#salon is a rag

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Not satire🤦‍♂️ Salon Magazine: "MAGA Republicans & Christian Nationalism ‘Bigger Threat to America than Hamas’ "

When Hillary Clinton called for the deprogramming of Trump Supporters, it was evident that Big Brother plans to imprison any American who refuses to relinquish love for God & love of country.

Today’s Republicans, as well as Christian nationalism, are a greater threat to the United States than the Hamas terrorist organization, which is responsible for scores of terror attacks including the most recent massacre of over 1,000 civilians — according to a recent Salon piece that is drawing fierce backlash for the “gross” assertion.

Following the deadliest attack on Jewish people since the Nazi Holocaust, Salon magazine published an essay declaring MAGA Republicans and Christian supporters a “bigger threat” to America than the Hamas terrorist perpetrators. 

The Thursday essay, titled “MAGA and Christian nationalism: Bigger threat to America than Hamas could ever be,” was penned by columnist Brian Karem, the former senior White House correspondent for Playboy.

— while forcing the rest of us to worship the way they choose,” he asserts, accusing them of appearing “hellbent on returning to the Middle Ages, driven there by the first Christian nationalist House speaker.”

He also claims that modern Republicans are unconcerned about the possibility of theocratic threats to freedom.

“They revel in their own chicanery. They despise free thought and independence, and are happy to play games with a government shutdown — the modern equivalent of fiddling while it all burns,” he writes. 

The longtime White House correspondent concludes with a reflection on President Joe Biden’s dwindling popularity and the broader challenges facing the country, from climate change to the potential of widespread violence and political turmoil.

In response, many took to social media to express outrage over the essay.

“Good grief,” remarked Tesla CEO and X (formerly Twitter) owner Elon Musk.“Yep. Some editor at Salon actually signed off on this piece by Brian Karem, who somehow is a credentialed WH ‘reporter,’” wrote columnist Joe Concha.

“In a sane world they’d be out of a job in about 30 seconds. Instead, Salon is actually promoting it,” he added.The U.S.-designated Islamic terror group, whose charter calls openly for the murder of Jews and the elimination of the Jewish state through relentless jihad, perpetrated the worst terrorist attack in Israel’s history last month, in an operation stemming from its radical beliefs. 

Hamas’ attack last month, which drew parallels to scenes from the Nazi Holocaust, saw some 2,500 terrorists burst into Issrael by land, sea, and air and gun down participants at an outdoor music festival while others went door-to-door hunting for Jewish men, women, and children in local towns who were then subject to torture, rape, execution, immolation, and kidnapping.

The attack resulted in more than 1,400 dead inside the Jewish state, over 5,300 more wounded, and at least 242 hostages of all ages taken.

The vast majority of the victims are civilians and include dozens of American citizens.On Tuesday, FBI Director Christopher Wray warned of heightened threats in the U.S. due to the Israel-Hamas war.

“We assess that the actions of Hamas and its allies will serve as an inspiration the likes of which we haven’t seen since (the Islamic State group) launched its so-called caliphate several years ago,” Wray told the Senate Committee on Homeland Security.

Salon has a history of smearing Republicans and Christians.

In March, a Salon piece insisted that Republicans are in the midst of waging a “fascist war” against freedom and democracy.Last year, an article in the progressive publication described the GOP as being a “de facto terrorist organization” as well as the “world’s largest white supremacist” group.

Previously, Salon published an interview in which “the Republican fascist movement” was referred to as “objectively evil,” and “white Christians” were accused of embracing lies, terrorism, white supremacy and fascism.

Joshua Klein is a reporter for Breitbart News. Email him at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @JoshuaKlein.

#maga #salon is a rag #fema camps #big brother #hamas

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Brynjolf: I swear, getting that haircut was the most unpleasant experience of my life.

Sapphire: Well, it looks good, I’ll give you that.

Brynjolf: Yeah. And now it’s done, I’ll never have to do it again.

Sapphire: What about when it grows back?

Brynjolf, laughing: Oh no, it’s not gonna grow back. I kept the receipt.

#remember kids #if you keep the receipts from your hair appointments you'll never have to go back to the salon again #at least according to bryn #brynjolf #sapphire #the ragged flagon #riften #nerevar queue and star #incorrect quotes #incorrect elder scrolls #incorrect skyrim quotes #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #the elder scrolls v: skyrim #source: tumblr

[shawtuzi]

i love plug!eren sm that’s literally my husband and as much as i love writing about how good he fucks let’s talk about how good he is at aftercare!!!!

“s-shit m’gonna cum, take it take all that shit,” eren grunted into your neck, pressing sloppy kisses to your slightly sweaty skin. you were squeezing onto his hand for dear life as he brought you to another earth shattering orgasm, his warm cum filling you up while you shook in his arms. you’d think after five rounds of sex he’d be too tired to even lift his head from your neck but here he was already standing up to retrieve a warm washcloth, but not before giving your puffy lips three quick kisses.

you sighed dreamily as if you were in a daze, you grabbed the post sex blunt he rolled earlier and lit it. “i know you didn’t spark that shit without me,” eren chuckled as he walked in the room with a rag in hand. “i’m sorryyy i couldn’t help myself,” you giggled throwing your arm over your face. eren was a little pouty at first but his frown was quickly replaced with a smile when you offered the blunt to him. “wanna take a bath when i’m done?” he asked settling between your parted legs. you shook your head mumbling something about being too tired.

the next couple of minutes were pretty quiet as eren cleaned you up, the only sound being heard was ‘pretty little birds’ playing lowly from eren’s speaker. “m’gonna hit the block tomorrow for a bit but i’ll still be able to take you to your nail appointment,” he spoke softly running washcloth over your thigh. you hummed at his words even though you weren’t completely listening all the way—i mean how could you focus when he looks so damn good post sex??? you took another hit of the blunt before speaking, “can you stay with me until i’m done? maybe we can get food afterwards?” eren nodded his head, “of course i will you know i always do.”

it was now time for your fav part of aftercare—the cuddling!!! your head was laid on his chest as he gently ran his tatted hand up and down your back. “i can already tell i’m gonna be sore tomorrow i don’t know how i’m gonna be able to walk properly,” you groaned nuzzling your face in his chest, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his body wash. eren kissed his teeth and you looked up at him with confusion in those cute little doe eyes of yours. “baby, you know i’d carry you to whole different state if you asked. if you don’t feel like walking to the car or even into the salon you know i’ll be ready,” he chuckled running his thumb across the apple of your cheek. “you’re the best ren,” you smiled leaning up to give him three kisses.

‘in this darkness’ by clara la san began to play on the speaker and surprisingly enough eren began to hum along to it. “you know this?” you asked making eren smile. “yeah…i remember you played it one time in the car and i kept listening to it after that. kinda reminds me of you,” he said the last part so quietly you almost couldn’t hear but luckily you did. “it reminds you of me? how so?” eren was quiet for a moment before speaking, “just the lyrics and shit, i mean i do get lonely when you aren’t here and before we met my world actually almost did shut down i hated it n’ i was miserable. then you came around and just lit everything up, i was finally happy to get out of bed in the morning all because i knew i’d see or hear from you. not to be corny or whatever but i guess you could say you’re the—i don’t know light of my life or whatever.”

eren glanced at you and immediately regretted everything he said when he saw tears in your eyes, “no no no y/n please don’t start crying i’m just saying shit—” you cut eren off with a long kiss quite literally taking his breath away. “that was so sweet eren you really have a way with words you know? that sounded like it really came from the heart,” your smile was as wide as could be as you gave him another kiss. eren was never the type to put all his emotions out in the open and you could never blame him after hearing what he’d been through, so to hear him express that you were the ‘light of his life’ it meant more than anything.

after about fifteen minutes eren peeked down at your now sleeping figure, little snores coming from your parted lips. he ever so gently set you next to him—not bc he didn’t want you on him he just wanted to admire your face and body one last time for the day before he went to bed. he traced his finger from your eyebrow to your nose that you recently had double pierced, down to your lips that he was itching to kiss. if eren had to pick any part of you he loved the most it would be your lips hands down. he loved the way they looked so pretty all glossed up and shiny, and he loved it even more when you left lipstick prints on him—hence why he’s got a tattoo of a (your) lipstick print on the side of his neck. he could still remember the look of terror on your face as you inspected it but you had grown to love it just like all his other tattoos.

he looked at your naked chest as it rose and fell ever so gently as you slept. he could never quite pinpoint why you had not been happy with how your body looked in the past but he never pried afraid he’d upset you with the question. so instead throughout the expanse of your relationship he made sure to kiss every scar, every stretch mark, every imperfect perfection you had to let you know he thought you were a walking goddess and quite literally everyone including him should be kneeling at your feet.

eren pulled you closer to him and gave you one last kiss on the crown of your head before dozing off, hoping that he would see you in his dreams.

#sorry if this is bad btw i wrote it in like 20 mins heh #but man oh man do i love me a good tooth rotting fluff #eren smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger smut #eren fluff #eren yeager fluff #eren jaeger fluff #aot smut #aot fluff #attack on titan smut

[eternalsa2z]

Book Club

So a while back me and the girlies had the greatest idea. We wanted to start a book club! To read really important feminist pieces, have deep discussions, and really connect with each other and understand our own identities.

Things were going super great but things really kicked off when someone suggested a book called 'Pink Power'. It was kinda odd - very pro-femininity, almost hyper-feminine bimbo stuff - but as we read more it was clearly a commentary on feminism and our ability as women to choose our own paths in lives. It was great!

We liked it sooooo much that we started reading more by that author. Things like 'Plastic is Fantastic', 'Shop 'til you Drop', and 'Who Needs To Think?'. I'm pretty sure there was some deep messages in them, but everyone was just OBSESSED with the great pictures in them. So many cute outfits, hot body modifications, and overall great models of this feminist ideal!

I think it was around this time that we changed up what we read. A lot less novels and more shorter magazines. Like fashion pieces or gossip rags. Oh and we reeeeeeally let the wine flow during our get-togethers. It was soooooo nice to just laugh and giggle and talk about cute looks.

By now we've kinda given up on reading - big words are kinda hard and our heads hurt after thinking for too long. The only thing that interests us is picture books with salon hairstyles or bimbo fashion outfits. But true to form we still get together - for brunch!

The assignment is always to just put together the cutest 'Pink Power' outfit and we spend alllll afternoon complimenting each other on our choices, sipping mimosas and snacking on apps, then gossiping about our latest enhancements. Honestly I'm sooooo glad we set up our club. I've totes learned a lot about myself and how I LOVE being a bimbo trophy doll!

