughed against each other's lips.

"Eddie?" You asked with a smirk on your lips.

"Mh."

"Are you blushing?" You only said that to annoy him and he knew it.

"Oh, fuck you."

You laughed, your hand still holding his, your fingers tracing circles on the back of his from time to time.

"I don't want you to leave." He spoke, his voice was soft.

"You just told me to go fuck myself." You laughed.

"And you just kissed me. None of this makes sense."

You laughed again, resting your head on his shoulder as your tone became slightly more serious. "I don't wanna leave either. I don't think I'll be able to come back anytime soon. We'll keep talking through the door though."

"It's not the same. I can't hold your hand and not let it go if you're on the other side of the door, you know?"

You sighed, knowing you had to go but grateful for the opportunity his uncle had given you when your gaze fell on the window in the corner of the room. It wasn't very big but a person could have entered through it for sure.

"Oh no. What are you thinking about?" Eddie asked when he saw the smirk suddenly appeared on your lips.

'Make sure to keep that window open tomorrow, okay?'

"We are on the second floor! Do you wanna kill yourself?"

"I'd be already at the hospital anyway."

"Y/N!"

You laughed. "I'll try to climb. Relax, I'll be fine."

Eddie looked at you with a mixture of disbelief, amazement and admiration written on his face. "You're crazy."

"Well, this crazy girl here just found a way to see you every day."

Eddie shook his head, chuckling, before gently pulling the hand he was still holding towards him, to press his lips against yours a second time.

"God, I love you so much."

"I know."

Tags: @jacklesdeanvessel @morning-sky7 @pipsqueakkitten @navs-bhat @michaelfuckinglangdon

#eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson hurt/comfort

[margoshvets]

Redesign / Alliance fit for Theron!

I was kinda sad that our husband didn't get a new design like our wife Lana did, so I decided to try to make something nice for him✨

Not that I don't like his original design. I just wanted to try something different.

(I got too tired drawing, so that's why he doesn't have a face XD)

I'll be describing some details of this design below if anyone is interested to read about them!

A little bit of warning. There is some headcanon / fanon stuff here, and, also, the opinion on some stuff is just my opinion, and you don't have to agree with me. Please don't be too harsh to me. I just wanted to have fun UwU

For the lower part of his body, I mostly got rid of a bunch of details, like the blue stripes on his pants, to make it simpler (in contrast with the upper part, which has some interesting stuff going on).

Got rid of those hanging things on his belt cuz they seemed pretty redundant, and I couldn't think of what they could be used for. Belt, in general, is more simplified. As a cherry on top, he now has the alliance symbol on it ✨

I added the metal thing, which I like to call "magnetic plate", on his right leg, and it's basically for carrying stuff like his datapad, keys, Eternal Fleet ashes, etc.

(I do remember seeing a similar thing in imperial designs, but I'm not sure what it's called)

Since he relies on tech a lot, he now has a fancy new toy - the glove on his left hand! Very useful thing for operating stuff and also hacking!

Remember that scene when we get our ship back, and Theron just presses something on his very regular glove? I always found it amusing. Not it will make more sense since he now actually has a suitable glove for this kind of action XD

[the scene in question]

He now hides his blasters inside his jacket (hence the belts on his upper part).

The jacket is a pretty memorable part of his design. It looked really good with a yellow color, but it's hard to imagine him wearing a jacket that isn't red.

I have to admit that a lot of new stuff in that thing was added based only on my headcanons. Mostly because I wanted to add an interesting story to it.

(A little bit of explaining is in order) Theron is a chilly person; he often feels like it's cold even if the room temperature is normal. Tauntauns are also his favourite animals.

This jacked is a gift from a very dear person to him. They knew all that and that's why they gifted Theron a warm jacket made with Tauntaun's fur (no tauntaun was harmed in making this jacket).

That person is no longer alive, but he still holds on to this jacket like it's his second skin; it's very important to him.

Anyway, the white parts of the jacket are now fur. And the fur inside only extends to shoulders (having natural fur already sounds too expensive for a republic soldier salary it was bought with). It's still warm tho. Sleeves have fur only at the ends and have zippers so that they can be easily folded back.

This jacket also can be closed (sounds kinda pointless stating the obvious, but in comparison with his original jacket, to me at least, makes sense cuz I can hardly imagine the original one closing).

Almost forgot.

A turtleneck for Theron. It just makes sense.

#star wars the old republic #star wars #sw art #swtor #swtor art #theron shan #swtorlightlegacy

[darling--angst-archived]

Hii! congrats on 100 followers!! May I have Sports, (1), Ranpo, Romantic, maybe reader feels sad/lonely due to not exactly feeling as though she deserves ranpo's love so he confronts her about how she seems blue

Sports

Pairing: Ranpo x Civilian! Reader

Type: Oneshot

Genre: Fluff/Comfort

Warnings: kissing

Synopsis: The summer came and it was really stressful for the agency, things went on as usual but Ranpo felt that something was wrong with his lover, and he was right.

A/n: This idea is so cute! I really had fun writing this :)

Event // Ada. Masterlist // M.Masterlist

The hot summer breeze passed through the open windows of the agency and the complaints of the the members are all you can hear.

"Kunikidaa! Can you set the temperature a little lower?" Ranpo complained from his desk, a mini fan just beside his sweating face.

"I'm afraid not Ranpo-kun, we have to spend less since our budget is a little off because there aren't that many requests that have yet been completed" Kunikida continued typing on his laptop despite his hair being completely completely soaked with his sweat.

"Kunikida-kun!! I'm bored!" Dazai's muffled cries was heard from the lounge, his face planted on the couch. He ignored him but stopped when he heard Yosano step out of the infirmary with her machete on hand.

"Do you need something Yosano-sensei?" He asks slowly turning to face her.

"Does anyone want to go to the mall with me? I have to buy some supplies?"

"Maybe I could go with you, after finishing this document.. but may I ask why do you have your machete with you.?" He asked.

"Well before going I'd like to ask someone if they want treatment" She nonchalantly responded. Everyone except Ranpo and Dazai dropped cold sweat her words before ducking as she made a finger like motion on who to chose. Unfortunately for Kunikida, he was on his chair and he ducked last.

"Hmm... Oh! It seems like you really like my treatment Kunikida..." She smirked before walking towards him.

"Wait-! Yosano-sensei! I still have things to do in my schedule! Please!" He screamed as Yosano dragged him inside the infirmary. After that, everyone let out a sigh they have been holding, not minding his screams.

"hmm... I miss (name)-chan.." Ranpo muttered, his right cheek squashed on the table.

The day went on per usual. Kunikida was shining, with drool slipping past his lips as his chin laid on his desk after Yosano operated on him for 7 times. Dazai was slacking off in the couch, sweat pooling on the cushions. Naomi was clinging onto Tanizaki, their body heat and sweat mixing as she clung onto his side. Kenji and Atsushi were out on a mission about an exploding car. Ranpo was on his desk with his mini-fan and snacks, it was a normal day but he suddenly had a feeling that something is wrong, or that something will go wrong.

It was finally time for clock out. He watched as the clock slowly ticked each second until the bell rang. Grabbing his things, he walked passed Kunikida who was closing his laptop, and met Dazai just by the door, throwing in his coat.

"See you tomorrow everyone!" Dazai hummed before completely walking out the Agency. Ranpo didn't even say goodbye to them, he rushed out, only throwing in his hat, he left; earning confusion from many.

"Hmm.. something's wrong with Ranpo-kun.." Tanizaki stated.

"Maybe an emergency? Anyway let's get that cake from last time Jun'ichirō!" Naomi tossed herself into him, getting both of them out of balance. The other agency members didn't mind them and continued to leave with the same thought: "is Ranpo really okay? Did he and (name) argue?"

Ranpo walked on the sidewalk of Yokohama to his and his lover's shared apartment. His heads was filled with thoughts on what may be wrong, and before he knew it, he reached his destination. Opening the door, he stumbles on a table of untouched food, covered by a cloche. He muttered a small "I'm home" before he removed his shoes and hung his coat on the hanger, looking around, he saw no signs of you. He started to panic now, he was about to barge inside the bedroom until he heard your footsteps. You opened the door to see Ranpo with opened and wide eyes.

"Oh hey love welcome home" you tried your best to smile and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Yeah.." It was the only thing he said before he followed you to the dining area. He thought that he was too paranoid but he couldn't help but notice the smudged concealer below your eyes. He never said anything about it, afraid that his suspicious are true, hoping to have something prove him wrong.

The dinner was quiet. The only sounds are the utensils hitting the plate and the small buzzing of the florescent light hanging on the ceiling. You were now cleaning, as you picked up his plate to clean the dishes he stopped you.

"Is something wrong, dear?" He asked you but you only halted from your movements before continuing to put the plate on the sink.

