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vulgar-display-of-escapism · 2 years

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TGFR Chibs Telford x Reader Smut

Title: Thanks Gods for Rum

Pairing: Chibs Telford x Reader

Summary: After an SOA party, Reader wakes up in an unfamiliar place.

Warning: Pure, shameless smut. Minors stay the fudge out.

Author's note:

Much like the reader, I have no clue what happened. This thing just willed itself into existence all on its own during my study breaks today. It’s messy and unedited, but I’ve got a feeling that if I start messing with it, it’s gonna end up in the pile with the rest of kinky ABCs.

Word count: 1'938

You woke up in a strange bed, with a hungover you didn’t remember earning. But at least the man lying next to you was familiar. “Morning, lass.” He sounded infuriatingly sexy with his voice raspy from sleep as he stretched his naked body shamelessly.

Trying to remember what the hell happened last night, you let your eyes wander. Chibs clearly didn’t mind, with everything from his naked chest to his half-hard cock on full display. Ok, so not that familiar. Even though you’ve had a crush on the sexy, albeit a wee bit grumpy, VP for close to a year now, you’ve never acted on it. Until last night apparently. Now if only you could remember what exactly happened… He stroked your hand with his fingers and brought it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on each knuckle. He was looking at you with a strange sense of serenity, you’ve never seen in his eyes before. His hair was adorably disheveled, his salt and pepper goatee messy and sticky; and when you looked down his body, you noticed tiny scratch marks on his shoulders and chest. “Are ye with me or is yer hungover worse than it looks?” he finally murmured. “Morning,” you managed, your throat dry and not just because of whatever alcohol you had consumed. “Ow, dinnae tell me ye don’t remember me now.” Despite the words he was still fully relaxed, with his hands folded behind his head and apparently not a single thought of covering himself up. Not that you minded, his confidence was clearly well earned. “Water?” “Aye, wher’s my manners?” He turned to his side and pulled a bottle from the nightstand. Twisting the cap off, he handed the bottle to you. As you drank, you narrowed your eyes at him slightly. As if studying his naked body would offer you the missing pieces of the drunken mosaic that was your last night. And then it did. Well, kind of. The image that played in your mind had you choking on water and spitting some on Chibs’ chest. As you were coughing and trying to get you breath back, he simply took the bottle from you and placed it on the nigtstand. Then he flicked droplets off his chest with a lazy flick of his long fingers. Finally able to speak, you asked without looking up at him, “Did I really make out with Tig?” No way, no sir, you were not going to look at Chibs right now.

“Aye, ye sure did. And for a moment it was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” More images flooded your brain. You sitting at the edge of the pool table, your body pressed against Tig’s, your tongues dancing together… Oh Gods, dancing. Another image, this one of you and Tig doing some kind of drunk and deeply misguided attempt at dancing tango as the guys laughed and whooped around you and Pantera boomed from the speakers. “ Walk?” “ Aye, the two of you got pretty ambitious about that. And it could’ve been worse. Jax got dared to sing Genie in the bottle.” “By whom?” “You and Juice.” “ Oh God, I’m almost afraid to ask. What did I do later?”

When Chibs remained silent for longer than it was polite under the circumstances, you risked a glance. “ You straddled my lap and asked for my cock. Very politely”

The groan that escaped your lips was something straight out of Jurassic Park territory. Who was this drunk you?

“I couldn’t believe my ears either,” Chibs continued, “If I had known you wanted me, I would’ve been attendin’ to yer every whim and desire for months now.”

“Oh, you would, huh?” “Last night, I did. More than once. After ye..”

That part was coming back to you now, in bits and pieces but in very vivid ones. The two of you coming back here, you styepping out of your tiny, black dress, Chibs kissing you with the kind of passionate, possessive energy that made your knees weak. The attention have gave your nipples, sucking, rolling and pulling, the way his hands caressed your ass before delivering a handful of playful smacks. How his hand curled around your throat when he pulled you in for another wet kiss, sucking on your tongue. In the next memory you were already on your knees, looking up at him as he was shrugging his shirt off and giving you that devilish trademark smirk of his. You remembered how your hands shook unbuckling his belt, his warm hand cradling the back of your head, the way his scent made your mouth water when you pulled his grey boxer briefs down exposing his hard cock. How big and thick he looked and how you had just enough presence of mind left to start worrying about the logistics. You must’ve started too long because with a heavy sigh he tugged your hair gently and said, “Darlin, if ye ain’t sure about this, then get up.” But you were flying high on liquid courage and curiosity, so you stayed right were you were.