#bimboification #f2f transformation #trophy wives #hypnosis

[chiquititaosita]

Monster trio + Shanks Red Nails Theory

hi guys to get some context on red nails it’s basically about how men are especially attracted to women wearing red nail polish, and that attraction exists because men remember seeing their mothers and other specific female figures in their lives wore red nail polish when they were children. but the color red represents love, desire, boldness, and sensuality. And in my opinion I wore red nail polish a lot. My gym trainer (male) ALWAYS COMPLIMENTED ON MY RED NAILS! ALWAYS WHEN IT WAS RED FOR NO REASON! anyways let’s get into it y’all can thank me later :)

Luffy

• Don’t get me wrong luffy is keen to detail but he’s a teeny bit slow 😭

• “you’re bleeding?!OMG YOURE BLEEDING! NOOOO!! WHERES CHOPPER!? CHOPPER!!!” panicked luffy is a rare sight to see but it’s actually adorable to witness

• there was this one time he asked if he could eat the nail monomer to your nail tech. (the smelly thing in the nail salon everyone hates/loves and what makes the nails hard)

• “girl is he okay? Does he need help?”

• “Haha yeah he’s good he’s just hangry because our cook locked out the kitchen.”

• your tech mentioned that there’s a market across the street he never ran so fast 😭

• nah I just feel like his mind wouldn’t cross it.

• but if your hands do cross his mind.

• he’s literally touchy touchy lovey dovey all the time, in all honesty. he wouldn’t even care.

• he’ll just look at your nails and say “omg y/n! We’re matching!!!!!!” he gets all giddy with that shishishi laugh ifykyk

•bby loves it when your hands intertwine, OR WHEN YOU PLACE YOUR HANDS ON HIS CHEST,

•or when you just glide your fingers on his scars admiring the bravery he has subsequently

• when you treat his wounds or hug him, he loves how you squeeze the living crap out of himself. I guess it makes him feel like he’s protecting you

• “can you do my nails the next time you do yours?”

• Let’s just say when luffy tried to get his nails done. He didn’t survive it. He kicked a nail tech when he got his calluses scrapped off. he’s too ticklish.

Zoro

• ngl hes VERY PROTECTIVE of his partner specifically just you in general

• when zoro at the salon waiting for you he asks for water or alcohol. He feels like it’ll be forever. “Oí, you got sake?”

•”yes sir but you have to pay for a service in order to have some alcohol.”

“What’s the least painful one?”

• not even 10 MINUTES LATER MANS GOT A FULL ON MANI PEDI he just wanted his hands and nails cleaned up.ain’t no one wanna see his grippers. 😭

• “Did you- “

• “I WAS THIRSTY Y/N!”

• he always understands that he has to be gentle and you’re not like sanji or some rag doll

• but when it comes to the red nails he looks confused “you rarely do your nails…that…color…”

• “I know I know, but I feel like it’s time for a change.”

• he blushes while avoiding eye contact with you ”I like them.”

•or the “not bad.”

• when you trace his scars or his calloused hands zoro just internally melts to your gentle touch

• “hold my hand. NOW” you usually tell him to hold your hand, and he complains so much.

•Literally you’re so used to him to complaining like saying

• “iT BURNS!” Zoro was just being even more sarcastic. He is not even used to affection, but this time he didn’t even complain when you wanted to hold his hand.

• Literally most of the straw hats laugh at zoro when he’s experiencing pda because he’s a tough guy. Giving “machismo” energy.

•he just furiously covers his face because he just doesn’t want to be seen to be blushing like a tomate 🍅

• “Aye! Mosshead and you said you’d never get your nails done- HYAYAYAYAYAYAAAAAAKAAAHA!” Sanji just kept dragging it.

• “SHUT UP CURLY!”

• when zoro holds your hands in his. Mans knew he had to be gentle. I don’t think the nails reminded him of anyone in female significance,

•other than the blood of his enemies or sanjis nose bleeds 😭

•he loves head scratches when he naps. It’s a MUST. poor moss head won’t sleep peacefully.

• you’ll be receiving lots and lots of back hugs when doing your chores and off guard.

Sanji

YALL THIS MANEEEE I WAITED FOR THIS ONE OMGGGG

• when sanji holds your hand during supper. the first thing he noticed was your nails being red.

• mans blushed “you got your nails done y/n-chan?”

• “hm.. oh yes I did why?”

•”they look beautiful in that color… it goes very well with your skin tone y/n-swann 😩❤️” there he goes simping again

•from taking the cigarette out of his mouth to kiss him, to holding the cup of tea between your hands it just makes him go crazy.

• he’ll just keep admiring at how beautiful you look, and of course compliment you.

•he rests the crook of his head on your shoulder kissing your neck, and whisper the most romantic things ever while having fingers Intertwined.

• he’s more affectionate and shows you off even more.

•will literally KICK A BITCH. If someone cat calls you with your

•”do you not understand how lucky I am to have a beautiful woman like you y/n.”

• sanji literally sits by you when you get your nails done. He’ll he said he’d get a manicure (we love a man who takes interest in their partners interest)

• he talks to the tech about how you’re the love of his life and on and on.

•” awe is she your girlfriend?”

•”yess!!!! She is! I’m so lucky to have a woman like her in my life 😭.” He teared up when he said that.

• in all honesty Sanji is just gonna be even more clingy and relaxed with you in private more than a simp he is in public.

• of course he’s going to spoil you, but he’s not going to feel tired, because he won’t stop until he feels satisfied.

Shanks

• “well well well if it isn’t my favorite color!” he got all giddy and shit. SIR WAS KISSING YOUR KNUCKLES.

• nah like for real. Shanks starts becoming more emotionally intimate with you with the red nails.

•he loves the way you flip through pages on documents, use your touch for the slightest things

• “so classy…mmm…so sexy….like me. HAHAHAHA.” You’re really trying to think its working on him but NOOO he loves tricking you.

•it’s that thing like with his observation haki. but nOO. he pulled a facade. He’s getting all internally nervous and becoming a blushing mess.

• when he has his free time he’s gonna be chasing you so good luck. “nooo!!! Put me down! Captain put me down please!”

•”KYAHAHA! Never!!!” He grinned and slapped your butt as he placed you on his shoulder. DAM HE Strong

•”well excuse me me and my lady love are going to have quality time ALONE!” Literally just cuddling

•”I hope you know that I love you y/n. like a lot. Im sorry i barley get to tell you that.” He admits as he kisses the top of your head holding your hands.

“I love you too… but can you try saying it more often… it makes me feel bad.” you gave them the puppy eyes. not even five seconds later you were showered with kisses and hugs by red haired shanks.

• so In conclusion the red nails theory DOES WORK on OP MEN.

(Imma do law and ace in the future dw guys :>)

hope y’all liked this one :)

#one piece imagines #one piece fluff #zoro x reader #fluff #one piece x reader #sanji x latina reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x fem reader #zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro #pirate hunter zoro #monkey d luffy #straw hat luffy #luffy x reader #shanks #shanks x reader #shanks fluff #red hair shanks

[swampstew]

Spoiling Eustass 'Captain' Kid

500 follower milestone achieved ~ thank you to all the lovely folks who like my content enough to follow and constantly support. You are all beautiful beans and I so appreciate every single one of you. As promised, here is the Spoiling Captain Kid bedtime story. Enjoy spoiling our mans♡

Word Count: 1.8K Warnings: None! Fluff piece with GN Reader, SFW (with some suggestive spice) but as always my content is only for ADULTS.

Minors DNI you will be blocked

Being with a man like Eustass Kid is anything but easy. His ambitions, his temper, his sardonic and gluttonous personality – all highly guarded walls to keep trespassers away. His reputation and his crew as his guard dogs to keep anyone from getting too close.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t love in his heart. For Killer.

The crew.

For you.

He hadn’t meant to fall for you but he did before he could articulate what he was feeling. By then he was in too deep. Couldn’t get you out of his head, his bed, or his heart.

A Captain has duties and Kid is a busy person. Between strategy meetings, communicating with contacts in the Underworld, commanding the crew and Victoria Punk, his time in the workshop, and everything else in between, you could see that his day-to-day schedule was running him ragged.

You had enough.

No man, not even Eustass Kid, is immune to burnout. Working out the details with Killer, you plotted a day of pampering and relaxation for the aggressive redhead. Whether he wanted it or not.

The ship is quiet. Too quiet. Kid’s suspicious scowl grew deeper as he walked around. Normally when the crew found a port to dock at, there would be stragglers around the deck nursing hangovers. Not today. He first noticed when he woke up and dragged his feet to the kitchen to grab you and him some water.

Now you were gone too. What the fuck!

Slightly jumping from the bathroom door suddenly swinging open, you stand before him in a cute little outfit that made his eyes dilate. He shook his head out of those spicy thoughts.

“Where the hell did everyone go?”

“Killer gave everyone a day off with a rotating skeleton crew to guard the ship!”

“The fuck? And he didn’t run that by me first?!”

You shake your head at him, “It was decided amongst the Commanders, Killer and me.”

Kid did a double take. “You all did what now???!”

“Everyone has the day off. You included. Now get changed, your itinerary is all filled up.” You pass the handwritten schedule into his flesh hand.

The vein in his forehead throbbed as he looked over the sheet.

Morning – Self-care start with breakfast provided. Full body treatment to follow.

Afternoon – Hot springs and lunch after. Nap optional.

Evening – Banquet with after party. If the Captain behaves, he’ll be provided with an additional gift.

“If I behave?” he growled, lowering the sheet from his face.

“Yep! Try to wear something a little casual since we’ll be out of our clothes a lot.”

That swiped the scowl off his face to be replaced with a grin. A grin he kept on his face as you both strolled through the island lazily. Kid is almost unrecognizable wearing shorts and a muscle tank top, his trademark goggles traded in for a pair of large, tinted sunglasses with golden rims. The day is bright and sunny, not too many people out on the streets, and his lover hanging off his arm – not a bad way to start his imposed day off.

When you reached your destination you almost had to pull Kid inside.

“We’re here stop dragging your feet!”

“You didn’t say anything about a nail salon!”

He much preferred to paint his nails himself, even after he lost his left arm he insisted on trying to use his power to create a normal sized-scale prosthetic. While it was manageable, it was nowhere near as precise or cleanly done as when he had both organic arms.

“Who cares? They get paid to do a job no matter how crusty your toenails are!”

“Y/N I AM NOT CRUSTY!!!!!!”

In the end you manage to pull him in. Kid remains entirely silent; face flushed as he sits in a leather chair that also had a massaging feature while his feet soaked in a heated tub. The manicurist quickly removed and painted his nails on his right hand while an adventure drama played on a screen, not once daring to speak aloud. Even the visual transponder snail seemed nervous, the screen slightly rippling on the edges.