"Yeah, of course! Why would I be not?" You faced him to try smile at him. He stood up and now you were looking at him straight in the eyes.

"You're not." He stated, his hand finding it's way to your cheek, caressing it. You leaned into his hand, feeling his warmth, and you unconsciously smiled before responding:

"I am." You let out a breathless sigh before you flinched as his thumb smudged the concealer beneath your eyes.

"What's this.?" He looked at his thumb and your eyes widened. He already knew the answer but he wanted to hear it from you.

"it's- it's nothing.!" You slapped his hand away but only then did you realize what you did.

"Your eyes are puffy.. now please tell me what really happened.." He reached for your cheek, wanting to convince you to tell him the truth.

"I... I'm sorry" you ignored his question, more focused on what you did. Hanging your head low, you clenched your fists. Your expression darkened and thoughts ran on your mind: "I'm hurt him... I should've never done that.. now he will leave me! No,nono!". Panicking, your hands trembled and he tried calling your name but you didn't respond.

"Dear.. dear... (name)!" He grabbed you by the shoulder slightly shaking you, snapping you out of your thoughts. Tears unconsciously began to pool up in the corners of your eyes as you looked up and saw him giving you a concerned look on his face.

"Ranpo.?" You muttered and he let out a breathy sigh of relief.

"I know something is wrong.. so please just tell me.?" He confronted you and your breath hitched at his question. "There really is nothing to hide from you, the world's greatest detective—no from Edogawa Ranpo.." you thought to yourself, biting your lower lip.

"Ranpo..." You let out a breathless sigh and he tensed up at your actions.

"Just tell me what's wrong. I'll make sure to fix it.. please" The last part was more like a whisper yet his voice cracked. Your eyes widened at his words and thought: "He really is perfect.. He'll comfort me when I'm upset and he goes out of his way to make sure I feel alright... While I... I do nothing..". Your head hung low once again, biting your lip, and trying to stop the incoming tears that blurred your vision.

"Ranpo.. I love you.. but you deserve someone better.. someone who can solve crimes, who can keep up with your intellect.. and someone who- someone who isn't me" You struggled to say those words but you knew it was the truth. He struggled to find meaning behind your words, his hand never left your shoulder in an attempt to make sure you'll face him.

"Hey.. it doesn't matter that you're job is not related to a detective's work... It never mattered if you can't keep up with my so called intellect—" he said softly, lifting your chin up to look at him, and brushing away the tears that escaped your eyes. You were puzzled with what he's saying but nonetheless, you listened, feeling comfort in him.

"—you're you. And that's what makes me love you. You keep up with my childish antics, you help me understand things I find trivial, and most importantly, because you found a way to love me sincerely.. you saw me as Edogawa Ranpo and not as my title as the World's Greatest Detective" He softly removed a strand of hair from your face, then he gently cupped your cheeks.

"But I-" having tried find your words you tried to speak up but you can't as he already hushed you with a deep and passionate kiss. You closed your eyes tasting a faint taste of sweet candy while feeling butterflies in your stomach. A few seconds passed by before your lips parted, he brushed away some tears that unconsciously left your eyes before leaning his forehead with yours.

"I would be not be the World's Greatest Detective but a fool if I were to let you go" He whispered in your ear before kissing your forehead, cheeks, and the back of your hand in a gentleman-like-manner.

"Now let's go I'm sleepy!" He leaded you to your shared bedroom by the hand.

"But what about the dishes-?" Before you could protest he hushed you by saying:

"The dishes can wait for tomorrow, I can't!" With that you gleefully smiled at him.

That night both of you slept in each other's embrace, cuddling below the blanket, using one another as your personal pillow. You felt warm and secure around Ranpo and he felt the same with you. He doesn't know what he'll do in life without you and you don't know how you will be without him.. You two really are perfect for each other.

A/n: When I was writing this the whole idea was so fluffy and sweet hile my earphones was playing intense violin concertos/op by Tchaikovsky..

#bungou stray dogs #bsd fanfics #bsd fluff #bsd fic #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x you #bsd x reader fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x y/n #bungo stray dogs x you #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd fanfic #bsd fluff fics #bungo stray dogs fluff #ranpo x reader #bsd edogawa rampo #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #bsd rampo #rampo x reader #ranpo x you #bungou stray dogs ranpo #rampo edogawa #ranpo x y/n #bungo stray dogs fanfics #bungo stray dogs fanfiction #bungo stray dogs fic #bsd fluff fanfiction

[mariacallous]

This is dated 12-29-2023, for the record.

It was a nightmare scenario that Ukrainian and Western officials had feared for months. Western officials have watched as Russia stacked up precision-guided munitions to launch targeted attacks on Ukrainian critical infrastructure in the winter while keeping up the pace of strikes on cities using unguided “dumb” bombs. 

And on Friday morning, it became a reality. Russia conducted a hailstorm of strikes across Ukraine, hitting Kyiv, Dnipro, Lviv, Zaporizhzhia, Odesa, and Kharkiv. There were at least 158 drone and missile strikes in all, which damaged hospitals, a shopping mall, and schools, killing at least 31 people and injuring more than 160. 

The numbers are still going up as search and rescue teams pick through the rubble. Russia fired its missiles with so much abandon that the Polish government confirmed one of the Kremlin’s projectiles entered its airspace. In the chaos that engulfed the Kyiv streets, one man tried to stop the fires from spreading by driving his burning car away from his neighbors. 

The renewed barrages have Ukrainian officials and U.S. experts questioning how long they’ll be able to keep the lights on during winter—or hold territory—especially with the long tail of U.S. military aid running out, unless Congress acts soon. 

Ukrainian officials believe that Russia’s capacity to strike is even greater than what it just showed off: The Kremlin can fire off about 300 Iranian-made suicide drones in one attack on Ukraine and about 150 ballistic missiles in one shot on Kyiv, said Sasha Ustinova, a Ukrainian lawmaker.  

And with the Ukrainian counteroffensive stalled and fresh weapons not flowing until January at the earliest, how resilient will the Ukrainians be? 

“The Ukrainians are heading for a tough winter, for obvious reasons,” Swedish Defense Minister Pal Jonson said in an interview earlier this month. “But I think that the Ukrainian morale is much, much higher than the Russian morale. What is crucial right now, of course, is that we all will step up support.”

But that morale is now getting tested, as Ukrainians were shaken out of bed by dozens of air raid alerts that lit up their phones. And the aid isn’t coming—at least until the U.S. Congress gets back from recess in the second week of January, and maybe for even longer. 

“Ukraine needs funding now to continue to fight for freedom from such horror in 2024,” Bridget Brink, the U.S. ambassador to Ukraine, wrote in a tweet screenshotting the numerous air raid alerts sent to Kyiv residents.

U.S. officials have seen movement across the nearly stagnant front lines slow considerably in recent weeks, a trend that is expected to continue. The weather in Ukraine has hit subzero temperatures and piles of snow have mostly halted forward movement along the 600-mile front, underscoring the prospect of several months of attrition warfare. Ukraine is already making moves to lower the draft age to get more men onto the battlefield.  

Ukraine doesn’t need any silver bullets, experts say. It just needs the regular kind. 

“We’re clearly past the ground counteroffensive now,” said Peter Rough, a senior fellow and director of the Center on Europe and Eurasia at Hudson Institute. “Since it won’t get large numbers of longer-range precision fires, Ukraine probably needs to entrench and defend right now—and absent Congress passing the supplemental, even those defensive lines may not remain stable.” 

Still, Jonson said the Ukrainian military has been getting some access to more long-range strike weapons, which has forced Russian ships and aircraft to move farther away from the front lines. But Ukraine has had to build its military while fending off the invasion: Jonson said that Kyiv is operating about 600 types of Western weapons systems, while ferrying fuel and spare parts across the front line. All that on roads that will be coated with sleet, snow, and ice. 

Even with its limited arsenal of Western-provided long-range weapons like British-made Storm Shadows and the cluster variant of the U.S. Army Tactical Missile System, Ukraine has still made a dent, knocking out a Russian tank landing ship in Crimea on Tuesday. And experts believe that Russia’s fragile logistics system—which was never designed for continuous military operations across Europe’s second-largest country—is a good target.  

“If they had longer-range weapons, they could completely wreck the logistics system,” said Ben Hodges, the former head of U.S. Army Europe. “I think they know this is a real vulnerability for the Russians, particularly in winter.” 

But Ukrainians fear they are already running out of munitions—and time. Though Western-provided air defenses blanket much of Kyiv, they are not enough to defend against far-flung Russian attacks that could dot the country during winter. As much as Ukraine needs more air defenses to blunt attacks like Friday’s firestorm, Ukrainian officials have indicated that the falling temperatures have already shifted their priorities: Attrition warfare means a premium on artillery fire, and Europe is far behind on its target to produce a million artillery shells by March 2024.