Back in the present, Chibs rolled onto his stomach and popped himself up on his elbow. His free hand began tracing lazy circles over your abdomen and you felt his breath on your nipples. “Tha’ thing I said, about you tonguin’ Tiggy being hot? When we got here, you did somethin’ hotter tha’ had me change my mind.” Oh you were remembering it all now. Chibs chuckled, his lips a scant inch away from your nipple, “Mhmm, judging from the way yer blushin, ye remember tha.” He licked one of your nipples while rolling the other with his skillful fingers. You managed a strangled little gasp before finding your voice and whispering, “I might.” And you did. Teasing the tip of his cock with light flicks of your tongue, before taking the head into your mouth and moaning in a really obscene fashion when the first taste of pre-come hit your tongue. The way Chibs kept himself from flexing his hips and patiently talked you through taking more of him instead. The sensation of his thick cock deep in your throat with every thrust, how he praised you and crooned “good girl” every time you tried to swallow around his thick length. The salty taste of his hot cum shooting down your throat. And most of all, you remembered how this impatient and often aloof man looked at you after he came down, like you were the best thing since Jameson juice-boxes. You kind of remembered your hazy mind making a different leap, but the sober you was not willing to go there just yet.

Both your body and mind were jerked back to the present when Chibs bit down on your nipple. Hard. “Enjoyin’ the memories?” He murmured, clearly amused. He reached to trace his fingers on your lips. “ Your gorgeous mouth wrapped around my cock was my favorite thing to watch until..”

‘Until what?” You asked right before Chibs pushed his index finger past your lips. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand slid over your folds and began teasing lightly. “Until I got between yer legs and made you come with my tongue.”

Ah, he did do that. No man has ever been able to do that, all their valiant efforts missing the mark by a nautical mile. No man until Filip. Oh boy. That man knew exactly how to play a woman’s body. He was beginning to show you that same expertise just now. ‘Ye looked so beautiful, beggin’ me for more. Yer pussy grippin’my fingers hard as a fuckin’ vice when ye came.” As he was talking, his fingers gently stroked your folds before he slid a single digit inside and then another. He mimiced the motion with his other hand. “Keep suckin’, baby. And spread yer legs wider.” You obeyed instantly. How could you not, when his voice was so low and laden with lusty promise of the highest magnitude and his fingers were curling inside your your pussy, finding your g-spot with ease. Your breath became shaky and your legs began to quiver as Chibs was brining your closere and closer to that delicious edge. “Tha’ it, my precious girl. Just like tha’,” he growled against the skin of your breast, sending more shivers down your body. “Dinnae run from it, let it wash over ye.” Like you had any other choice. The way the man owned all of your body with just his hands and his mouth, there was no other option but to surrender to the pleasure. Not that the sadistic bastard Was going to just let you have it. He kept you right on the edge for a long time, withdrawing his thumb from your clit at the precise wrong moment every damn time. By the time he finally relented and let you have it, you were a panting, sweat-covered and soaking mess and you didn’t even want to contemplate the size of the wet spot you’ve created. You came with an obscene scream, that probably sounded far from human. You covered your eyes with your still trembling hand. Gods, all of you felt like jello only after a brief moment with Chibs’ fingers.

And then another memory hit you. You screamed like that last night. Well, not like that. Louder. Louder enough to get a whooping “Congrats! You go girl!” from the other side of the wall. Shit, how were you gonna look Tig in the face now… Then you remembered you also shoved your tongue down his throat, so any eye contact was already a lost cause.

When your eyes snapped open, you saw Filip lick his fingers, a satisfied grin firmly in place. Then you heard him hum. Ladies and gentlemen, Filip Freaky Telford was humming. While licking your juices off of his hand like it was melted ice-cream and he didn’t want to miss a single drop. “Ye taste fuckin’ amazing.”