You came through the door carrying a platter and two bags hanging from your arms. While your feet and back experience the same treatment as Kid, you hand feed him donut balls and ripped off pieces of bagels. He even has you lift his iced coffee for him to drink so he doesn’t have to move his body from the pulsing chair.

Nails freshly done and bellies satiated, you both head to the back of the salon. Through a heavy glass door, you both find yourselves in a spa house. Kid quirks his hairless eyebrow at you.

“Look, I’d normally take care of you myself but you’re…particular with how you like things done and I’d rather not get yelled at. Humor me and I promise you’ll feel stress free and relaxed and maybe add 5 years to your lifespan ok?”

With a grunt he gently shoves you off to the side in annoyance as he walks up to the receptionist. To Kid’s horror, he is to be subjected to a hot stone massage, a full facial, and then dipped into salt-rich mud for gods only know how long.

He enjoys it even if he tells you he hated every second.

Your room is next to his while you receive your own massage and you could hear his pleased growling and muffled moans as the massage therapist worked out kinks from his back not even Killer or you could work out. You didn’t hear him object to the facial and you thought you might have even heard him hum when the specialist told him they didn’t know why he needed it on his flawless face. That made you scoff; you were just trying to spoil your man – and on your own dime, thank you very much! Kid is ANYTHING but a cheap date.

Nothing could prepare you for how utterly out of character Kid looked while he reclines in the mud bath. The Dead Sea mud is known for its purgative and restorative properties. It exfoliates and tightens skin, eliminates harmful bacteria, and nourishes the skin and scalp.

Healing qualities aside – Kid is covered entirely in mud save for around his eyes. Even his hair was thoroughly coated. You hold back a laugh and sink your body next to his, working the nutrient rich mud over your skin and hair. It’s only an hour but time feels eternal in the chamber, the harmonic sounds of tuning forks and melodic singing bowls being rung as you both slipped into a tranquil, meditative state.

Free from the mud, its only logical that the next stop is a hot spring. After another rinse, you both settle into a private heated pool and enjoy each other’s company. Your bag held a bottle of champagne which you had the staff chill, and you were now making bottomless mimosas. A heated bath plus alcohol equals a nice buzz and a voracious appetite. After your soak, you take the lead and bring him to a delicious restaurant where you watch Kid devour meal after meal. You are always impressed with the bottomless pit he called a stomach.

“I’m not a child,” Kid scoffs once you come back to the ship. “Don’t need a nap.”

“You might not but I do! We had a busy day and I’m full from lunch. If you want to just cuddle that’s fine too.”

Ever the edgy punk he is, he turns red at the mention of cuddling and throws the clothes he took off directly at your face. He ends up cuddling anyway. And once your lulling breaths signaled your descent into sleep, he swiftly follows, holding your warm body snug to his.

Hours pass quickly and when Kid wakes up he’s pleased to see you curled up on his chest. He plays with your painted fingers until the sounds of hunger rumble from his stomach to his chest, waking you up.

“Finally! Been dying to eat but SOMEBODY was trapping me down.”

“M’mm soo sorry your majesty,” you grumble with side eye, getting up from the bed and beating him to the bathroom first.

If there’s one thing you know about the Kid Pirates aside from their…rabid violent tendencies…is that they know how throw a party and banquet. The deck is filled with dining tables displaying mouthwatering dishes, roasted meats, and tons of liquor.

Killer got the band together for live music and it warmed your heart to see how amiable Kid is when he truly let loose. Not that the crew never got to see that side of him, just that those moments were far and few between with how demanding finding the One Piece is. And trying to take down the powers of the world.

Choosing to focus on the present, you dance along with the crew as the music flows, drinking, and having fun. You find yourself in Kid’s lap as you eat and talk shit with the others, he keeps a close grip on you with the occasional affectionate squeeze. You manage to steal a glance at him and see he has the happiest smile on his face as he looks down at you. A lovely image that makes your heart flutter and return his smile. Not at all rolling your eyes as he gently grabs your chin and turns your face around.

When the night is over, Kid playfully throws you on the bed with a wide smirk on his face as he crawls over your body.

“Alright what’s my gift?”

“Under the bed.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you, “Oh you mean an actual gift? That wasn’t an innuendo?”

“I bought you an actual gift that’s going to change your life.”

He snorts at that but then looks under the bed for his gift. Pulling out a gift bag, he sits down next to you and looks inside. A confused look on his face, he pulls out a sleek, gun-looking mechanism.

“You planning to shoot me or something?”

“In a sense.”

The bewildered look he gives you makes you laugh aloud.

“It’s a massage gun! There are different shaped pieces that you can interchange to fit the massage and area you want to target. Let me show you, take off your vest.”

He rolls his eyes but does as you say, “Doubt this teeny tiny toy can do anything of significance.”

The massage gun comes to life with a low buzzing hum. You attach one of the heads to the nozzle and brace yourself.

“C’mon get it over with already! I hate waiting for dissapo—OH MY GODS!!!”

By the time you’re through with him, he’s a drooling pile of putty laid out on your lap.

#eustass kid #swampstew bedtime stories #eustass kid fluff #eustass kid x you #one piece eustass kid #eustass kid x reader #one piece kid #eustass kid x y/n #op kid #swampstew #eustasscaptainkid #swampstew stories #kid pirates #reader insert #one piece reader insert #milestone event

[daddy-dins-girl]

Kindred - Chapter One

Kindred.

So I rewatched WW84 two nights ago and the next day I had 5k of Max Lord fic written (idk what happened). But anyway, lmk if you want to see a part 2!

Main MasterlistSeries Masterlist

AO3 Link

Chapter 2

Summary: You’ve nannied for your share of families including a lot of workaholic parents but never have you met anyone that runs themselves as ragged as Maxwell Lord seems to.

Tonight a thought occurs to you that maybe Mr. Lord just needs to let go, for one night. And maybe you could give that to him.

Maxwell Lord x f!Reader (Nanny)

Word Count: 4.8k

Notes: Takes place a couple years before the events of WW84. Reader has no defined age so it can be whatever you want. I'm not sure how old Alistair is supposed to be in 84, but in this fic he's about 6ish (so no baby talk or screaming toddlers here folks!).

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Smut. Oral sex. Explicit language. Light dom/sub. Light bondage (Max's neck tie comes in handy). Max's hair is it's own warning.

...

“Hi Mr. Lord” you smile sweetly at your boss as the front door swings open to allow you inside. You’re met, as per usual, by the sight of your employer looking - in a word - exasperated. He sighs when he sees you; in relief you assume, and runs a hand through his golden chestnut locks that constantly fall across his forehead. He’s dressed smartly in a blue pin striped suit with a stark white shirt and navy tie with a gold paisley pattern which hangs loose and slightly askew around his neck. You assume he’s been tugging at it, something you noticed he does when he gets overly stressed which, granted, is pretty often. 

You’ve nannied for your share of families including a lot of workaholic parents but never have you met anyone that runs themselves as ragged as Maxwell Lord seems to. You know why he does it; that he’s trying to build an empire, something to leave to his son (with whom he splits custody of with his ex-wife) and to be able to provide everything for his son that he never had. But spending so much time with his son Alistair, you see the other side of it as well and sympathize. All Alistair wants is for his father to actually get home in time to read him a bedtime story, or go to the park for a game of catch, or show up at school for Career Day like everyone else’s parents. 

“Thank you for coming so quickly” Maxwell finally breathes as both his hands reach out and grab yours, gently pulling you inside. “My ex-wife had a family emergency with her mother and needed to go out of town and had to drop Alistair off. I know this is normally your week off, I appreciate you coming”

“Of course, Mr. Lord, it’s no trouble, really” you assure him. Truly you didn’t mind, you could always use the extra money. You liked the schedule with the Lord’s. Two weeks on, two weeks off. In your off time from nannying you peddled beauty products and rented a chair at a local hair salon near your apartment. Giving haircuts to suburban housewives was a great way to boost your side business of selling cosmetics and skin care products. You had clients at the salon who would often hire you to come to small lunches they would host for their girlfriends where you could give a small presentation of the products you sold and it was an easy way for you to make money and add to your growing client list. Mr. Lord had even surprised you by becoming a client. He had come home one night to you filling out orders in a receipt book at the kitchen table, a few skin care products strewn about the table as you readied to package them up and he was instantly curious as to what you were selling. You were embarrassed at first, for technically working for your other job while on the clock for him but he instantly waved you off. Alistair had already been asleep for hours and he assured you that not only did he not mind, but he was impressed by your work ethic. He handled a few of the products, carefully reading the small print on the bottles and you noted his curiosity before pulling out the catalog from your purse and suggesting a few items for him to try.

“Makes you glow like a teenager” You had smiled at him as you explained one of the serums to him and he had his checkbook out within minutes, placing his first order.

You would have to rearrange a few of the haircuts you had scheduled for this week but most of your clients were housewives with flexible enough schedules that you were confident you could rearrange them to times where Alistair would be in school, so you weren’t worried about it. And your cosmetic business was mostly a work from home endeavor anyway, aside from the few weekly home deliveries you made which could also be done during school hours. During your “on weeks” at the Lord’s you lived there. It was just easier due to Maxwell’s ever changing and highly busy schedule. He was out of the house at the early morning hours and typically didn’t return until long after the sun was set. Even most weekends he was in and out of the office, trying to be home whenever he could but with his business still being in the early stages of growth, it was a necessary evil.

You were more than just a babysitter for Alistair. You cooked and cleaned and did whatever you could to make Maxwell’s life easier. In the beginning he tried to insist you didn’t need to do as much as you did, that he knew he didn’t pay you enough for all the work you put in, but you quickly brushed him off, ensuring him that not only were you happy to do it, but it gave you something to do when Alistair was asleep or otherwise occupied. He eventually stopped trying, knowing you’d do it regardless, and every few months (presumably when he’d had a good month at work and could afford it) you’d notice a couple of extra bills in the envelope of cash he’d hand you at the beginning of your work week. It wasn’t much, but you appreciated that he appreciated you. At the end of the day you were both just trying to hustle your way through life; Maxwell was just a more successful version of yourself, in a way. You were kindred spirits, it’s probably why you got along as well as you did.

The fact that you found your boss to be devastatingly handsome didn’t hurt either, you supposed.

“Who is it Daddy?” You heard Alistair's excited voice call out as hurried footsteps came barreling towards the front entryway. He slid to a stop in his socked feet and hands instinctively wrapped around his father’s leg as he peered up at you with the same large chestnut coloured eyes as his fathers.

“It’s our Angel, come to save the day again buddy” Max smiled down at his son, ruffling a hand through his dark brown locks.