“The biggest problem we’re going to run into is when they start shelling us heavily,” Ustinova said. “Because we will not have enough munitions.” 

But Ukraine has been forced to cut military operations as aid has dried up. Ukrainian Brig. Gen. Oleksandr Tarnavskyi, who heads up a group of forces in the southern push, told the BBC this week that Ukraine is facing particularly acute shortages of Soviet-era 122 mm and 152 mm shells, which still make up a large portion of Kyiv’s military arsenal. And if the Ukrainians want to apply forward pressure in spite of the snow, they have to clear entire minefields in front of them, only for the Russians to reseed the deadly explosives from the air. 

The Russian war chest is still heavily stocked. Hanno Pevkur, the Estonian defense minister, said in November that Russia still has about 7,000 to 8,000 tanks in reserve. Meanwhile, Russia has turned its sanctions-battered economy into a war economy. The Kremlin plans to spend 6 percent of GDP on defense next year. And Russian President Vladimir Putin’s deals for drones with Iran and ammunition with North Korea have indicated to Western officials that Russia’s game is quantity, not quality. 

“It doesn’t matter. As long as it fires, as long as it unfortunately kills Ukrainians, it is good for Russians,” Pevkur said. “They are increasing their production, especially ammunition. They don’t care about the quality. They care about the quantity.” 

Western officials believe that there are 300,000 to 400,000 Russian troops on Ukrainian soil, across a swath of occupied territory that is about the size of the contiguous Baltic states. Russian casualties have totaled about that many troops in the 22 months since the Kremlin’s full-scale invasion began. But experts caution that the cannon fodder won’t last forever. It might not have to last that much longer, though.

In November, Russian forces claimed to gain ground around the eastern city of Avdiivka, where Western officials believe the Kremlin is trying to make a pincer move to encircle the town, the site of a major coke fuel and chemical plant. They’ve also set their sights on the important railway junction of Kupyansk. 

“They just keep pushing these guys into a meat grinder to convey the sense that they have endless resources,” Hodges said. “They don’t have endless resources.” 

For now, though, absent Western aid, Russia’s focus on eastern Ukraine could lead Kyiv to cede more ground. 

“That’s very painful for us, because we pay thousands of lives to get every single kilometer,” Ustinova said.  

“They are already taking more territory,” she added. “Look at the map.”

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week 🐧

1. ‘Robin Hood’ energy strikers give free power to French schools, hospitals, low-income homes

Amid national strikes in the energy sector, some workers in France have found a novel way to protest. On Thursday, "Robin Hood" operations – unauthorised by the government – provided free gas and electricity to schools, universities, and low-income households throughout the country.

Among the facilities provided free energy were public sports facilities, daycare centers, public libraries, some small businesses and homes that had been cut off from power. 

2. UK scientists discover method to reduce steelmaking’s CO2 emissions by 90%

Researchers from the University of Birmingham have developed an innovative method for existing furnaces that could reduce steelmaking’s CO2 emission by nearly 90%.

The iron and steel industry is a major cause of greenhouse gasses, accounting for 9% of global emissions. That’s because of the inherent carbon-intensive nature of steel production in blast furnaces, which currently represent the most-widely used practice.

3. Watch this cargo ship fly a giant kite to save fuel and cut emissions

The 2,700-square-foot parafoil is helping to tow the cargo ship and lessen the workload of the massive diesel engines — reducing the ship’s use of dirty fuel.

4. Scientists discover emperor penguin colony in Antarctica using satellite images

A newly discovered emperor penguin colony has been seen, using satellite images of one the most remote and inaccessible regions of Antarctica.

The colony, home to about 500 birds, makes a total of 66 known emperor penguin colonies around the coastline of Antarctica, half of which were discovered by space satellites. Emperor penguins are the only penguins that breed on sea ice, rather than land, and are located in areas that are very difficult to study because they are remote, inaccessible and can experience temperatures as low as −60C

Kowalski, analysis!

5. Dungeons & Dragons Scraps Plans to Update Its Open Game License

Wizards of the Coast, publisher of Dungeons & Dragons, announced yesterday that it will no longer be pursuing deauthorization of the Open Gaming License 1.0a. The deauthorization of the OGL 1.0a was a huge sticking point for fans and third-party publishers who made a living using a license that was granted nearly two decades ago.

6. Turning problem sea algae into a replacement for plastic

Excessive outbreaks of seaweed and microalgae are clogging up waters from the Caribbean to the Baltic. Now both are being harvested alongside farmed crops to create ingredients for cosmetics and food products.

7. German parliament officially commemorates LGBTQ victims of Nazi regime for first time.

The German parliament for the first time on Friday focused its annual Holocaust memorial commemorations on people persecuted and killed over their sexual or gender identity during World War II. Campaigners in Germany have worked for decades to establish an official ceremony to commemorate the LGBTQ victims persecuted under the Nazi regime.

“Today’s hour of remembrances focuses on a group of victims which had to fight for a long time to achieve recognition: people who were persecuted by the National Socialists because of their sexual orientation or their gender identity,” Baerbel Bas, president of the Bundestag lower house, said while opening a ceremony marking International Holocaust Remembrance Day, the anniversary of Auschwitz’s liberation.

- - - 

That's it for this week. If you liked this post you can support this newsletter with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Have a great week ahead :)

#best news of last week

[pentopaper23]

His Fingers. Her Pulse.

Often Belle wakes up to Jack fingers at one of her pulse points. Gentle fingers searching for her pulse on her wrist, neck or under her breast. His warm fingers would be pressed firmly against one of these when she woke in the morning, and she felt him search for them just before she drifted off to the sleep.

His favourite pulse point seemed to the one hidden under her breast.. She would wake to the feel of his hand tucked under her breast, pushed tight against the skin to feel her heartbeat against it. She knew that he still worried, more than ever after they engage in congress. During sex she could feel her heart trying to beat out of her chest and she knew he could feel it too. But no matter how many times she told him she was fine she still fell asleep to the feeling of his fingers searching her skin.

Her heart truly was fine, the whooshing sound had disappeared, and she had not had an attacked since he operated on her. But she could tell that he was scared, with every glance towards her when she made a sound of discomfort to the searching look he gave her after she climaxed and her heart was beating in her chest at a rapid rate. She could see the fear in his eyes, and she hated it. Gone was the carefree love they had shared before her operation. Gone was the laugher they shared in her bed after sex. It was now replaced with him silently counting and her trying to not look annoyed when he did.

She had tried to speak to him about it but it was no use. He brushed away her concerns and they ended up in fight. He had stormed away with the slam of her bedroom door, and she had thrown a book at him.

“You need to stop!” She had yelled roughly wrapping her dressing gown around her naked body.

“I can’t!” He had yelled back, “I can’t…I won’t lose you again”.

“I’m not going anywhere…but I will if you don’t stop”.

She will remember the heartbroken look on his face when she had said those words forever. His eyes tearing up as he grabbed his clothes and started to dress. Anger was rolling off him in wave and she just stood there watching him not sure how to take back her words.

“Fine. Fine” he said roughly pulling on his shirt and tucking it into his pants, “Sorry if me wanting to keep you alive is an inconvenience!”

“You’re being ridiculous.” She scoffed, annoyed with the tone he was taking with her.

“Ridiculous!? If my love for you is ridiculous then I don’t know what we are doing here!”

“Neither do I!” She had yelled back. They both stared at each other for a moment, then he had left slamming the door behind him. She had picked up the closest book and thrown it at the door with a shout of rage, the hard covered corner leaving a dent in the wood.

They didn’t speak for days after that and each time they saw each other at the hospital no words were shared. It wasn’t until Jack was summoned to the estate by her mother that any words were spoken. Belle had caught a cold and had been bedridden with a fever for days before she allowed her mother to call for Jack.

“You stupid women!” he had yelled rushing into her room with his medical bag swinging in his hand. “You stupid, stupid, women” he said again as he pulled her into a sitting position. He reached for the ties of her nightdress, and she sighed when she felt his cold fingers on the pulse point on her neck, her fever had robbed her of any normal temperature. He sighed in relief when he felt that her pulse was fine and that it was just a cold.

“I’m sorry” she sobbed out, her fever taking away any form of censorship from her mouth.

“My darling” he soothed as he laid her back down and reached for the bowl of water and cloth that was by her bed. He gently wiped her brow and settled in to doctor her through the night. It was touch and go that night, her fever has worsened, and she started to thrash and groan. He ended up striping her of her nightdress and lowering her into a cold bath pouring water over her as the night grew dark. Come daybreak she was asleep, and he was exhausted. Her fever has broken just before sunrise, and she fell into a fitful sleep with Jack lying beside her.

That's how she found herself now, her head throbbing with a post fever headache and Jack tucked beside her with his hand cupping her breast, his fingertips against the beating of her heart. She could see that this was a battle she would not win, not against him and his panic. She reached over to brush the hair from his eyes, he groaned and his hold on her breast tightened. He didn’t wake and his hand relaxed slightly, Belle smiled and moved herself closer to him tucking herself under his chin and falling back to sleep.