When your breathing returned to normal you asked, “Something tells me the night didn’t end there, did it?” “What kinda man do ye take me for, luv?” He was looking at you now, with fresh lust in his eyes. “How about we grab some breakfast and the come back here so I can show you?” “I’m not really hungry but I’m gonna need some coffee after this, but I’m not going out there.” “Why not?” “There’s no way I can face Tig.” Chibs loud chuckle rumbled through his chest .

In that moment, a resounding knock came from he other side of the door. “You two sill alive in there? Do you need water? Or maybe mouth-to-mouth?” And Juice’s quieter voice, “Tig, don’t make fun.” “I’m not. I’m concerned. What if they died in that orgasm freight train, man?” Another voice, this one belonging to Chucky, uttered in passing, “They were long overdue for one and gods know that Ole’ Grumpy is too much of a wimp to make a move. Thank the gods for rum” That got a reaction from Chibs, “What did ye say, Chucky-boy?” “Coffee’s ready, monsieur.” And then a much quieter, “Chucky is a free elf, can say whatever he wishes,” was added. Booming laughter erupted on both sides of the door.

#chibs telford #chibs telford x reader #Chibs Telford smut

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identitty-dickruption · 1 year

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recovered; present tense

I’m relearning how to be safe; how to be a person in a world where I don’t wake up in the middle of the night with a pounding heart, my hands don’t shake every time I leave the house, and my eyes don’t search for threats whenever something moves in my periphery. Nobody tells you that safety is something that requires practice. That is, nobody tells you until you end up spending the best part of your life in trauma recovery.

After all this time, “trauma” still feels like too big of a word for what happened to me and around me and through me. Trauma feels like a word reserved for veterans. For people who have returned from war, or at the very least some kind of “real” violence. It doesn’t feel quite right to describe my experiences as traumatic, when so many others have been through so much worse.

After all this time, “trauma” feels like too small of a word for how shattered I have become. It can’t even come close to describing the way that survival became my entire lifestyle. It’s such a little word for such a massive change in my world. Two syllables, six letters, and a lifetime of pressing my back against the wall so that nobody can come up behind me. It doesn’t feel quite right to describe my experiences as traumatic, when so many others have been so much more fortunate.

I’m relearning how to be safe. Now that many of the physical symptoms are gone, I almost feel a kind of post-trauma trauma. I almost need a new kind of therapist to teach me how to have a personality again. I can’t go back to being the pre-trauma version of myself. They’re long gone. It wouldn’t feel right to reimagine myself as the kind of person who never went through trauma in the first place. I’ve discarded everything from the hobbies I used to love to the music I used to listen to. They were discarded when my entire life became recovery, but even now that I’ve “recovered”, well… That skin doesn’t fit quite right anymore.

The days seem to stretch out for kilometres. Every moment feels endless when you don’t know who you are anymore. In trauma recovery, I learnt to live a values-based life. But a list of values doesn’t bring me any closer to knowing who I am. I carefully type some words into Google.

How do I know who I am?

List of personality traits

Personality quiz

None of it seems to help. Every question on the personality quizzes seems to beg for a degree of insight that would solve the very conundrum that led me to the quiz. I don’t know if I prefer being around people or being alone, because that decision was informed by trauma for so long. I don’t know if I prefer to be organised because organisation keeps me safe, or because that’s just how I am. Every question opens up a million more questions that I don’t know if I’ll ever have the answers to.

I’m back to sitting on the outside of my own body. Dissociation. I think through the list of activities I’m supposed to do when something like this happens. Deep breaths. Counting the number of things I can see of each colour of the rainbow. Squeezing my own arms to remind myself that I’m real. Nothing immediately returns my brain to my body, but everything helps a little. Maybe I’m not quite as recovered as I thought. Or maybe recovery means learning how to make my trauma a smaller piece of my mosaic. Maybe I’ll always feel it to some degree, just slightly less sharp with each passing year.

I respond to a meme one of my friends sent me.

I check my calendar to make sure there’s nothing I’m supposed to be doing right now.

I strap my dog into her harness.

We walk.

I’m relearning how to be a person again. Walking through my neighbourhood with my dog provides more lessons than I expect. The sun is bright. The wind is cold. I guess it must be just past three, because kids are hitting the streets from the direction of the local school. They smile at my dog, and I smile back. I let a small group of the kids pat my dog. They thank me, and I wish them a good afternoon. These kids have no reason to doubt that I’m a person. And maybe that’s all that matters right now.