“So you’re going back to work tonight?” Alistair’s face fell slightly, along with your heart, as his fingers picked absently at the crease in Max’s pant leg.

“Hey,” You quickly sprang into action, squatting down to be eye level with Alistair and nudging at his chin with your finger to get him to look up at you. “I brought you something” you begin, a grin spreading across your lips as you reach into your purse at your side.

“A present?!” Alistair’s eye’s light up suddenly and it makes you smile.

“Well, sort of, but it’s on loan” you explain as you pull the rented VHS tape out of your bag and hold it out in front of you.

“ET!” the boy all but shrieks. His Dad had taken him to see it at the drive-in when it had first come out and he hadn’t stopped talking about it since. When Raquel, Mr. Lord’s assistant, had called you a couple hours ago to explain the situation and asking if you could step in this week, you knew the boy might be overly emotional; his grandmother being ill and his father undoubtedly rushing off to work the moment you arrived at their doorstep. You had a feeling this would cushion the blow and your instincts were right on the money as he jumped up and down excitedly at you.

“Can we put it on now?” He asked, his excitement barely contained as he bounced up and down on his heels.

“Tell you what, why don’t we order a pizza and we can watch it with our dinner”

“Yay!” Alistair shouts, turning on his heel and running off to the kitchen, undoubtedly to browse the pizza menu stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

“I’m getting pepperoni!” You hear him yell from the kitchen and you huff a laugh at his eagerness as you straighten back up and face your employer once again.

“Thank you, honestly sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you” Mr. Lord tells you honestly and you smile, placing a hand on his bicep.

“Happy to help” you tell him. And you are. Maxwell and Alistair have become this sort of part-time family of yours and you’d do anything for them.

“I better get in there before he starts dialing and orders half the restaurant” you joke before bringing your hands up to fix Max’s tie around his neck until it’s tightened and straight, your hand brushing down the silken material slightly and then patting your palm against it once.It’s something you’ve never done to him before and you have no idea what came over you in the moment, the act feeling strangely intimate but you quickly clear your throat, take a step back and give him an easy smile.

“Don’t work too hard” you tell him before you brush past him to go after Alistair, knowing he won’t actually heed the advice, but you say it anyway.

You hear the front door open and close as you reach Alistair in the kitchen, grabbing the phone off the wall to place the order and get your evening started.

…

It’s well past ten when you hear the door open again, signaling Maxwell’s arrival home. You look up from the kitchen table where you’d been flipping through a magazine and watch him as he places his briefcase on the floor before his large frame envelops the open doorway to the kitchen. He leans against the wall, tie hanging loosely around his neck again and hair falling across his forehead.

“Alistair?” He asks hopefully, though you're pretty certain he already knows the answer.

“Asleep” You shrug and his face falls slightly.

“Of course, it’s late” he sighs, pulling his arm up to look at his watch. “Lost track of time I guess” he mumbles and you frown. He looks exhausted, hands running through his hair again.

“It’s getting long” you say, not meaning too it just comes out; occupational hazard you suspect.

“What?” He questions, not sure what you mean.

“Your hair” you nod in his direction. “When was the last time you had it cut?”

“Oh, um, I'm not sure…” Max trails off, thinking. He knows it has been too long. He had to skip his last appointment because an investor meeting had come up and he’d forgotten to ask Raquel to reschedule him.

You stand up, your feet moving of their own accord until you’re standing right in front of him at the kitchen doorway and you bring your left hand up to gently run through the few stray locks that are normally slicked back but have now curtained across his forehead.

“I could trim it for you” you say, your eyes glued to his hair and not even noticing how close you’re standing to him or that his gaze is fixed on you, his Adam's apple bobbing heavy in his throat.

“I… couldn’t ask you to do that” he says finally, running his own hand through his hair as you pull yours away.

“No, really, I insist, come here” you take both your hands and grab for one of his, pulling him further into the kitchen and sliding a chair out.

“I have my stuff here, I was going to give Alistair a trim this week anyway” you shrug. “Sit, I’ll be right back” you instruct and he sighs but dutifully does as you ask.

You return a couple minutes later with your supplies and a towel that you secure around his neck. You go to the sink and fill your spray bottle with water so you can mist it through his hair to get it wet enough to cut before you begin your work.

“You have a great head of hair, I see where Alistair gets it from” you comment as your fingers rake through it from the top of his scalp to the back of his neck. It was true. A lot of your male clients around Mr. Lord’s age were already showing a receding hairline and none of them had hair as thick as his. “I don’t think you have to worry about going bald anytime soon” you joke and you hear him chuckle softly.

“Thank you, you really didn’t have to do this” Max says into the stillness of the room while you continue to trim and run your hands through his hair, ensuring all the ends are even.

“It’s kind of fun when it’s not work,” you shrug. Plus you really didn’t mind running your hands through Max’s hair, not that you’d ever admit that to him. You’d been dying to do it since you met him. Soft, luscious locks begging for a pair of hands other than his own to run through them.

You finish the trim, place the scissors down on the table and take an extra few seconds to run both hands through his hair, your nails raking gently against his scalp as you style his hair the way he likes it.

“There” you smile at your handiwork before reaching for the handheld mirror on the table and holding it up for him to take. His hand wraps around yours on the handle of the mirror as he brings it in front of him, his free hand running through his hair to inspect the length.

“It’s perfect, thank you. Feels much better” he beams at you through the mirror with his megawatt smile that makes your knees weaken and you bite your lip, looking away quickly as heat rises in your cheeks.

“Just glad I could help” you tell him before you untuck the towel from the collar of his dress shirt and sweep it off his shoulders, balling it up before any loose hair falls onto the floor and placing it on the seat of a nearby chair so you can take it to the laundry room later. You're standing up straight behind him again and before you can talk yourself out of it, you rest your hands on his broad shoulders and start kneading, instantly feeling the tight knots of muscles beneath his dress shirt.

“Oh, um” Max startles slightly in the chair, turning his head as far to the side as he can to try and look at you.

“Sorry” you quickly pull your hands from his shoulders as if you’d been burned and Max turns his body in his seat so he’s sitting sideways on the chair, his elbow resting on the back.

“It’s ok” Max assures, large brown eyes looking up at you. “But, you don’t have to… I mean I don’t expect…” he trails off and you quickly come to the understanding that he’s not mad at you for touching him or doesn’t even not want you to.

An idea comes to your head as you stare down at the big puppy dog eyes of the exhausted man staring back at you. A man that deserves so much more than what life has thrown at him. It’s a risky idea, sure, and could potentially ruin everything you’ve built with this family over the last several months but something just comes over you and takes hold and you can’t seem to shake it off.

“Turn your chair around to face me, and bring it forward a bit, away from the table” you instruct, taking a few steps back so he has room. His eyes glance over you for a few moments, studying to see if you’re being serious or not before he finally swallows and nods, silently obeying your orders. He turns the chair and sits on it properly again, his hands going under the seat so he can shuffle it forward slightly so it's not backed right up against the table, his eyes never leaving you from where you stand a foot or so away, leaned against the kitchen island in front of him.

Satisfied with where he sits, you take the two steps across the kitchen to reach him again and your hands go back to his shoulders, this time rubbing up and down the material of the dark blue suspenders for a few moments before your fingers hook underneath them and slide them down his arms. You catch the shudder he releases but neither of you comment on it.

“You’re always working so hard” you sigh as you run a hand through his hair again before bringing it to run down the side of his face and his eyes close voluntarily at your touch. “Taking care of Alistair, of your clients, your business” you continue, both hands now fiddling with the tie at his neck, loosening it further.

“Who takes care of you?” You ask, though not expecting an answer, and he doesn’t give you one. Just swallows thickly instead, breathing heavily through his nose.

You successfully loosen the tie completely before sliding it off of him, wrapping the silk around your hands briefly to feel the fine fabric. You put one hand on his shoulder and step around him until you’re behind him and squat down as each of your hands grab for his arms and pull them behind his back until his wrists are together and you lay the silk fabric of the tie over top of them.

“Is this ok?” You ask, mouth next to his ear now and he quickly nods his head.

“Yes” he manages to breathe out and you go back to your task of securing the tie around his wrists, giving it a gentle tug when you're finished to make sure it's not too tight but also that he can’t wriggle free too easily.

You take a steadying breath while still behind him before raising up to your feet again. You’ve never actually done anything like this before and your hands are nearly shaking, your entire body buzzing with excitement but you try to will yourself to relax. Max needs this, and you can do it. You can give him what he needs and what he’d never ask you for.

Settling your shoulders and holding your head high, you finally step back around him until you’re in front of him again.

“Good boy” you praise him once you’re facing him again; hand coming up to rest on his cheek and he closes his eyes at the warmth of your palm against his skin.

“Poor baby, just needs someone to take care of him, don’t you?” you tease, your thumb brushing against his cheek.

“Yes, Angel” Max sighs, his eyes finally opening again to meet yours. You notice the endearment slip, the same one he had used this morning and it gives you butterflies. You take another steadying breath to reign yourself in so you don't end up untying him and letting him do whatever he wants with you. God knows you want to, but you want tonight to be just for him.

“I’m going to take good care of you, aren’t I Maxwell?” You whisper and his eyes close again upon hearing his first name come from your lips. You had always called him Mr. Lord, but tonight, he was just Maxwell.

Placing a hand on each of his shoulders, you lower yourself onto his lap, straddling him with each of your legs on either side of his and you can feel him already growing hard beneath you. Max’s chest is heaving as he tries to maintain some type of control over his body, his heart beating wildly underneath his pressed white dress shirt as your hands glide up and down from the tops of his shoulders to the middle of his chest.

“I think I like you like this” you purr, lower half grinding up against his to create some friction and a moan slips from his lips as he thrusts his hips up to meet yours. “You don’t have to think, don’t have to act, just be free… just be with me, baby” you tell him before you lean forward and capture his lips with yours, both of you moaning into the kiss when your mouths open and tongues meet. His lips are soft, as soft as you’d always fantasized they’d be. His tongue explores your mouth greedily, desperate to taste every part of you, lick into every cavern. You’d always imagined he’d be a great kisser but you had no idea how amazing he’d be. You’re so lost in the kiss you almost forget your plan all together, wanting to just stay in this moment with him for as long as your lung capacities would allow. Your hands are in his hair now, fingers running through the soft waves, and he groans into your mouth before he pulls back suddenly.

“Angel, please. Let me hold you, touch you” he all but whines, squirming underneath you and you almost break, feeling defenseless against his pleas, but you hold steady and straighten up in his lap again.

“Not tonight baby. Tonight is for you. This is what I want, and you want to please me, don’t you Maxwell?”

“Yes” he nods, his voice trembling.