#fanfiction #pentopaper23 #fanfic #fan fiction #ao3 fanfic #dodgerfox #jack x belle #jack dawkins #lady belle fox #the artful dodger #the artful dodger fanfiction #the artful dodger fanfic #artful dodger #artful dodger fanfiction #dodgerfox fanfiction #dodgerfox fanfic #belle fox #belle x jack #cross posted on ao3

[whimp-whamp-whump]

need whumpers to start force-feeding their whumpees more !! whumpee doesn't want to eat? they're not appreciative of all that whumper has done for them - shelter, water, food - and would rather reject whumpers efforts? fuck that! they'll take whatever whumper gives them.

whumper is (or what they believe to be) a distinguished cook and whumpee is rejecting their special meals? let's just hope whumpee can dodge a fork and spoon as whumper feeds them.

whumpee has been refusing water? they need to stay hydrated! time to break out the funnel - maybe if they reject it too much too frequently, whumper can adjust the temperature. maybe whumpee will be more grateful for tap water after having boiling water poured down their throat: that is, if they survive. perhaps next time, whumper will give them frying oil to drink.

maybe whumper only offers more food once whumpee has cleaned their plate! but if whumpee's food is slimy and cold and moldy, it's going to be awfully bitter. a sensory hell, too. such a shame - whumper doesn't believe in wasting food. this will teach whumpee to be more appreciative of food the moment it's delivered.

whumpee thinks whumper is spiking all their drinks? well . . . they're right about that. still, whumper went through so much work getting everything they needed. and whumpee needs to. just. take it.

medically trained whumper feeding whumpee through intravenous means. is it just to sustain their life? or are whumpees veins lit aflame each time that needle sinks into their skin?

got a whumpee too injured or out of it to chew their own food? it's a good thing whumper's got hands! they can place the food into whumpee's mouth and manually operate their lower jaw. all whumpee has to do is keep their eyes open and make sure their tongue doesn't get chomped.

whumpee's always been particular about what they ingest: be it calories, ingredients, textures, allergies - you name it. it's unfortunate they're taken by a whumper who just doesn't understand.

in the same vein as allergies, whumper who continuously feeds whumpee foods they KNOW will induce a heavy reaction, just so they can nurse whumpee back to health in an excruciating process.

whumpee just lost their tongue and needs a little help eating. maybe their lips are numb or they're missing some teeth and they keep spilling. is a bib too humiliating?

feel free to reblog with more ideas or expansions or drabbles or interps!

feeling sick and twisted lately (thinking about my whumpee <333)

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #whump prompt #whump prompts #food mention #food whump #mouth whump #medical whump #captive whumpee #creepy whumper #drugging mention

[oftenwantedafton]

Kismet - Dave Miller/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Word Count - 4k

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

The rain hasn’t stopped.

You listen to the sound of it drumming against the pavement outside the pizzeria, rattling along the grimy skylights above. The ice cradling your injured ankle is already melting, reverting to a liquid state. Your saturated clothing clings unpleasantly to your body. You shiver, not for the first time, and not just from your body temperature dropping because of the wet garments enshrouding you.

It’s him. Dave Miller. Making your body tremor. Quivering like the plucked string of an instrument.

The night shift employee hasn’t left your side. Seemingly unconcerned with the security cameras. Watching you intently. The condition of his damp uniform doesn’t seem to annoy him nearly as much as you’re bothered by the state of your own outfit. His dark hair is still quite wet and rather mussed from when he’d raked his fingers through it earlier. He’s edged his chair closer to yours, sliding out still another to rest his own feet on, ankles crossed, slouching down a bit with his neck cradled on the back of the seat until his long, lean form is draped languidly. It can’t be comfortable, and yet, he looks very relaxed, such a sharp contrast from your own nervous tension. Your hands are tucked between your thighs, your shoulders hunched in a defensive posture. You realize you’re staring again, and you look away hurriedly, refocusing your attention on the view outside the glass front doors.

“It hasn’t rained like this in years. Not since…” his voice trails off. Talking aloud, but not really directing the conversation towards you. Reminiscing. Lost in a memory. One index finger absently runs back and forth over the silver tie bar clipping the black strip of fabric in place. His pale eyes flick to meet yours. He’s caught you looking again. He gifts you a little smirk. “I think we’re going to have to reschedule our breakfast for another time. We should get you home so you can get changed into dry clothing and get some rest. I’ll drive your car. You’re not going to want to be pushing on a pedal with that ankle sprain for a bit.”

Of course it had been the joint of your right lower limb that had been compromised. You hadn’t even considered how challenging that would make operating a vehicle. You’d mainly been worrying about the potential difficulty of walking. “What about work? Guarding—”

“—I’m sure the owner will understand an urgent situation like this. Make an exception,” he interrupts smoothly. “The shift is nearly finished anyway. What floor is your apartment on? Is there an elevator in the building?”

”Third. Yes, there’s an elevator.” You lean forward and remove the bag of melted ice, tentatively trying to flex your right foot. Still painful. It doesn’t look any better, but it doesn’t look any worse, either. Walking around campus was definitely going to be a hassle. At least you could rest until Wednesday. You’ll have to call the animal shelter later and tell them you needed a couple of days off.

“How does it feel?”

“About the same.” You’re thinking of the distance to the car. Miller carrying you. Lifting you like you weighed absolutely nothing. He doesn’t look like he’d be strong with that willowy frame of his. But you’d felt it. The secret power he hides. In the arms clutching you. The muscles in his neck, in his back as you’d frantically clung to him, so startled.

You’re curious about the mysterious marks carved into his skin, visible even now, the damp white material blending to reveal the flesh beneath. Had he been in some sort of accident? Maybe on the motorcycle? He’d told you he’d had worse injuries than the ones you’d tended to that night at the shelter. Were these what he was referring to?

You glance at your canvas shoe with the ankle sock tucked inside resting on the seat near your bare foot. There’s no way you’re putting that soaked garment back on. You decide to shove it into your jeans pocket.

The man straightens in his seat, his Oxfords striking the linoleum as he swiftly shifts positions. He insists on helping you put on your sneaker. His fingers work gently. Unfolding your pants leg. Adjusting the tongue of the shoe. One of the laces has come loose from the grommet. He rethreads it, then ties the laces. Tucking a finger inside the ACE wrap to make sure it hasn’t become too tight. You’re struck again by his actions. Thinking about him in the caregiver role. A husband. A father. Had he been doting? Devoted? Did he help with chores around the house? Assist with homework? Take turns driving the children to sports practice and volunteering to make dinner, only to take the easy route out at the last minute and order take out, something crowd pleasing like pizza that everyone liked? Maybe the kids argued over toppings. Maybe they debated about what size slice should go to whom. Fighting over who would help with the dishes after. Arguing over the television remote. Good natured squabbling like in any family.

Dave’s head lifts as he finishes and his eyes meet yours. “What is it?”

You shake your head, feeling damp tendrils of hair striking your cheek as you chew your bottom lip. If you were ever going to pursue this, you were going to have to be bolder. “I was wondering. About your past experiences. When you mentioned your children earlier. Being married. What life was like.”

He remains silent. There is only the <i>tap tap tap</i> of the storm outside. Quieter now. The fury subsiding.

“I do want to get to know you.” You had agreed to it earlier without really considering all the ramifications. Dating someone so much older. Someone with a lot of potential emotional baggage. You were virtually a clean slate. An open book. No secrets to conceal. But this man. He was anything but. The complete opposite. How much would he reveal? How deep could you actually explore?

The older man nods. “Alright.”

You move your lower extremity and Dave drags the other chair you’d been using out of the way before you stand up slowly, wincing instantly when you apply some body weight onto the injured joint. The guard reaches to steady and support you, one arm curling around your waist while you clutch his shoulder.

“I’ll be alright. I just need to get used to walking on it and bearing weight.” You step forward. He moves with you. Again. Another step. Suddenly the front door seems very far away, the car even further.

“If it doesn’t get better in a couple of days, you should probably have it seen. In case it is more serious than I thought. I’ll bring you if you need me to.”

A sudden thought occurs to you. “What about your bike? How are you going to get home after you drop me off?”

“I’ll call a cab. Not a big deal. My bike will be safe enough inside the garage in back. It’s not really pleasant riding in this weather, anyway.”

You feel a twinge of guilt. It’s your fault this happened. It had just unnerved you so much. The way he had abruptly dragged you so close like that in the office earlier. And he’d known you’d been staring at his picture. Awkward, being confronted. Why didn’t you just flirt back? How difficult would it have been to hang out with him for a couple of hours? Go out to eat, get to know him better? Looking back now it seemed so foolish. Immature.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“For what?”