#trauma #recovery #identity #creative non fiction #writing #writblr #trauma recovery

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julietsversion · 11 months

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Fuck sorting characters into hogwarts houses. Sorting Stranger Things characters into Taylor Swift albums instead

Now to begin, there are ten Taylor Albums(taylor swift/debut, fearless, speak now, red, 1989, reputation, lover, folklore, evermore, midnights)

All of these are my opinion and you don’t have to agree. This is all for fun

Dustin Henderson as Taylor Swift/Debut

Dustin is very energetic, speaks his mind, and can be very blunt like Taylor’s first album. It aligns with his tendency to be left out of things and left behind by his friends.

Lyric : “Oh I’m just a girl, tryna find a place in this world”

Joyce Byers as Fearless (Taylor’s Version)

Joyce is sweet, caring, and passionate like the themes in Fearless. She is also extremely protective over the ones she loves, and often underestimated. Her relationship with Hopper has many parallels to songs within the album.

Lyric : “These walls that they put up to hold us back will fall down”

Mike Wheeler as Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)

There are so many reasons why these two go together. Mike is a writer, Speak Now is Taylor’s only completely self written album. Mike is passionate about DnD, Speak Now has many fairytale elements and themes. It is an album of love, regret, anger, and heartbreak, all of which are major parts of Mike’s character.

Lyric : “Long Live all the mountains we moved, I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you”

Max Mayfield as Red (Taylor’s Version)

This one was a no brainer as Sadie Sink, the actress behind Max starred in the short film for All Too Well(10 minutes version). But also Max is passionate, hotheaded, and caring. She’s been through some shit but is trying to make the best of it.

Lyric : “We learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts”

Steve Harrington as 1989 (Taylor’s Version)

This one was also obvious to me. 1989 is about having fun and living your life without caring what others think. But it’s also about being brave and trying to be yourself, much like Steve’s character arc through the series.

Lyric : “The rest of the world was black and white, but we were in screaming color”

Nancy Wheeler as Reputation

Nancy begins the series your stereotypical suburban good girl, but things happen and she essentially kills the old her. Nancy is vengeful and powerful, both in mind and strength. But she uses this to protect those she loves and holds dear. She’s still badass, but she’s also a big sweetheart.

Lyric : “My reputations never been worse so, you must like me for me”

Lucas Sinclair as Lover

This one was also easy. Lucas is kind, thoughtful and determined. He does so much for those he loves and is constantly supportive of them.

Lyric : “It’s you and me, that’s my whole world. They whisper in the hallway she’s a bad bad girl. The whole school is rolling fake dice, you play your stupid games you win stupid prizes”

Will Byers as Folklore

Will does everything for his friends and family. He’s reserved but will speak his mind if his friends are being hurt , or hurting each other.

Lyric : “And when I break, it’s in a million pieces”

Robin Buckley as Evermore

Robin is smart, thoughtful, and analytical. She figures out things before the rest. She can be anxious and overthink things

Lyric : “Long story short it was a bad time. Long story short I survived”

Jane/El Hopper as Midnights

Say what you want, but El is Midnights. Midnights is a collection of sleepless nights, some from anxiety, or anger, some are for fun and enjoying yourself.

Lyric : “You’re on your own kid. Yeah you can face this. You’re on your own kid, you always have been”

Thank you for reading the entirety of my extensive brain rot. Someone save me.

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thegigilwriter · 19 days

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12 | “Danger & Star, Rooster & Angel” — Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Mitchell OC

Summary. 26-year-old Lucy Asa Mitchell did not know what was in store for her when she first bumped into Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. After an instant mutual connection followed by a sweet whirlwind romance that swept both their feet, Lucy found herself being immersed deeper into Bradley’s world of the Navy, F-14s, and deployments. What she didn’t expect was finding was the answer to an elusive part of her past — the identity of her long-lost father.

Chapter Summary. After a successful family dinner at Penny’s, Bradley stays the night and tends to a… little unexpected occurrence in the morning.