It’s clear that giving up control is not something Max is used to, but you know he needs it, likes it even - if the evidence currently pressing against your thigh is any indication.

“Good boy” you praise again and when his cock twitches against your leg, your eyebrows raise at him in surprise.

“You like being my good boy, Maxwell?” You tease, rewarding him with a forceful press of your pelvis into his groin and he moans, biting his lower lip.

“Yes”

“You feel so good baby” you moan, rocking into him, your hands around the back of his neck now. “So big and hard for me” you praise and a whine escapes his lips as he tries to meet your thrusts with his own as much as he can within the confines of the chair he’s tied to.

You lean your face forward until your mouth is on the shell of his ear and you gently pull the lobe between your teeth before soothing over it with your tongue. “Want you in my hand, in my mouth” you confess breathily against his ear and he whimpers. “Can I take you out baby?”

Max eagerly nods, not trusting his own voice and you nip at his earlobe again. “Words, baby” you remind him.

“Yes” he breathes. “Take my cock out, it’s yours Angel”

He sounds absolutely wrecked already and you love it. You bring your attention to his waist and pop open the button to his trousers, sliding down the zipper before your hand pushes eagerly inside to cup him over his briefs.

“Oh, baby” Max sighs, hanging his head down so he can see your hand rubbing along his shaft covered in expensive soft black cotton.

“Is this my cock, Maxwell?” You ask, feeling more emboldened by the minute as Max turns into absolute putty under your hands.

“Yes. Fuck. Yeah baby, all yours”

You remove your hand from him for just a few seconds so you can tug his pants down to his thighs and then shove the front of his briefs down so you can take him out of the confines of his underwear and see him in all his glory. And what a glorious site it is, indeed, you think to yourself.

Max hisses when you pull his length out and run your hand down it once. He’s long and too thick for you to be able to wrap your hand all the way around it. The head is dark and purple and already leaking precum. “It’s beautiful, just like you baby” you tell him before you lean forward to press a quick kiss to his lips and smile at him. “Gonna make you feel so good” you promise before easing yourself off of his lap and onto your knees instead and Max groans, tossing his head back.

You start with teasing little licks and kisses to the head before going lower and licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock and Max moans from above you. “Tastes good too” you tell him before your mouth closes around the fat head and sucks gently, causing Max to buck his hips up into you.

“Stay still” you scold, immediately taking your mouth off of him to look up at him. “Don’t be a naughty boy” you warn as you grip both of his thighs tightly.

“Oh, fuck” Max groans, eyes closing and head falling back again. It's clear he’s loving this, loving you being in control of him. Another bead of precum dribbles out and slides down his dick and you quickly duck down to catch it on your tongue and lick a stripe up his length again. This time Max remains still, his breaths coming out harder through his nose as he concentrates on remaining still.

“Good boy” you praise before bringing your whole mouth down on him, swallowing down as much of his length as your throat will allow and repeating the process over and over, head bobbing up and down on his cock with enthusiasm.

“Oh baby, shit. Holy shit Angel” Max whines as he watches you choke on his dick. Your eyelashes flutter up at him as you watch him watch you. He looks completely fucked out, his pupils blown wide, shoulders tense under the white dress shirt where he’s pulling against the restraints behind him, desperate to reach for you, to touch you.

You moan into his cock. Watching him completely lose himself in you is doing all kinds of things to your body. You can feel yourself soaking your panties, getting off on the pleasure you’re giving him and you bring a hand up to wrap around his length and work him up and down for what your mouth can’t reach.

When the back of your throat needs a break you focus your mouth on his head instead, swirling your tongue around and underneath the tip while your hand continues pumping his shaft, wet with your saliva and easily sliding up and down the length.

“Oh Angel, you feel so fucking good” Max praises.”Oh fuuuuuuck” His breathing has become even more erratic and you know he’s getting close so you double your efforts, taking his whole length in your mouth again and hollowing out your cheeks as you slide him down your throat and swallow. The sounds of wet saliva and your lips smacking and swallowing his cock are positively sinful as they bounce off the kitchen walls and back to your ears and it urges you on, bobbing faster and faster up and down his cock, your hand pumping and gently squeezing him in tandem with your mouth.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Baby!” Max whines and you know it's a warning. Rather than lifting off of him you moan into him instead and continue sucking and tugging at him, urging him to finish in your mouth.

“Oh Christ, Angel. I’m coming, I’m coming. Fuck!” Max warns before you feel his hot spend hit the back of your throat in spurts and you continue moaning and swallowing around his cock, milking him of every last drop until his hips finally still and you swallow once more before releasing him with a pop and laying your head to rest on his thigh to take a breath.

“Oh my God” Max heaves a sigh and you feel all the tension leave his body and a smile crosses your lips. You move your head forward just a little to press a kiss to his shaft before you straighten up on your knees again and tuck him back into his underwear.

“Angel, fucking untie me, please” he begs desperately and you quickly oblige him, reaching behind the chair to tug at the knot until it comes free, the silk falling to the floor and Max’s arms shoot out the moment they’re free and tug you up off the floor and back onto his lap as his strong arms circle around your back and hold you tight to his chest, hugging you like you’re a life raft and he could just float away into nothing if you weren’t there to anchor him.

“Angel you are so perfect to me” he sighs, nuzzling against the side of your face.”I… didn’t even know I needed that” he admits and you smile, leaning back so you can look at him.

“I know baby” you coo, running a hand through his hair again before resting it on his cheek. “Told you I’d take care of you”

“And… I want to take care of you, too” Max shrugs, his eyes pleading with yours as his hands run absently across your back.

“Another time” you tell him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his strong nose. Max’s shoulders fall but he nods in understanding.

“Do you promise?” He asks, bringing his large hands to run up and down your sides.

“I promise, Mr. Lord” you smile sweetly at him.

...

Chapter two

Tagging some of my Maxwell girlies @boliv-jenta @suzdin

If you wanna be tagged there is an update, lmk!

#pedro pascal #maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #maxwell lord fanfiction #wonder woman 1984 #max lord #maxwell lord x f!reader #maxwell lord x you

[kookies2000]

Because I have to make everything Latino.

Gangel is Jax older sister in real life. And Jax would push her face into the cake on her birthday every year. Even fight others who tried to do it before him. And at every party, he would wrestel with her inside the jumper. Then, he'll turn off the jumper with Gangel still inside. But Jax would also fight children when the piñata breaks, with the piñata spike in hand. Just so he could get Gangle some candy. He's a good little brother. And Gangel is that sister who's a hopeless romantic and gives Jax dating advice from anime. And doesn't let Jax out on a date in rags. She'll give him a make-over and do his eye liner for him. When he doesn't comply, she drags him to the Latino salon where their tías will take over instead.

"Tranquilo! I will not let you go on a date with Ragatha looking like this!" Gangel trying to fix Jax hair.

And Jax teasing Gangle about her crush on Zooble. Kissy noises and forcing her to talk to Zooble.

I see them as Afro Latinos. Mostly Mexican.

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #jax x ragatha #ragatha x jax #Gangel #being a good sister #we know she would #zooble x gangle #gangle x zooble

[differenteagletragedy]

Things I Would Like to Discuss with Our Life Fans

Do you really not see Derek like at all after Step 2? Like ever? Is the kid honestly that busy?

Does Baxter really not try to put the moves on you during Step 3 if you're dating? I know GB didn't want to do a mature game, but do you think as a character that he wouldn't, like he'd really just be like "ok lol bye" at the mountain resort after That Scene?

What's with that bird shirt Cove has, the fancy one that only buttons up halfway? Is that fashion? Am I behind the times? Would your MC make fun of him for it? Because to me it is a silly shirt.

Do you think that Baxter dyes his hair himself or goes to a salon? Can you imagine him making a little appointment to get his black and white hair for the first time and the stylist is like "......"

Not to rag on Baxter (I love him so much) but what's with that story he tells you in Step 3 about ordering a shirt online? Like he tells you about taking his own measurements and hoping it would fit and not being able to return it, and no MC I've ever made (and I have made so many) has ever give one single care. Do you think that's a Baxter thing, him just telling these long boring stories and you're just like "ok honey thank you for the info"?

#olba #baxter ward #cove holden #olba cove #our life beginnings and always #derek suarez #our life #olba mc #olba derek #olba baxter

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Any chance you’re still writing for cowboy!jason?

There was no creature on earth more dangerous than a woman who didn't need a man, Jason reflected.

Sweat poured down your face and plastered your shirt to your back in the heat. He'd watched you work all day. Endless chores and working the forge. Cooking and cleaning... Jason had done his fair share of chores for meals and a spot in the hay loft but- god.

He was willing to bet no man in town could keep up with you.

"It'd be a nice day for a swim," Jason observed, folding his arms and smiling a little.

"No time for that," you snort, mopping your face with a rag and stretching your shoulders.

"Ever been to New Orleans?" he mused. He love to see you somewhere else. In some opulent salon, dressed in red velvet. Exposure to hard work and the elements couldn't make you less fine. Or less tempting.

Usually he liked his women soft. With whispery voices and purring little laughs. Things you didn't have. But-

"I haven't been east of the mountains," you laugh. "Haven't left town since Daddy died-"

Jason tutted, "Just you and the girls. Ever wanted to go?"

"Before mama got sick and Colt run off I was going to be a teacher," you tell him. "Was gonna stay with a family in the valley-" You break off and shake your head. Like a horse shooing flies.

And Jason blinked. He figured you had some boy you wanted to run off with. Or dreams of going to California. Somewhere warm. Or back east. Somewhere the sky wasn't so wide and you could see more than a church and a general store every week.

#Jason Todd #Jason Todd x reader #cowboy!jason #ask answered #minors dni

[candiedspit]

THE HUNDRED POUND COWBOY

I feel like a king when I’m eating chicken wings. Hot sauce dribbling off my chin, sucking the meat off the splintered bones. I was sitting on the floor, my knee to my chest as the television played another episode of my favorite cartoon–Gelatins. Meredith stood by the window with her arms crossed, watching a pair of dogs scrimmage. Meredith let out a giggle and took a puff of her cigarette. I liked Meredith. I liked the way she laughed, the things she laughed at. I liked her freckles. I liked to do coke off her stomach. As I licked my fingers, she put out her cigarette and walked towards the kitchen. 

You got mail, she called out. 

Bullshit, I said. I don’t ever have anything. 

Oh really? She asked, throwing an envelope at me, glass of water in hand.

I wiped my hands on a nearby rag and read the front. It was from my sister June; that old ragtime. I hadn’t seen her in six months. I opened the letter with my thumbnail and stood up to read it aloud. That felt like the proper thing to do, stand up and read it aloud. 