“Putting you through all this. Making you leave work early. Going out in a torrential downpour. Having to drive me home and take a taxi.”

Dave tucks his fingers under your chin, lifting your face slightly. “I forgive you.”

You think he might kiss you then. You’d thought he was going to earlier. In the office. And again, after he’d tended to your injury. Little moments here and there. It scares you a little.

It excites you a little, too.

No kiss this time, either. He instead goes to gather his jacket from the locker in the office before you can leave. You sit back down, waiting for him. Chairs are tucked back into place upon his return. You hand him your car keys. He spins them around on his index finger. Apartment key, car key, the short black kubaton for self defense completing a circuit. Then rotating them back again. He does this often, you think. Something in the gesture has the look of eased practice. That heavy keyring on his belt his customary target, maybe. You wonder not for the first time what all those keys open.

Dave hands you his leather jacket to hold over your head to shield your body from the inclement weather. The rest of his riding gear is still tucked away back in the security office, waiting for next time.

“You ready?”

You glance outside, considering. “Yes.”

“Lean on me as much as you want to. I can carry you again if need be.”

“I want to try to walk. It feels like it’s stiffening up.”

You wait for him to lock the building, leaning on its exterior for support until he finishes. You try to hold the jacket overhead for both of you. The height difference makes it tricky. It’s at an awkward slope, propped up by one of your hands and one of your tall companion’s so it tents over your heads. Largely ineffective but better than nothing. His other hand is back at your waist and yours clutches his shoulder again. You’re struggling between wanting to hurry to the car and managing your injury. You step into a puddle and the water splashes onto your legs. Soaked again. There was just no escaping it. The pair of you finally finish the trek to your automobile. Miller hurriedly unlocks the passenger side door and you settle inside, sighing with relief, grateful for the shelter.

Dave slides behind the wheel. His jacket is on the seat between you. He grabs it and tosses it in the back, inserting the key in the ignition but doesn’t turn it, looking over at you.

Soft drops patter on the roof of the car. Almost musical strikes against aluminum and steel and fiberglass. He blinks away the moisture from the elements. How long his lashes look. Dark, dewy clumped threads you can see in the pale gray light of the coming dawn. A drop of water slides free from his hairline, tracking across his forehead and nose and finally settling over the wedge of his bottom lip. Your eyes follow that path, lingering where it ends.

You’re not sure who leans first, only knowing there’s a soft collision somewhere above the center console as you partially move out of your seat and he shifts over from his, lips meeting. It’s gentle at first, like those fingers that had so gingerly assessed your ankle.

And then it’s nothing like gentle at all. It’s parted mouths and exploring tongues and a fire that ignites in your core. Your hands are back at the nape of his neck, threading in his hair. He tastes like the rain and slightly sweet and firey, like some candy he’d indulged in earlier, perhaps. Cinnamon. That wet drag of his tongue in your mouth makes your stomach flip over and over. His hand is on your cheek, thumb slotted beneath your jaw, trapping you in the most delicious way. The chill you’d felt earlier is completely forgotten. There’s just this, this warmth flooding you as that possessive, firm touch keeps you in place, the frenzy of kisses eventually softening into staccato touches between ragged gasps for air, then fainter huffed pants, his face finally drawing back to look at you.

You’d wondered for a fleeting moment if he’d been disappointed with the kisses at all. What his experience was. Had his wife been his high school sweetheart? The only love he’d known? Or had there been others? Before. After. You are an after.

But now, looking into that thin ring of dark ash that surrounds his blown pupils, you know the truth. He’s not disappointed at all. You needn’t feel inadequate. You don’t have to compare yourself to some memory. You’ve seen the kind of wonder there. Hunger. A reflection of you. You kiss until the rain ceases, until the sun peeks behind the clouds, until you’ve clouded the windows with condensation and heat and he finally says he’s taking you home.

***

Your anatomy textbook is in your lap.

A heavy weight that balances on your thighs as you rest sideways on the couch in your apartment with your legs stretched across the cushions.

You had woken up feeling very stiff that morning, the day after you’d hurt yourself in the decaying, overgrown parking lot of the pizzeria. Wondering if you could even manage by yourself. But you’d gritted your teeth and forced yourself to move. Hasty shower. Dressing, deciding pajamas were the best option. Then back to the couch with ice and your textbook. A detailed outline of the skeletal system taunting you. It was difficult to concentrate.

You’re thinking about Dave.

About kissing the older man, specifically. If anyone had told you that you’d be making out in your car in the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant with someone old enough to be your father a few weeks ago, you would have called them insane. But there you were. Doing that very thing.

The sound of his motorcycle outside has you hastily shutting the book and placing it on the coffee table. He’d promised to come check on you. He was going to take you to class tomorrow, too.

You limp over to the door, waiting for him to knock.

There it is, that soft rap of knuckles. He’s going to know you were right there waiting for him. The interval between his announcement and the door opening was far too scant. But you can’t help it.

The scent of leather permeates the air as the door opens. He’s got his helmet in one hand, fingers hooked underneath the opening of the bottom. That crooked little smirk of greeting you were starting to enjoy parts his lips. Those lips you’d just been fondly thinking about.

“Hey, come in.” You step back, willing your foot to cooperate as the security guard enters your living room, closing the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. It was really stiff this morning, but it got better once I started moving around. How was work? Do you want something to drink?”

“Not now. Go sit down. Work was fine,” he says, setting the helmet on the counter. He removes his gloves and then unzips his jacket and that joins the pile. You sit back down and he settles at the other end of the couch. “Let me see it.”

You rest your bare foot in his lap and he runs his fingers over your ankle, lightly pressing here and there during his assessment. His gaze flickers to the bag of ice on the coffee table. “Keep up with the ice. And you should take an anti inflammatory if you need to. We definitely should wrap it before we leave tomorrow. I’m fairly certain there are still a set of crutches around the house somewhere. I’ll have a look later. Should make things easier. No bike riding yet for you. We’ll take my car. I think you’ll be okay skipping the ER, but I’ll bring you if you want.”

“Thank you. I trust you.”

The probing digits grow still and he looks at you, an unreadable expression on his features. “Do you?” He asks softly.

You nod. Wondering if he isn’t simply talking about his judgment regarding your injury. Beyond that. You’re trying to mentally recite the names of the bones in your leg when his fingers move again. Phalanges, metatarsals, tarsals, tibia, fibula, patella, femur. His palm slides upward, dipping beneath the loose flowing fabric of your pajama pants. Stopping mid shin. Rotating to the back of your calf. Lightly massaging. Another lick of flame along your core and you can no longer conjure any more of your anatomy knowledge.

Then his hand abruptly vanishes and there is a soft sound of disappointment that involuntarily escapes you.

“I’ll stay later another time, I promise. You need to study and I need to sleep. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing alright.”

You nod and reluctantly shift positions, moving your lower extremities back to the rug. He stands and offers you a hand as you rise. You follow him back to the kitchen, watching him shrug into his jacket, shoving the gloves inside his pockets, the helmet tucked against one hip as he walks to the front door.

”Make sure you lock this behind me. Be safe. I heard about the attacker on the news again.”

You had, too. Another young female victim at your school. Still no leads. The man’s face always disguised by a mask, and not even the same one each time. A statement from the police pleading for help, looking for potential witnesses and urging caution.

Caution is something you’re not about to exercise right now. You rest a hand on the door knob. Still not opening it. Reaching for the zipper of Dave’s jacket with the other hand, tugging it down the rest of the way. Your joint aches. You ignore it. His unoccupied hand seats against the side of your neck, his lips moving to your throat. The helmet drops onto the carpet. He’s cupping the back of your thigh, lifting your sore leg and bracing it against his own, letting you rest your weight on him. He pushes you back against the door, the stiff leather creaking as the hard line of his body presses into your soft curves.

“Stay,” you implore. “Just for a little longer. I know you’re tired. I know I need to study for the exam. I just…”

“For a little longer,” he agrees before his mouth finds yours.

***

Dave Miller pulls into his garage an hour later.

He switches off the ignition and nudges the kickstand with his boot, letting the sport motorcycle incline at a slight angle, the front tire resting along one of the many oil stains on the cement foundation. Across from it rests the vintage sedan that had been his previous primary mode of transportation. He’s actually glad he has an excuse to take that for a drive tomorrow, before the consequences of inactivity and disuse started affecting the vehicle.

The tired looking man sets his helmet and gloves on the cluttered workbench nearby. Tools, sketches, journals, the blueprints of unfinished projects litter its surface. He’s made no progress on any of it lately, so occupied between guarding his restaurant and spending time with you.

How difficult it had been to leave you just now.

Strange how quickly his relationship with you had evolved. The casual acquaintance shifting to something else. Wanting you, and you wanting him in return. The sudden escalation of it. Unexpected.