Masterlist

Keywords/Warnings: Pure FLUFF, romance, menstruation, mentions of blood,

12 | Shark Week 🦈

August 28, 2023

When Bradley woke up, he had already anticipated the sweet scent of Lucyʼs hair… only to be faced with the cold side of the bed. After overcoming the initial confusion (and the thought that perhaps everything was but a wonderful dream), Bradley pulled off the covers from Lucyʼs part only to see a red stain contrasting against the pale sheets. Thatʼs when he heard it — a retching noise from the bathroom. Bradley walked towards the sound as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Angel?ˮ Bradley called out, morning voice echoing within the facility. There Lucy was, sitting on the pretty, lavender rug of her bathroom floor in her underwear and comfy night shirt with her head lined in front of the toilet bowl, one hand gripping at the seat, and the other clutching her lower stomach.

“Oh Angel,ˮ he crooned lowering himself to his knees and gathering her hair at the back of her neck.

“Brad—ley,ˮ she rasped. “I-Iʼm sorry, did you sleep alright?ˮ She looked pale and tired — with dry lips and a limp state of strength.

“Angel donʼt worry about me,ˮ Bradley assured. “What do you need?ˮ

“T-this is s-so embarrassing,ˮ she moaned, putting her face in her hands. “I wanted to make breakfast...ˮ

“Hey,ˮ he tucked her into his embrace. “It is not embarrassing. Itʼs just a little blood, sweetheart — thatʼs all. Now why donʼt we go on the couch, and Iʼll make us something to eat, okay?ˮ

“Can you also heat my crab, for me? I-Itʼs in the drawer by the microwave...ˮ

“Of course, Angel.ˮ Bradley replied as he scooped her into his arms and lifted her off of the floor, still quite unsure just what kind of crab she was referring to.

Bradley set her on her grape-colored couch, gathered a mosaic quilt from her pillow basket, and pulled it to her chin. He kissed her forehead tenderly before approaching her kitchen. He filled up her electric kettle and turned it on. Then, Bradley looked for Lucyʼs heating pad (the so-called crab) in her cabinet, read the instructions on the paper tab on its side, and placed it in the microwave accordingly. Afterwards, he went to her pantry and prepared some flour and opened the fridge for a couple of eggs, some ham, and a couple mangoes and strawberries. When the kettle had stopped bubbling, Bradley poured the hot water into an olive mug with a loose passionfruit and hibiscus blend. He brought the newly-made tea and her crab at bedside, for which brought a smile on her lips.

“Thank you,ˮ she whispered as she took her crab from him and settled it on her lower abdomen. Bradley helped her sit up and held the cup to her lips as she took a sip.

“Has it always been this bad?ˮ He asked her as she leaned against his shoulder, her fingers encircled around the warmth of the mug.

“Unfortunately,ˮ Lucy sighed.

“Iʼm sorry Angel,ˮ he placed a kiss on the side of her head. “So are you still going to work tomorrow?ˮ

“Iʼm afraid not,ˮ she sighed again. “The second day is always worse. Hey, do you need help cooking?ˮ

“I think Iʼll be fine, thanks.ˮ He chuckled.

“No offense love,ˮ Lucy smiled. “But can you even cook?ˮ

“Not really,ˮ Bradley replied. “But Iʼm gonna give it the good-old college try.ˮ

“And when was that? 20 years ago?ˮ She teased.

“Ha-ha,ˮ he retorted as Lucy laughed lightly. “Try 18, Angel.ˮ

“Good luck Daddy,ˮ she whispered in his ear. “Donʼt burn anything.ˮ

Bradley blushed, kissing the side of her head before whispering back, “Itʼs a good thing you donʼt feel well today, sweetheart.ˮ

Lucy giggled as Bradley let her be with the remote and got to work. He stripped her sheets and put them in the wash. Then, Bradley watered her plants by the living room windowsill, fed Tip and Toe, and checked on all her Walstead bowls. He had been enough times to Lucyʼs place in his free mornings to get into the swing of her routine. As he looked over to his lover on the couch, a smile stretched his lips as he beheld her peaceful, slumbering face. After some rummaging in her kitchen cabinets and drawers, Bradley found the waffle maker, an appropriate pan, and her favorite pairing knife. He got the batter started as he waited for the waffle maker to heat. Then he began to fry the ham alongside some eggs. When the waffle maker was hot enough (and he knew by mistakenly placing the entire pad of his forefinger), he let the butter sizzle on the grid before adding the batter. While waiting, he cut up her beloved mangoes just the way Lucy liked them and also washed the strawberries before getting a can of condense milk from the fridge (again, another one of Lucyʼs favorite pairings). Before serving breakfast, Bradley placed her sheets in the drier and the food on a serving tray before approaching her sleeping form.