Hey, it said. How are you? It’s strange. Sometimes, I like to picture you in a nail salon. A thousand televisions playing the same channel. Lights buzzing like a crowd. The scent of alcohol. Sometimes, I don’t imagine you at all. Let’s not talk about last time. Here’s the deal–come to Thanksgiving at my house this year. I want you there. It’ll be small. Just mom, dad, Randall and me. We’ll eat and drink and talk. Come. It’ll be nice to see you again. I love you. Hope you’re doing alright. See you soon. 

June

So she wants you to go, Meredith said. You gonna go?

I don’t know, I said. Things got weird last time I saw her. And I haven’t seen my parents in a year. 

You called your mom crying a few weeks ago. Bawling like the world had closed on your little finger. 

That’s because I couldn’t see her, I said. I probably won’t go. 

You should, she said. 

Yeah, but I probably won’t. 

I got up to wash my hands. In the bathroom mirror, I realized I’d spilled hot sauce all over my shirt. 

Goddamn it, why wouldn’t you tell me? I asked, then faced the mirror again. 

Why don’t people tell me these things?

----

That night, Meredith went back home on the train She lived in a small basement apartment with her cousins in Queens. When it stormed, they spent the night with a neighbor. It made me sad to think about so I didn’t. 

I went out on a walk, dressed in my long, trench coat and a pair of popsicle orange panties underneath. I lit a cigarette and sat on the stairs of the library a few blocks from my apartment, watching the people, their shadows. Why would June want to see me? It didn’t made sense enough that she loved me. I loved her but I wouldn’t want to see her. 

And Meredith was right. A few weeks ago, I’d gotten kicked out of a club for fighting a woman over possibly drugging my friend’s drink. When she went to the bathroom she was fine. But a few minutes later and she was slumped over like a bag of rice, incoherent. And the woman was the closest target, I’d seen her walk in like she invented paradise. As if she’d ever even seen paradise. I dropped my friend off at her house and went back home where Meredith was waiting, painting her nails in my living room with a wig on. The radio playing oldies. 

I rushed past her and stripped naked and curled into my bed and called my mother. My heart bleated. I felt awful. Just awful. The thing is, I didn’t expect her to answer. It was late, I was banished. But then there she was with her sweet voice spilling out of the phone like syrup. 

Hello? And that was all I needed. I heaved and cried and begged her to forgive me, love me, want me. And before she could answer, I hung up. When she tried calling again, Meredith told her I was asleep. I was no such thing.

That’s the thing, I repeated to myself as I sat there in the rain and the dark and the night. I was no such thing, I was no such thing.

I liked the way my voice sounded in the rain. I liked my thin wrist and broken hands and heavy clothes. I liked the way my legs moved. I liked the way I lived. 

Thanksgiving was a week away. June had asked. 

That was the thing.

----

The next morning, I went down to the deli to get cigarettes and a coffee and maybe some candy. Ramone was behind the counter, a seventeen year old kid who always gives me an extra straw even when I walk in there drunk as a horse, laughing at the walls. 

Ramone, how are you? I asked.

Doing good, he said. Palls? 

Yeah, I said. What are you doing for the holidays?

His family owned the deli. His father sat in the back reading porno magazines and drinking milk.

Probably gonna see my family, he said. My cousins and all that. Coffee?

Yeah, I said. That’s nice. You deserve a day off.

Fuck yeah I do, he said. What about you? Twirlers?

Got anything sour? Probably gonna stay at home with the missus.

These? He asked, pulling out a bag of sour gummy bears. What’s the missus gonna do for the holidays?

Yeah, those are good I said. She’s gonna stay with me. Her family’s all dead.

Tell her I said sorry, he said. Eight dollars.

I will, I said. I will. Thanks, Ramone.

Meredith’s family wasn’t dead. In fact, I had a suspicion her bloodline would never end. All her sisters—all seven of them—have had maybe twenty kids in total. Meredith’s the only one who hasn’t settled down. And she sure as hell isn’t bringing me around, heathen galore. 

Meredith is scared she’s getting old. She’s a year older than me but sometimes, she comes home crying because none of the store clerks call her sweetie anymore. And none of the guys who whistle at her in the street can even keep it up. And her clothes feel funny. And isn’t she hideous? And shouldn’t I leave her? And I have to calm her down like a frightened dog. I hold her hair down and fuck her and make her pancakes and fuck her again and sing little songs to her. Meredith, my war torn country. 

I went home and slept for a while and took a pill and cleaned the apartment and ate some candy and watched television, reruns of an old sitcom. I waited for Meredith to come home. Meredith worked on Fifth Avenue. Eight hours in heels. Answering the world’s dumbest questions. Pushing handbags. I always tell her she’s too smart to be selling shitheads designer bags. But it’s a steady income and if there’s one thing Meredith needs it’s a steady income. 

I haven’t worked in a couple of months. I’m like that. My resume reads like an epic. This year I’ve worked as a janitor (took one nap too many in the bleachers, the sun crawling across my face) a bookseller (told everyone their taste was shit) a stocker at the grocery store (labeled everything a dollar) a waiter (spilled wine on seven different people in the same night). 

Truth be told, I wasn’t made to work. I was made to lay in bed and take a pill and watch the world. I was made to kiss and beg and sleep.

When Meredith came home, she had some goodies for me. I grinned into her mouth and we shared a pill. And then another. And then one more. When she left for work in the morning, I took a handful of pills. I swore they tasted like lemon drops. 

I spent the next three days awake. 

I put on my wife beater and trench coat and boots and stomped on everyone’s grounds. I went to a string of bars, whatever was open at whatever time it was. I put my mouth on the world’s mouth. I saw Christ in a plastic bag. I stole a lipstick from the pharmacy and gave the lipstick to a homeless woman. I went to a chapel in the middle of the afternoon and listened in on other people’s prayers, felt buzzed by the words leaving them. I went to the MoMa and spoke outloud. What is a masterpiece? I got a tattoo of a burning house on my wrist. I rented a bike and biked back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge until it got dark, until the sun froze over into the moon. I popped balloons and swam in a fountain and learned how to play chess. I stayed still for an entire minute. I felt every brush of wind, heard every siren at once. I was the cowboy declaring the west his. I was the queen demanding a beheading. I was the beheaded, living after death. I was the ghost finding Heaven quite boring. 

I was God in his undies. 

It’s a miracle, I said when I returned home to find Meredith in front of the air conditioning, sucking on a lollipop and reading a newspaper. 

It’s a miracle I wasn’t arrested.

I don’t believe in miracles, Meredith said.

And she was right. I slept for nineteen hours and awoke in a cold sweat, the ceiling full of snakes. I couldn’t move. Even turning over felt like a marathon. 

 Meredith? I called out. 

But there was nothing. Just the television and the headlines. I stayed in bed for a couple days, weeping and talking myself out of it and weeping again. I called Meredith but she didn’t pick up. I hated her for that. 

When I finally awoke feeling more aligned, less twitch and more get out of bed, I sat on the edge of my bed eating toast. Thanksgiving was in two days. I decided to go. 

I felt that grateful. 

----

On the day before Thanksgiving, I took the bus up to Albany and took a cab to June’s house. I asked the driver to stop so I could smoke. I considered asking him if he could turn around. But I was out of cash. But maybe he’d do it regardless. Yeah, maybe.

Kid, let’s go! He called from behind the wheel.

I stuck with it. 

And as we approached, I could feel my heart drumming. Even more as we sat in her driveway. I paid the driver and got out. June worked as an administrative assistant at a company her boyfriend owned. Thus, two story house in the middle of Albany. I lit another cigarette and sat on her porch. As kids, June used to say I was the morning and she was night. For some reason, she felt so inadequate in comparison, so lame. Perhaps this was the nature of big sisters, especially ones who never got piano lessons or an allowance. Halfway through this thought, I heard the front door open behind me. 

Grace? She asked. Oh my god, Grace. 

I turned around. June was three years older than me. But she looked about ten. All fit in a white skirt and red sweater and floral earrings. I stood up and she hugged me as tight as a sheet. 

Come in, she said. Come in. 

Can I finish this first? I asked. 

Of course, she said. 

I didn’t like the way she stood over me as I smoked. I wondered if she thought I might leave. I wondered if I should have. June didn’t have any children yet. But she had a dog and a boyfriend who worked long hours. And she had a large backyard and a porch swing and windows the size of murals. She kept her eyes on me as I touched through everything. Dictionaries in three different languages. Tulips in glass. A vintage clock stuck at midnight. 

That night, it was only June and I. Her boyfriend was on a business trip. We drank rose and ordered pizza and she read me a chapter from one of her favorite books. And we fell asleep in her bed. I dreamt of crossword puzzles. I solved for genie. 

----

In the morning, June had already made up her side of the bed. I couldn’t hear anything. I got up, dressed in a wife beater and a pair of shorts June let me borrow and stood by the stairs. There were small murmurs. I got halfway down the stairs before realizing the scene. In the living room were my parents and my older brother Randall and June. All sat in a circle. I froze as they stared up at me. 

Hi baby, my mother said. 

I ran upstairs and shut the door behind me. I locked the door and when June knocked, I didn’t say a thing. I waited until I could hear go downstairs before calling Meredith. 

Meredith, I whispered. Meredith, it was all a fucking scam. 

What do you mean?

I mean, my family is pulling a goddamn fucking intervention for me. They’re downstairs in a circle. What do I do?

What? Why would they do that?

I could hear the sound of her snorting a line. 

----

Last time I saw June was back towards the end of May when she and her boyfriend came to the city to visit some of his old college friends. She wanted to see where I lived. It was raining, a hard spring rain. And we ran upstairs, our laughter colliding. It was good for a while. We made sandwiches with whatever was left in the fridge and drank beer and watched a couple of movies. But as I was smoking a cigarette, she turned towards me. 

Why do you do this? She asked. 

What do you mean?

We could help you, she said. We could get you clean. And I’d help you find work. And it could be nice. But this, this isn’t a way to live. 

Clean? I asked. 

Oh, come on. 

What? I’ve been “clean” since you’ve gotten here, I said. 

Yeah, what? Four hours? What were you doing in the bathroom?

I was taking a shit, I said. 

Yeah, for five minutes?

So I take sonic shits, so what? I’ve never asked–

I found this in your kitchen, she said, holding up a baggie. Three little pills inside. 

That doesn’t mean anything, I said. 

No?

No, come on. Who doesn’t take pills? I wanna relax. So, every now and then. 

Then why’s your nose bleeding?

Fuck you, I said, wiping my nose with my hand. And I sent her away into the rain. And yelled at her from the window as she walked to find a phone. 

Fuck you and your happy little life! Fuck you and your dog! Fuck you and your lawn! Fuck you, I hope you find what you’re looking for!