He leaves his boots on the mat by the stairs leading into the house. He’s weary, but there’s an edge of excitement coursing through him. Little sparks leftover from seeing you. Touching you. Kissing you.

Intimacy was something he’d dismissed long ago as an unnecessary distraction. It surprises him how readily he’s fallen back into craving it. The isolation taking its toll. Succumbing to that great failing of all humanity, making itself so reliant on the satisfaction of interaction with others.

He wonders what he’s going to tell you about his past.

The questions will inevitably come. The flame of curiosity has already been ignited. The complete truth was impossible, of course. It would have to be snippets here and there, interspersed among the deception and lies and secrets.

Even if he gave a full confession, you’d never believe it.

Miller mulls the dilemma over in the shower, opting for the abbreviated version of cleansing even though he preferred the luxury of a soak in the tub. It’s too late for that. He’s really feeling it now. The lack of sleep makes his limbs drag, the earlier excited flare diminishing, subdued. He hastily combs his hair and brushes his teeth afterwards. A different flavor of mint than the one you use that he’d tasted earlier. His scars look very dark today in the reflection of the medicine cabinet’s mirror. Violet more than crimson. He still hasn’t forgotten the feeling of obtaining those marks. He would never forget, he thinks. Impossible.

Dave sinks into bed. A different one than he’d used when his family had lived here. Some memories he simply wasn’t willing to keep. A lot of the house is like that. The renovations done not merely out of the necessity borne of aging, but a desire for a change. A new living space to accompany his new identity, paid for by funds he had invested and squirreled away long ago. Fresh coats of paint and a recent acquisition of more modern furniture and a rearrangement of its placement within each room. Altered decor. Memories removed little by little. Things concealed. That dent his eldest son had put in the wall tossing a ball inside the house even though he’d been reprimanded not to countless times now patched and painted. The oven that had baked many years of treats for his middle child’s sweet tooth long gone. An ivory vanity with a matching velvet padded bench that he’d gifted his wife for one of their wedding anniversaries early on had been set on the curb, a free offering that was quickly snatched up by some random opportunist. The touch tone corded telephone with the list of commonly used numbers secured under a thin sheet of plastic on the cradle now slowly rotting in a landfill. Henry Emily’s number was at the top of the list of those featured numbers. Not that he didn’t have his former business partner’s number memorized, of course. Something else—someone else—he struggles and fails to obliterate from his mind.

The man turns over. One arms stretches out as if to embrace someone. But of course the other side of the mattress is unoccupied.

Someday he’ll bring you home with him. He’ll lure you into this bed. And he’ll see if he can erase more of the past.

Wiping it away with every kiss and touch.

#dave miller x you #william afton x reader #william afton x you #dave miller x reader

[anjelicawrites]

The oak and the wind

Paring: Abraham x reader

Synopsis: Abraham comes and go in your life, and that’s all right

Warnings: kissing, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, kissing, biting, a dash of spanking.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

The rain is pelting against the window as the weather progresses from quiet to a violent spring storm that makes the wind howl through the trees around your cottage. On the ground floor the typewriter lays abandoned on the typing desk, the sentence you were working on half written when Abraham came knocking on your door.

You snuggle closer to his warmth trying to focus on his deep, slow breathing under your ear, to go back to sleep; the branches slapping against the windows have awoken you and Lord Morpheus evades you now.

You’re not sure when Abraham has arrived, he comes and goes like the wind, knocking on your door and then disappearing for months; it surprises you that he is sleeping by your side: he doesn't, usually, preferring to go back to his caravan. 

You wonder why he’s still in your bed, he’s not the kind of man to talk about himself, or his feelings, all you have to go is your hypothesis, and that’s fine: you’ve never expected anything more than this from Abraham. 

You know he cares, in his own way, by bringing you fresh wild game or chopping wood for you, but he’s never asked you to leave with him, even though you could, you’re an author, all you need is your typewriter and a fresh ream of paper. But that’s not who you two are, how you two operate: if he’s the wind, you’re the centennial oak with its roots firmly planted on the ground. 

You never wanted more from him than what he’s happy to give you, and it’s the same for him, who fully knows you can’t live without walls around you, and a roof and pipes and all the issues that come with living in a house.  

Quietly you slip from Abraham’s loose embrace; since the story in your head doesn't want to let you sleep, you opt to go downstairs and make yourself a cup of tea. 

You decide to wear only the dressing gown, spring has almost arrived and the storm hasn’t lowered the temperature drastically, plus you’re going to rekindle the fire that’s now just embers: that’s going to be enough when you’re going to sit on the old armchair with your notebook, curled in your knitted blanket. 

You still have ideas swimming in your brain, a whole chapter outlined, which you didn’t have the chance to write because Abraham popped up unexpectedly; unfortunately your typewriter is too noisy to be used without risking waking him up, tomorrow you’ll type everything down but you need this chapter on paper. 

Downstairs you don't even bother with the lights, the whole system is faulty and it doesn't work when it rains: another big expense that could be taken care of, if only your mother and her horrid second husband would stop playing the lord and lady of the mansion and downsize to a cottage, but no, you have the title and shoulder the expenses, but they need to keep up appearances. 

The kitchen is built where the windows into the property are, which give you the chance to stare into the dark as you wait for the water to boil.

“Why are you awake?”

Abraham’s sleepy voice has you jump out of your skin, a hand clutching the neck of the dressing gown as your heart tries to explode out of your chest.

“Abraham!” You shriek, still breathless.

He is midway down the stairs, he’s wearing only his briefs and his usually perfectly styled hair are now sticking everywhere, softening his stern visage, giving him a youthful and endearing appearance.

His naked feet slap on the ancient floorboards as he advances towards you, his hand scratches his muscled chest, marked with new ink you’ve haven’t traced yet with your fingertips. His tanned skin and the chain around his neck seem to glow in the low light of the fire and the candles, the blue of his eyes still clouded with sleep.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Abraham squints and you, to then shrug: he is used to the cold and your cottage is always too warm for his tastes. 

“You haven’t answered my question, love.”

He stalks towards you, wide shoulders and tick muscles, his powerful energy filling every corner of your home.

“I couldn’t sleep, the story doesn’t want to let me go.”

“I don’t know how you make it. Pull stories out of your brain.”

You stare at him, surprised, you two rarely talk about yourselves.

“I have no idea. No author does. We are merely the  puppets of the muse that’s playing with us.”

“You are making no sense.”

Abraham stares at you quizzically: you’re such an enigma when you talk about your job, if writing can be called that. Most of the time you sound like a maniac, or someone possessed, plus he’s seen you wander about the woods while reading, and how you don’t fall on your face is beyond him. 

You’re strange and different from everyone he knows and he’s often wondered if that's the reason he comes back to you, to your bed that smells of lavender and old books.

“Cuppa?”

You pop an old cup, decorated with flowers, in front of his face, but that’s not what he’s after.

He crowds you against the old wood of the furniture, his warmth seeps through the thick material of your dressing gown and you feel your body react to it, as if he hasn’t already quenched your thirst for him, making you beg and moan like a whore.

“I think I need something else, love.”

The low growl of his voice, paired to the way his thumb sweeps on your lower lip, makes your knees tremble and you follow your body’s instinct, kneeling on the floor, at level with his straining cock still trapped in his briefs.

You rise your eyes to his stern ones, silently asking for permission, which comes in the form of his big hand in your loose hair, guiding your face towards his manhood; you don’t need any more prompting, fingers grabbing the elastic to pull the cotton down his muscled legs, letting his erection spring free in front of your waiting mouth.

You don’t even notice him kicking his briefs away, your lips already on his weeping head, smearing the precum on your lips, his musky taste making you moan, tongue licking all he’s already giving you.

“Stop teasing.” 

He growls again, big hand now cupping your head firmly to control your movements when his fingers grab your unruly strands, pushing his cock into your wet mouth and you let him use you how he sees fit. 

You slowly bob your head up and down, taking every inch of him with every pass, spit wetting your chin as he advances mercilessly, until his head meets the back of your throat, making you moan as you try to swallow his girthy cock with desperate whines of need. His pushes become faster and more violent, him needing the velvet of your throat like he needs air now, wanting to feel you fully.

“Stop playing around.” He says through gritted teeth.

Your hands grab him to push him deeper, to force your throat to submit to his invasion and his hips kick against your face when you swallow around him, welcoming him with a long moan that almost breaks his control.

“Minx!” 

He barks, before starting to fuck your throat with with deep pushes that force your face closer to his hips, depriving you of air, his fingers biting your scalp now that he has to keep your face in place to fuck you to his leisure. You try to whine, to pull your head back, but he’s not letting you, his cock ruthlessly breaching your throat, hips grinding against your tears streaked face, until your eyes roll back in your head, the lack of oxygen almost making you faint. 

When he releases you, you cough, precum and spit falling from your lips. Desperate for air and for him, your hand curls around his cock to keep jacking him as you mouth at his balls, licking the mess that’s already leaked there, hungry and desperate for his taste in your mouth. 