“Angel?ˮ He gently kissed her cheek. “Mʼsorry it took so long — but breakfast is ready.ˮ

“Mmmh?ˮ Lucy croaked as she rubbed her eye sleepily. “Love — this looks great, thank you. You really couldʼve just made some cereal or something. Iʼm okay with that too.ˮ

“I want to take care of you right,ˮ he replied sweetly. “Unless you really want cereal —“

“No,ˮ Lucy smiled as she took the plate from the serving tray with a fork. “I love this. Come eat with me, love.ˮ

Bradley grinned as he nestled himself beside her beneath her quilt. He loved the way her body fitted into his so perfectly. He let her have the first bite, and he grinned as Lucyʼs eyes sparkled as she took another. She then offered a fork poked with a slice of the waffle and tear of ham and egg white to his lips. Lucy also let him have a sip of her tea, before Bradley averted himself towards the TV.

“Potter-head, huh?ˮ Bradley mused as he helped himself to a strawberry. “Which movie is this?ˮ

“My favorite,ˮ Lucy smiled. “The Goblet of Fire.ˮ

“Is that where there are different schools and thereʼs a tournament of some kind?ˮ He asked her.

“Do you like Harry Potter, as well?ˮ She asked him.

“I like it just fine,ˮ Bradley chuckled. “But my mother loved it — and when I was younger sheʼd read to me some nights.ˮ

“What was she like?ˮ Lucy whispered. “Your mom?ˮ

“She was kind and feisty and stubborn,ˮ he sighed. “... A bit like you, really.ˮ

“I bet she was even more wonderful,ˮ Lucy replied. “To have raised a son that treats a woman like you do in her shark week.ˮ

Bradley laughed, blushing.

“All this? Take it from me Angel — this is the minimum.ˮ

If you couldn’t already tell, I wrote this during my own shark week 😂 In my headcannon, Bradley isn’t that terrible of a cook and he is KING when it comes reading what people need 💕 Anyways new character alert up ahead. Welcome 13 | The Wildling Sisters!

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wiltking · 1 year

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hello! you seem like the right person to ask this — i've found myself thinking 'i wish someone wrote [thing i really want to read]' a lot before realising i could just do it myself, which i think is a good first step, but the problem is i've never written fanfiction (or any kind of fiction, for that matter) before :( do you have any good writing tips / advice that has helped you since you started writing, and continue to do so? thank you so much! (p.s. i love your work 🫶)

as this is one of the main reasons why i write, and have found so much satisfaction in the process ever since i started, i hope i can share a few words to get you going!

bottom line - it really is just a means of starting, because i don't think you can ever get worse at writing. you might get tired, you might get uninspired or lazy or distracted but as long as your passion is there you can learn and improve. and you'll never know what you're capable of until you start!

if you're already jumping into writing with yourself in mind as your ideal reader, you're in the right place. writing for self indulgence is always correct but especially so when you're starting out, because even if it's objectively 'not good', making your favorite characters kiss like barbies or explore whatever emotional trauma you want to work through with them as a vessel, you'll be getting something out of the process no matter what. whether it be joy or release or simply to get your rocks off.

but there are many different ways to write. so i can't give you a comprehensive list of do's / don'ts - the following is just a few things i've learned work great for me through trial and error:

write something short and simple. if this is your very first piece of writing, keep it small. you can always expand on it later if it's something you like and feel ready for. one of my first works was a short trans pwp fic and i have no shame in that. you don't have to make a 100k masterpiece right out the gate (or ever!) so just keep it contained while you test the waters and get a feeling for the process. also, the sense of accomplishment when finishing a work is unparalleled. which can be a lot easier to do if it's something lowkey.