----

I’d taken a couple of pills when I woke up. But for extra measure, I took two more. And waited for June to slither in with her spare key.

Grace? She asked, kneeling down to where I was on the floor. 

I don’t want to do this, I whispered It’s really not so bad. It’s not what you think.

Grace, let’s go.

She held my hand and walked me downstairs as though I were crippled or old. But I was twenty five and nothing could hurt me.

----

Tell us what it’s like, my mother said. I was sitting between her legs as she pet my head, the pills kicking in like heat in my skin. I’d shaved my head a couple of months back. I wondered if that surprised her. And if it didn’t, what that said about me. 

Before we go, you should have a chance to speak. And Grace, we’re only doing this because we love you.

I sighed. 

We’re talking about drugs right? I asked. Not the occasional black out or night on the town. But drugs. The kind you would die for? The best goddamn thing?

Yes, she said.

Then, it feels like God is blessing you. Again and again, you’re blessed. And protected. And worshipped. It feels like you can’t live for another second in this world. But to be in the other world where the walls breathe and you’re on the run, forever on the run. It feels like heat in your skin. Not on but inside. It feels like being reigned king; a fat, slovely king with nothing to do but eat meat and pick who to kill. It feels like the only thing. It feels like hitting a homerun during the last inning, the sun falling into your eyes and the crowd roaring for you. It feels like being crushed during sex. It feels like God wants you to live. It feels like being able to live. 

It feels like that. And you’re asking me to give it up?

There was a silence. 

All we want is for you to be safe, my father said. And well. And there is no between. You can’t be on drugs and be well at the same time. It’s not possible.

But who says I have to be well? I asked, my words slurred. I’m no good at anything. I’m good at being high. And that’s it.

We do. We say that. Because we love you. And we want you around, in our lives. And you’re so young.

I’m not gonna live a long time, I said. Even if I got clean, I don’t have the stamina. I don’t.

Grace, all we ask is that you give it a try.

I did, I said. For twenty two years, I tried. I went to college. I did everything everyone said I had to do. I read books. I did well in class. I got internships. I had friends and time. I was doing well. And I felt nothing. 

Life isn’t one thing, my mom said. I could barely feel her fingers on my head. 

Life is as devoid as it is fruitful, she continued. But all of that is alright, it is doable. By getting clean, you’re choosing the only option that matters. 

----

After six hours of this, I agreed to go ahead with getting treatment. But not before taking the rest of my stash and falling asleep in my mother’s lap. And by that time the following year, I learned what they had meant. 

Because I was alive and Meredith wasn’t. 

#my poetry #even tho this is fiction that's a general tag #let me know what u think???

[olderthannetfic]

What i am very much enjoying about this fanfiction specific intellectual salon you've accidentally got going is that it actually feels quite unifying to just talk about fanfic and the experience of writing and consuming it without talking about ships really all that much. Maybe it's just me but it feels much more like a legit hobby when i read everyone's thoughts on it here. (As opposed to just this weird thing that i am obsessed with that everyone outside of the subculture rags on).

--

[to-the-stars8]

Affairs and Letters

Jason Todd x Reader Regency AU! AO3 Chapters

Part IX

Mr. Todd was suddenly aware of one fatal flaw of his when kissing you, and that was he would move heaven and Earth all for you. A weakness he could well surrender to. 

“Mr. Todd,” You had gasped between kisses. He had no thought upon hearing his name pass your lips. It made him feel like a well-kept secret that he wanted you, and only you, to know. When you had turned your head from his kiss, Mr. Todd felt terrified that he had committed some unforgivable offense. No greater monster could scare him than the thought of you thinking so ill of him. 

“Forgive me, forgive me,” Mr. Todd said quickly. 

You shook your head. “Hush, let me listen.”

Confused, he inquired what you meant, but you ignored him. For a moment, he thought that you were afraid that someone might be listening in on the two of you, and he attempted to assure you that no one was. You refused to hear his words, shaking your head as you slipped from his grasp. He was quick to follow close behind you, smelling your perfume as he did, saying again that he meant no offense if one was caused. 

Alas, you refused to hear him, ignoring anything he had to say as you attempted to find some way out of his sight. You yearned for him, and you had realized it quickly, but duty had to come before love. Good gracious, you thought momentarily at the realization of how severely you had been carried away, what would Sir Kent think—Worse, what would Lady Kent think? Lady Kent had a mouth the size of the entire county and was too loud, yet you held no opinion of her. 

Suddenly your name was called again and it was loud—Urgently loud. You and Mr. Todd paused, turning to the salon right down the hall. Your legs moved faster than his, practically running toward a young man’s voice calling your name. 

“What is it,” You cried upon entering, seeing Jon on the floor surrounded by his brother and two of the other Wayne children, Damian and Timothy. “Jon!”

Connor was quick to explain what had happened. The four of them had been playing cards when Jon started to complain of a sudden chill. Eventually, the boy had been so out of sorts that, when it came to his turn, he simply fell over. You pressed your hand upon Jon’s forehead and noted that it was hot to the touch. 

“Connor, go retrieve your mother and father,” You ordered. “Tell them that Jon has come down with a fever. Go, now!” 

The young man flew from the room in a hurry, exclaiming that he would be back quickly. Mr. Todd knelt by your side, already looping his arms around Jon’s small frame. Before you could react, he assured you that all would be well. 

“Tim, Damian, go tell Mr. Pennyworth that he should send for the apothecary,” said he. “Come, Miss, we will take him to his room. The poor lad must have been fighting this fever for days.” 

You followed Mr. Todd, reaching around him to move sweaty parts of black hair from Jon’s face. There was no lie, your heart was in tatters at the sight of the poor boy suffering so much. Perhaps, if you were there sooner, you would have been more attentive to Jon’s sudden condition. 

When Mr. Todd set Jon down on his bed, you were quick to get him out of his outerwear so he would not overheat due to the fever. Mr. Todd left the room, and you attributed his sudden absence to being done with the issue entirely. It nearly had you reeling on the feeling of ever having taken his affections so open-heartedly until he returned with a bowl of water and a washcloth. 

“Here,” He said, wringing out the water into the bowl. “It is cool, dab it on his forehead and neck.”

You took the rag, dabbing it over Jon’s forehead, Mr. Todd squeezed your shoulder in assurance. He whispered that all would be well again, and your heart fluttered. You shook off his touch, turning to focus on your charge.

As soon as the coolness was upon him, Jon’s eyes fluttered open. Not once could you recount a time when you had been so happy to see blue eyes before that very moment. The boy smiled up at you, eyes twinkling with familiarity. 

“I feel ill,” He said weakly. 

You could not help but laugh. “Why did you not speak of your condition sooner?”

“I—I wanted to see my friend. Father would not let us leave home if I was sick,” Jon's smile turned into a pout. 

Before you could speak Lady Kent burst into the room so distraught that upon seeing her son flushed with sickness set upon knowing every detail of what had happened. You tried your best to relay the information Connor had given you and stated that Jon gave no hint of even being the slightest bit sick. Her disposition turned to sorrow quickly upon seeing the tears in her son's eyes. 

“Why—Why are you crying, my love,” Lady Kent asked. 

Jon sniffled, “I do not want you to be cross with me, Mother.”

His mother pressed a kiss upon his head, “I am not, my love. I am worried for your health since someone took a reprieve from her duties so to heart.”

As you stared at the scene before you you could not have felt a greater sense of disappointment. Jon’s being sick was not something you were keen on missing, and you were angry at yourself as well as Mr. Todd. Perhaps if he wasn’t so intent on this infatuation with you, then then this would not have happened. Still, you were not entirely blameless. Somehow, even being so upset with Jason, he managed to keep in your good graces. You wished to know if it was the yearning to love or some sort of subconscious rebelling that had you holding him close.

At the knock at the door, the apothecary stepped in and relief seem to flush through the room. Mr. Todd looked at you, eyes holding a longing that told you he yearned to hold you, but you could not return it in fear of someone noticing, no matter how much you wished for him to come to you. Mr. Wayne ushered everyone out, stating that the apothecary needed privacy as well as the family. 

When you stepped out into the hall, now all too aware of how distant you truly were from the Kents, you searched for some comfort. Mr. Wayne had told you to rest, that after such stress all your nerves must need some compassion, so you took his advice. 

Upon entering your room, you left the door open so Mr. Todd, who you knew was well behind you, leaned against the door frame when he found you. 

“How are you feeling,” said he, not daring to take a step inside your room. 

You were hesitant to answer, “I do not know, Mr. Todd.”

“How odd,” He tried to jest. “If not you, then who better to ask, hm?”

There was an attempt to laugh, but it died before it could leave your lips. You looked up at Mr. Todd in all his beauty. It was difficult to not notice it, and even more so when you held such a partiality toward him. 

“Mr. Todd—Jason, I…I feel as though I am to blame for Jon’s condition,” You confessed. “If I had been more attentive…” You meant to say distracted but found you could not shame Mr. Todd. 

Jason scoffed, “The boy had admitted himself that he hid his illness so he could play with my brother. It was not your fault, so do not blame yourself for it.”

“That is very difficult, Mr. Todd,” You said, trying to smile. “The Kents treat me very well, I assure you, but Jon’s whole being has been mine to keep since the boy could walk. I am responsible for him in every way.”

“He is  fortunate to have someone who loves him so, but it is a pity it has to be you.”

You shook your head, smiling down at your hands. “That has been my job for so long, what else am I to do, sir?”

The answer seemed to come so easy to him, “That is up to you, I believe.”

#regency au #regency jason todd #regency romance #regency drama #jane austen #jason todd x reader #jason todd #romance #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #batfamily #bruce wayne #clark kent #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd and bruce wayne #jon kent #jonathan kent #lois lane #clois #kal el #lois and clark #damian wayne #tim drake #damian al ghul #batfam #dick grayson

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

[good--merits-accumulated]

More Dead Poets headcanons: historical (Belle Époque) edition

Is this just fully self-indulgence now? Yes. (Insert Starship Troopers gif: "I'M DOING MY PART!")