Your lips find his cock again and now they form a loose O around his member that he can fuck as you suck your cheeks in for friction as your hand finds your center.

“What are you doing?”

Abraham’s cock leaves your mouth and his hand curls around your wrist, cruelly stopping your release.

“Please.” You beg pathetically. “Please, I need it.” And you’re not sure if it’s his cock or your orgasm.

Abraham’s eyes soften for a second, you’re so pretty when you’re desperate for him.

 “You’ll come, on my cock though.”

He says with a strained voice, you drive him mad and you have no idea.

“Don’t you want to spend yourself here?”

Your free hand opens your nightgown, showing your luscious breasts to his burning gaze; Abraham has to grab his base or he’ll come untouched all over your soft skin and nipples: no, he wants your cunt, wet and and always ready for him.

He’s rough when he helps you on your feet, so fast that your head spins for a moment and you have to lean on him, your face against his study chest and his touch softens, his long fingers trace the knobs of your spine and he breathes in your smell, now mixed with his: it’s heady to know that you’re going to walk around with his marks on your beautiful body, even after he’s gone, you’ll carry a piece of him with yourself.

Your lips seek his, already slack for his tongue to breach again, he seeks his own taste as he kisses you, one of his hands in your hair again, the other busy divesting you of your dressing gown as you plaster your naked body against his and he moans in the kiss when your soft breasts push against his solid chest: no one has ever had this kind of effect on him and no one ever will, he fears.

For the longest second he stares into your eyes, big and unfocused, your lips plush from the kissing and the sucking, before turning you around to bend you over with your hands pressed against the window.

“Don’t you move, love, you won’t like it otherwise.” He whispers in your ear, and you tremble with need.

You’re so wet and ready for his cock, your honey slides down your thighs: you should feel ashamed of your desire, of how much you want his cock to plow you until your legs give up, but you can’t find in your heart to care, lust clouds your mind.

With wanton moans you push your arse backwards, towards his fully erect cock and his hand lands on your cheek, once, twice, until your cries of pain become pleads for mercy, for him.

“Please Abraham! Please! I need you!” You sound so broken, needy and whiney, and you don’t care: either he fucks you or you’ll go absolutely mad!

Abraham’s hands grab your plush hips to force you on your tippy toes, your arms straining to stay in place when his tip starts teasing your wet folds with slow, vertical motions that have his whole cock slowly pressing against your cunt, until your labia envelopes his erection fully. 

His lips find your ear, his teeth nibble the sensitive skin there.

“Beg for it!” 

He orders with a stern voice, laced with something you can’t place, born of the failed arranged marriage you know nothing about and that had hurt him beyond what he’s willing to admit. 

“Now!”

And you do, with your nails scratching the window, your voice high pitched and broken with desire and desperation, your body trembles when his teeth bite the naked skin of your back, savagely, leaving marks that will hurt with every movement.

“Abe, ah!”

His cock breaches you, your body lurches forward with the powerful pushes and his hands have to pull you back, fucking you with long strokes that open you up to his invasion, that mould your cunt for his cock, and his cock only.

When he bottoms out his hips grind against you, his bulbous head pushes mercilessly against that rough patch inside of you, and you cry out, desperate, tears streaming down your face, cunt curling around his cock like a fist that pulls him in and he wants to drown inside of you. 

Your body arches with every fast push against your spot, so hard and fast that you're already in overdrive, your pleasure careening towards you brutally, all your nerves burning to the point of pain that you try to squirm away from his hold: he’s too much, the pleasure he’s giving you encompassing your mind and your body, every muscle burns and trembles in his merciless hold, as his cock keeps fucking you. The pleasure is like a whiplash on your poor mind when his fingers find your pearl, his movements brutal, aided by your wetness and the pleasure explodes inside of you. Your body goes rigid with it, back arched, mouth hanging open as Abraham’s cock fucks you through it, you’re so tight it almost hurts to keep going, just a bit more, you’re giving him so much pleasure he needs more of your perfect cunt; he comes with his teeth biting your shoulder, the pain triggering a smaller orgasm that has your cunt milking his cock until he has no more to give.

His lax body falls on yours and you two slide on the floor, still grabbing at one another with trembling hands, your bodies deaf to the cold bite of the tiles as you two frantically kiss and hug in the vain attempt to become one.

Both your breaths are still labored when you two manage to stand up, your legs tremble so much that Abraham has to carry you up the stairs and up to your bed. By the time he comes back with a wet cloth to clean you up, you’re already asleep with your legs spread and his seed staining your overused cunt. 

He needs to be gentle when he cleans you up, not wanting to wake you up after having used you so hard; his cock tries to get hard again as the coupling replays in his mind. 

You’ll never know how much the memories keep him warm when his caravan is too cold and lonely, when he’s too far away from your village and he misses you, when he wishes you’d go away with him. 

But that’s never going to happen, to even imagine you being inside his caravan all curled up in your thick gown because you’re freezing or hugging him from behind, making it all the hardest to go out and work with the horses, means opening himself up to hopes he knows will crush him; this is safer, will always be safer, for you two both.

#abraham #abraham x reader #abraham x y/n

[usafphantom2]

Everything about the SR 71 was exciting and new including the windows. During its career, the SR-71 Blackbird gathered intelligence in some of the world’s most hostile environments. The SR-71 was conceived to operate at extreme velocities, altitudes and temperatures: actually, it was the first aircraft constructed with titanium, as the friction caused by air molecules passing over its surface at Mach 2.6 would melt a conventional aluminum frame.

Its engineering was so cutting edge that even the tools to build the SR-71 needed to be designed from scratch.

There are so many interesting facts about the legendary Blackbird.

For instance, the glass of the canopy of the SR-71 cockpit was made of 1.25-inch thick solid quartz. Let’s talk about the windows in the SR-71 and about the severe heat the windshield of the SR-71 would experience at top speeds. Skunk Works Designers ultimately decided that using solid quartz for the windshield was the best way to prevent any blur or window distortion under these conditions,

so they ultrasonically fused the solid quartz to the aircraft’s titanium hull to make the quietest cockpit possible; the estimated temperature of the outside of the cockpit of 600 degrees F.

As reported by The SR-71 Blackbird website, the integrity of the double solid quartz camera window demanded special attention because of the optical distortion caused by the effect of great heat (600 degrees F.) on the outside of the window and a much lower temperature (150 degrees F.) on the inside could keep the cameras from taking usable photographs. Three years and $2 million later, the Corning Glass Works came up with a solution: the window was fused to its metal frame by a novel process using high frequency sound waves. isn’t that amazing? Written by Linda Sheffield for aviationgeek club.

@Habubrats71 via X

[alpaca-clouds]

Can you help debunk what I have been told that solar panels are bad for the environment and cause more waste because they take a long time to decompose and wear out in a couple years?

Okay, let me try and answer this. Because yes, this is a more complicated issue, than a lot of people make it out to be.

So, let me start with the big thing that gets often overlooked: Without even looking into ressource use, big photovoltaic power plans have definitely a negative environmental impact. Not as a negative as anything fossil energy related, but negative never the less.

With power plants I mean those giant fields where we plaster photovoltaic panels over acres of land, to have a central power plant based around photovoltaic. And while we might not get around some of those big power plants, part of the energy revolution should be to move towards micro grids instead of current macro grids (so, decentralization), hence lowering the need of central powerplants.

Now, a lot of people who are anti-pv - mostly people who are from the fossil fuel lobby, but also some nuclear-lobby folks - tend to exaggerate those negative impacts... But they are still there. (Mostly having to do with depending on the type of pv panel used they can impact the ground temperature - and of course they just disrupt the environment.)

Sooo... Let's get to the raw materials. The important bit in photovoltaic is silicon. And this is one of the good old environmentalist "well actaully" things. Because when I was a kid I got told: "Oh, silicon is never a problem, because it is just sand! We have so much sand!" But of course I learned that it is not quite as easy. Because not all sand is created equal and not all can be used for stuff like concrete (which is shit either way), glass or photovoltaic.

Though still it is not as much of an issue as a lot of rare earth materials. Some of which are currently used in photovoltaic. But here is the other thing...

Photovoltaic is currently one of the fastest developing energy technologies. Basically anything I am gonna tell you here will be outdated next year. I guarantee.

But yes, in the creation of photovoltaic we currently use rare earth metals, that are at times sourced through bad means. Both in terms of it being mined through slave work and through the mining being done in a way that harms the environment. But... for one, we are currently working on reducing the need for rare earth metals in the creation of photovoltaic. And like with nuclear materials: We could mine the materials in a much more sustainable way - both on a social and ecological level. It is just that the current capitalist system has all the incentives to mine those materials wiht exploited workers or even slaves, and to not take care of the waste created in the mining operation.

And this gets us back to the recycling.