- Todd is the second son of a couturier who prefers writing fairytales about the dresses instead of doing business with them. He often slips away to go play in string quarters in little riverside bistros and sit in on writers' salons. Strictly speaking he doesn't need to sneak as nobody outside his family really knows who he is, but he does it anyway

- Neil is the contrastingly very high-profile son of a government minister who has seen Todd looking uncomfortable at various balls and recognises him one evening playing violin in the corner of a dingy little cafe, because HE'S also been sneaking out

- Charlie is a dilettante and hangs about with artists (to the dismay of his parents) and keeps the gossip rags well stocked. Neil became friends with him at fourteen out of spite for his parents then discovered that they got on extremely well and that was, as they say, that

- Meeks is a student at the newly-formed University of Paris, unfortunately dating these headcanons exactly to 1896. He spends his time working feverishly on investigating radio waves + using them in communication, a discovery he is unfortunately eventually beaten to by Guglielmo Marconi (yeah, the real guy). Meeks keeps up a significant correspondence both with scientific luminaries (on a first name basis with Max Planck somehow???) and the large amount of siblings he's left behind in a village near Drôme, spending all his allowance on ink and foolscap. (Yes, he speaks fluent Provençal!) Pitts is an American classmate (courtesy of his father working in the embassy), and does mysterious things with aniline dyes after classes in the shed at the bottom of his garden. They prudently don't ask

- Chris is one of Todd's father's clients who befriends him after he very succinctly tells her exactly what's wrong with the fabric and colour and silhouette of the dress her fiance ordered for her. Said fiance is Knox, who Chris is marrying not particularly out of anything more than a very lukewarm platonic affection, but more out of a desire to get out, now, and to decide on something, Now. Knox knows this but he's still convinced it will work out (?????). Ginny is Chris' best friend very explicitly disapproving about it the whole time, and half in love with her as well

- Cameron meanwhile is a pencil-pusher at the American embassy (he's French, though, not American) and befriends Knox and then Charlie and then everyone else through strange twists of fate. Secretly reads a lot of dime novels on the sly. Insists he doesn't

- For at least one glorious summer they all get out and go free. Meeks takes them all down to see his family and Neil goes careening down country back lanes on his (new, very handsome) bicycle, with Todd sitting precariously on the handlebars and laughing the whole way. Knox gets a barge ("Where from?" "Well, I came across it tethered, abandoned, just... over there." "Over THERE?" "Yes. What's the problem?" [DISTANT, EXTREMELY HEATED SHOUTING] "Ah, Christ.") and they all end up in the river one way or another. When they get back to Paris the quiet of the countryside has sharpened everything to even harsher brilliance and Charlie pulls them all to visit his artist acquaintances and they go to the bars out of the way where men can be seen with men and the air is thick with smoke enough that nobody can really see each other's faces, and Neil pulls Todd into a clumsy waltz and thinks, this is how it should always have been from the moment that I was born.

#and then they remain frozen in that moment because i don't want to think about what happens next #i very much like the atmosphere of dps headcanons we've built up tonight btw. this is great. fan culture and engagement ftw #dead poets society #anderperry #dead poets society headcanons

[tropes-and-tales]

Take You Home

December 3:  Shopping/Snow - Undercover (Horacio Carrillo x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts by the lovely @youvebeenlivingfictional​, found here)

CW:  Convoluted plot; barely any snow (sorry); slightly angsty; talk of past sexy-times; nothing explicit but 18+ anyway to be safe, I dunno, I’m not the MPAA.

Word Count:  1670

AN:  There is a sequel, found here!

AN2:  Requested by anon!

It was his idea, so he can’t complain about it now:  send two DEA agents undercover to help route out a key distributor linking Escobar to the United States.  Cut off the demand, Carrillo thinks, and disrupt the system a bit.

It was his idea, so he has to bite his tongue.  One of the DEA agents, a man named Perez, is based out of Miami, unknown to him but vouched for by Murphy.  Solid, used to UC work.  The second agent, though?

Well, the world of the narcos turns the same as any other rich and powerful sphere, so Perez is paired up with you.  You’re young and you can pass for the trophy girlfriend of an ambitious and ruthless dealer who wants to set up a route into the eastern seaboard of the United States.  Besides, you’ve been stationed in Colombia for a year now, and you can help while you play out the fantasy of being vapid eye-candy.

It was Colonel Carrillo’s idea, this UC ploy, so he has to swallow down the sick fear that bubbles in his guy when you leave to meet up with Perez.  

Carrillo can’t even talk to Javi or Steve about it.  His thing with you—undefined, casual—is also unacknowledged, a secret thing.  When you wave goodbye to them and leave without a backwards glance, Carrillo has to keep his expression stony to keep up the ploy.

Waiting for you and Perez to make contact and ingratiate yourselves with one of Escobar’s lieutenant…it’s the longest three months of Carrillo’s life.

-----

The next time he sees you, he almost doesn’t recognize you.  

Three months with no contact beyond the handful of words from your handler, and Carrillo is practically climbing the walls with worry.  But when he finally catches sight of you through the window of the surveillance outpost, he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s you polished to a high shine:  designer dress hugging your curves, designer shoes adding height to you and pushing your ass into a perfect heart shape.  Hair and makeup perfectly done as you climb out of the hired car and gather up an armful of glossy shopping bags from the designer boutiques of Buenos Aires.

Carrillo knows he should like you like this.  Isn’t this the fantasy, a beautiful woman whose only job is to look perfect, an ornament to adorn the arm of her rich and powerful man?

But he doesn’t like it.  There’s something brittle about your beauty like this, something inelastic and ugly under the slick veneer.  

Maybe it’s because he’s seen you as the opposite:  grimy and sweaty from running across Medellín with your gun drawn.

Maybe it’s because he’s had you as the opposite:  not salon-perfect hair but your ponytail gripped in his fist, damp with sweat.  No manicured nails but your ragged, gnawed down nails biting into the meat of his shoulders.  No expensive perfume but just the scent of you, smoky and bitter gunpowder, the fruity gum you chew, the clean smell of your soap.

It’s only a glimpse of you now.  You carry your shopping bags into the rented penthouse where you and Perez are staying, and then you are out of sight.

-----

The bust is planned:  a week later in the Chilean Andes at a ski resort that is playing at being a sort of South American Aspen.  It’s full of expats and LATAM people alike, the same because they have too much money to know what to do with.  For some, like who you and Perez are playing at being, it’s ill-gotten money.  Blood money.

Carrillo greases the skids with the Chilean government, works with their local force to help secure the villa where you and Perez are staying.  Where Escobar’s lieutenant, the one they call El Toro, is meeting you to finalize plans for a new distribution network.

-----

He knows the DEA gives out awards for bravery, for excellence in the field, but Carrillo thinks they should hand one out for acting—because you fucking nail your role in the third act.

When they bust into the villa, you shriek.  You clasp your hands over your ears at the yelling, at the sudden noise.  You reach for Perez (a gesture that makes Carrillo’s jealousy flare up, questioning if you’ve grown too close to your UC partner in these months), and when Murphy points his gun at you, you start to cry.

Carrillo’s never seen you cry before.  He’s seen you teared up and close to it—bleary-eyed from exhaustion, tears threatening after a civilian gets caught up in the war with the narcos.  But never full-on crying, and it makes his protective hackles go up.  He fights the urge to go to you.  He has to keep up the façade.

“I don’t understand!” you cry at the Spanish flying around you.  “What’s happening?”

“You’re under arrest, that’s what’s happening,” Javi helpfully tells you in English, and the fresh torrent of wails is so pitch perfect, so natural that you could win the Oscar if you took your talents to Hollywood.

-----

It’s a long night:  they lead the men away first, including Perez.  You make a final swan song by calling out to your pretend-boyfriend, telling him you love him.  The Chileans take the low level thugs to for their own processing—it was the deal Carrillo cut with them, a boost to their own fight against the narcos, a bit of good publicity to their ongoing success.

El Toro is put on a plane back to Colombia.  Perez is put on a plane back to Colombia too, in theory, though he’s really on his way to States for his debriefing and his return to his normal life.

Javi cuffs you to keep of the charade as the men are filed out of the room, and you slump against the couch as you watch them.  Your makeup is ruined from your histrionics—sooty black mascara runs down your cheeks, and your coral-colored lipstick is smeared at one corner of your lips.  Still, Carrillo can barely get enough of the sight of you.  He catches you out of his peripherals, tries not to openly stare and only half-succeeds.

It’s Javi that helps you up off the couch.  Still cuffed, still playing along in case anyone is lingering outside and catches a glimpse of the would-be narcos’s girlfriend, he hoists you up by gripping your upper arm.  He starts to frog-march you out of the villa, but Carrillo steps in finally.  Unable to let another moment pass without touching you, he gives Javi a terse nod and takes your other arm in his.  He leads you out of the room and to the waiting Jeep.

There’s a handful of voyeurs, workers and guests alike standing in the parameter.  Watching.  Some may be taking notes.  So Carrillo shoves you forward lightly, mutters sorry from behind his clenched teeth as you stumble in your heels in the crust of snow and cry out—which pulls some jeers and taunts from the assembled crowd, so at least it’s a good show.

-----

He gets you into the backseat and gets down the side of the mountain.  Neither of you talk beyond his own low-voiced murmur, asking if you’re okay, and you whispering back that yeah, you are fine.

There’s chatter on the radio, and he keeps his ears tuned into the talk as everyone is sorted out to where they belong:  Javi and Steve on the plane with El Toro, Perez on his way back home.  And you with Carrillo.

He keeps his eyes on the road only half of the time.  When he’s on a straightaway, he glances at you in the rearview mirror.  You have your head back against the seat, eyes shut.  You look exhausted, but he knows you aren’t sleeping.  Your face still holds its usual tension that only disappears when you’re asleep.

Once off the mountain, he pulls off onto the side of the road.  He scans the area—there’s no one around.  The handful of buildings at the base of the mountain are dark, quiet.  He climbs out of the driver’s seat and opens your door.

Your eyes are open now, and you fix him with an unreadable expression.  He shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over your shoulders, and when you lean forward to let him, you press your forehead against his chest for the briefest of seconds.

He reaches out and cups your face between his hands.  It’s more tender than any touch he’s ever given you before; your coupling always had a rough, fervent edge to it.  Pulled hair, scratches, bruises the size of his fingertips mottling your hips and waist.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and he peers into your eyes to see if you lie to him.  See if you pull on your tough-girl act and joke away any pain or fear or discomfort.

Three months away from everything familiar.  Three months on edge, waiting to be discovered.  Waiting for a bullet to end your life, but you know the narcos all too well—it’s never just a bullet.

“I’m tired,” you whisper back to him and he can see the truth in your words.  And he can see the larger truth too:  the tears that fill your eyes, how you try to blink them away before they fall in earnest.

“I’ve got you,” he replies, and he does.  He pulls you into an awkward hug, gently presses your face back against him.  He can feel your hitching breaths, how you’re trying to hide your crying, but he rubs your back. Tells you it’s fine, to let it out.  Tells you that you’re safe again.

“Let me take you home,” he says, and that’s what makes you finally break.  You shudder against him and start to sob, and he only holds you on the side of a dark road in the Andes and promises that you’re finally safe with him.

#colonel Carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022