Short version: Yeah, we have ways to recycle about 65-80% of the materials in a photovoltaic panel. And like everything else: We are working on it and it will probably go up to 90%. But once again: Like with all recycling the issue is, that recycling materials is way more expensive than getting new materials. Which is why under capitalism all the things we could recycle often do not get recycled.

But it is possible.

tl;dr: Yes, there are drawbacks to photovoltaic, but it is not as bad as many make it seem. And a ton of the drawbacks are not inevitable but only exist because of capitalism.

#solarpunk #photovoltaic #solar #solar power #solar energy #recycling #environmentalism #sustainability #anti capitalism

[viiioca]

day 17 - sea

from the journal of Estelle de Laussienne, 20th of the 4th Astral Moon, 4 7U.E. There's something very romanticized about the sea breeze, isn't there? Those stories we loved so well as children certainly seemed to think so. It's calming, refreshing, cleansing, so on, so forth; whatever a grim, quiet man might need to brood over some tragedy in the solitude of nature before the next act of the narrative begins. They always describe it as clean or crisp. Brisk. Bracing. How enticing! I certainly believed them all until I docked in Limsa Lominsa. I am no professional wordsmith, but perhaps I can paint a picture. It is late afternoon, when the temperature is highest and tides are lowest. I am in the markets, along with hundreds upon hundreds of other gentle citizens who have been marinating in their own sweat since morning tea, as we are gripped with a heat wave and humidity so hellish it has me questioning my faith. It is the zenith of summer, when the sluggish tide movements struggle mightily to properly exchange water out of the bay, and the wastewater grows ripe. The markets are situated in limestone tunnels, which make for a cooler midday, supposedly, save that the only method of exchanging air is through a hot, wet breeze that meanders casually from one end to the other, depositing not only the very specific scent of rotting ocean matter, but all the various excretions of the hundreds of bodies I am unfortunate enough to be downwind from. These are the nice markets, full of legal goods and respectable importers for Limsa's more moneyed professionals. Like Ishgard, wealth can be measured by altitude here; I have opened a clinic in the lower levels, closer to the water's edge. There are spaces where the water overflows at high tide and leaves behind a sort of -- grime. The markets there have fish that rot on the rack by end-of-day. There is a tannery operating up the canal that dumps an utterly eye-watering amount of piss and pigeon shit into the water (a smell so foul I can only describe it with equal terms). If that wasn't bad enough, the wind carries all the wonderful perfumes of everyday beamhouse operations to all of us who are simply trying to mind our own business. On my first day of work, I asked a patient what the godsawful smell was, and he promptly introduced to a colorful local expression involving Llymlaen and bowel movements. That is not to say the city is without charm. When the air cools, and the breeze comes to us northerly, from colder waters; when the sun sets behind the limestone spires; when I sit with strangers and a bottle of wine and a table full of these little delights -- thin ribbons of cured ham and toasted bread, olives and olive oil, bits of octopus and fried squid and potatoes spiced with sweet and hot peppers. The people here are friendly and brimming with conversation, happy to sweep foreigners up into their lives once they've passed muster and all the purse-cutting has been successfully thwarted. I don't regret it -- I only wish I had been, perhaps, a little more forewarned.

[roevember 2023 prompt by wintertitania]

#ffxiv #my wol: estelle #roevember #roevemberxiv #roevember 2023 #femroe #roegadyn #gpose #my writing #long one today whoops #the siren of worldbuilding called and i was helpless

[danaredbeard]

Okafor: Leading from behind

Naw he doesn’t pass the smell test. I am wondering in future callbacks (yes I am manifesting and entire new series). He has been called out by @starfruit-green and straight up and down he is a "bad guy".

I think that there is a deep subterfuge happening. I am just theorizing BUT… I had a flash that he was like the Gilliam character in Snowpiecer.

Gilliam is a key character in the series "Snowpiercer," serving as a mentor and leader within the lower-class sections of the train. He is portrayed as a wise and resilient figure, embodying a sense of authority and deep-rooted knowledge about the train's operations and history. Gilliam is physically disabled, using a wheelchair, (we will get back to this) but his disability doesn't diminish his influence or intelligence.

Throughout the series, Gilliam plays a crucial role in guiding and protecting the protagonist, often providing valuable insights and advice. His character is complex, displaying both compassion and a steely determination to survive and maintain order in the chaotic world of the train. Gilliam's backstory and personal history are gradually revealed, adding depth to his character and explaining his motivations. (Okafor’s backstory gives him credibility with Thorne but especially with Rick) Ultimately, he represents resilience in the face of adversity and serves as a moral compass within the confined and stratified society of the Snowpiercer train.

However, it is discovered that Gilliam is actually a former security officer named Andrew Layton who once worked for Mr. Wilford, the creator of the train. Gilliam/Layton's transformation from an enforcer of Wilford's rule to a compassionate leader among the lower-class passengers.

The reveal of Gilliam's true identity brings into question his motives and allegiances, highlighting the complexities of survival and morality aboard the Snowpiercer. This revelation not only impacts the dynamics among the characters but also challenges the audience's perception of power and authority within the train's social hierarchy.

Gilliam's disability and the true story behind how he was injured is depicted as having lost his legs during the initial chaos that ensued when the train was first boarded by desperate passengers trying to escape the freezing temperatures outside. This injury leaves him disabled and confined to a wheelchair, but he becomes a respected leader among the lower-class passengers in the tail section of the train.

Okafor’s “injury” or as Beale like to say his “story” is that he killed his own wife to save others.

Honestly, I still think Beale and Okafor had a plan for Rick. The Way that Beale wanted Rick to takeover so quickly. My guess is that Rick returning to the CRM was proof enough to Beale that Okafor had broken him in. Needless to say he had no idea what Michonne could unravel in one heartfelt day.

It was interesting to hear Beale question Rick “Well, Why did you come back. You were free. You could have stayed dead.”

And that right there is why this series was called The Ones who Live and not the ones who hide and play dead.

#the ones who live #the walking dead #towl #rick grimes #twd towl #TWD Okafor #Okafor #TOWL CRM

[copperbadge]

I know you don't like Twitter, and I'm not sure how much of this has leaked into the mainstream, but Republicans are *freaking out* because gas stoves aren't all that healthy for kids and aren't great for the environment. And obviously electric stoves are terrible. Someone started talking about induction burners, and isn't that what you use? Or did once? Does it work really well? Or was it just better than what you had?

Yep, when I moved out of my old place (gas stove) and into my new place (elderly electric stove in a much smaller kitchen) I bought an induction burner and set it up. FWIW, Republicans are not the only ones freaking out -- pretty much every news outlet I've seen has covered the issue, some ongoing for weeks now. So it behooves us to talk about alternatives!

Point to know: the study found that gas stoves are dangerous because they tend to leak significant parts per million into the air when not turned on -- ie, they don’t have good seals against leakage when they aren’t in operation. In a well-ventilated home this is not a huge deal, but it’s still not great. What this means is that simply buying and using an induction burner instead of your gas stove is not a solution -- you need to have the gas line capped and/or gas turned off completely, in order to solve the issue.

Anyway, you can get a full induction stovetop (they're not cheap) and I've never worked with those, but the more common setup is a single induction burner that plugs into the wall, basically like a hot plate, but with the control, heat, and speed of a gas burner. That's what I have; I'm on my second, since my first wore out. They run about $40-$100 for a single burner. I got a decent one from Ikea of all places. When not in use, I hang it on a hook on the wall to make counter space, which is nice. 

Induction burners do not in themselves get hot; they use magnetism to heat the pan sitting on them, which does get hot. Food cooks at roughly the same speed as it would on a gas stove, and you can control the heat in much the same way, although most induction burners have a digital touchpad where you raise or lower the temperature rather than a knob. The single burners can be a bit noisy -- “have to turn my podcast up while cooking” noisy though, not like “jet engine” noisy. 

I don't really understand how they function other than “magnets are involved”. The downside of an induction burner is that there are limits to the pans you can use. The pan has to be made of a metal that is reactive to magnets -- so I can't use my lovely spun aluminum pans or the ceramic pans I have, and most nonstick pans don't work (teflon's bad for you anyway but sometimes you just need a damn nonstick pan). If you have an induction range or want to cook on an induction burner you need to take a magnet with you if you shop for pans, because if the magnet won't stick the pan won't work on the burner. Cast iron does work on induction burners, as do most steel and steel-clad pans.

I love my induction burner. I'd love to get a full induction stove but it just wasn't in the cards this time around, and electric stoves have come a long way so I’m not displeased with my electric stove. The induction burner I have works great, heats fast, functions like a gas stove in pretty much every respect, it just doesn't have an open flame and some of my pans don't work on it. Can recommend, especially if you are sensitive to gas or live in a home not piped for gas, it's a great way to go. Not cheap, but worth the cost.

#food #sam cooks