drafts. my brain is a scattered mosaic in a kitchen sink garbage disposal. i physically can't write things in linear form, and i can't write in chapters. it's all or nothing. so i've found it helps me the most to put all my ideas and concepts into an incomprehensible first draft, and make sense of it later. all my initial concepts get put down in here even if they're contradictory or bad or bare or in need of change. the intent is to get all your ideas out as they come and sort out / build on them / discard them later. it's about having a skeleton you can put meat on later! i refer to this as 'writing the bones' if i ever get caught up thinking it isn't good, because that's not what the first draft is for. the bones are the foundation of your writing, not the flavor!

find your flow. the key point in starting a writing projects is to write. writing and editing are 2 separate processes. so try not to edit while writing, just keep going. if you get stuck, move to the next scene or idea. skip to the ending if you have to. write notes within your work if you're unsure about something. use brackets to indicate [character walks home here] or [describe interior] or [research this later] when you can't think of the details at the time, and do it liberally. you will get better at this through practice.

have a 'deleted sections' document. when it's time to edit you might be hesitant to delete stuff even if you know it's not working, and even if it's just a sentence or two. my trick is to cut these scenes out and paste them into a 'garbo' document. i never actually go back and reuse these deleted chunks, but it helps get over the worry of what if. chances are if you're deleting a section, it's because you have a better idea in mind. so make room for it!

stay inspired. don't forget why you're writing. if you get stuck, try revisiting what made you start your project in the first place. whenever i feel completely out of ideas i like to revisit the source material or just have helpful bits of it on hand. for my recent patho fic i kept a bunch of voice line compilations open in my tabs to listen to the way certain characters talk, and sometimes i would load up the game / revisit canon conversations to get new ideas. for one of my spideypool fics i would relisten to the song that inspired it over and over again to remember the feeling i wanted to get across. make playlists! stare at pictures of your faves! remember why you love these characters!!

sorry if this is overwhelming or too much info. i've been doing this on and off for a few years now and i'm still learning ways to make the process more smooth and ideal for myself. but the more you write the more you learn not just about writing, but about yourself and the how, what, and why you want to write. this might just be a hobby for me but i'm passionate about it and i think it's something everyone should try if you have even the slightest interest in it.

also remember this is all stuff that's specifically true for me. you might love chaptered writing or nailing out a timeline before you even start or hate listening to music when your write and that's all perfectly okay! but there's only one way to find out! so go forth and learn what the little writing beast waiting inside of you has to say!!

#it might help you to know my first fic was an unfinished edgy kpop fic when i was 16.#but everything you make is something you can learn from #and i'm so excited for you to see what you can make :''')#long post #one last thing lol - once you get more serious about it it helps to revisit your favorite works or authors and really pick apart why #you like them. why certain scenes or storytelling structures or characters make your brain go brrrr #why did that scene give you chills or make you cry? how was it set up? is this something you can try to incorporate into your own stuff?#thats something i want to do more the next time i reread something

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thelvsickgirl · 4 months

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You were there? I read someone had to be stitched, what happened, were you in danger???

By the way, answer after getting some rest babes🤍, it sounds like you need sleep and rest, hope you are getting through your shift and make it to a well deserved sleep🫶🏼

hi thank you!! yes i’m the leader of one of our communities, and yesterday was the worst day i had by far.

it’s going to be a bit long.

i’ll give you a little context:

we belong in an area of the stadium called “Grada de Animación” which is located in the south part of the stadium, and is split between four different communities, and i’m the leader of one of them, even though i’m at least 40 years younger, a woman and don’t have much free time. i have around 250 people under my leadership and i represent my whole community. most of these people are grown men, hooligans and assholes. typical men you find at stadiums.

but before this area of the stadium was given to us, it belonged to this criminal organization, called “Ultra Sur” who were rapists, vandals, hoolingans, killers and drug dealers. rmadrid kicked them out and banned them from the stadium, making it illegal to enter being part of this organization. since we got their area of the stadium, they HATE us.

and surprise surprise, they got in last night.

so we were all saturday afternoon preparing a gigantic sign and painting it for the atleti vs madrid match and a lot of people came to help. it was supposed to cover the whole southern part of the stadium. the next day, the Ultra Sur got in the stadium and ripped the whole mosaic and painting apart, on live TV.

one of my fellow community leader was there and got into a fight with Ultra Sur. they arrested them, including my fellow community leader, and the speaker (who leads the chants during the games) saw it and demanded us to sit down. i started to get a weird feeling and asked what was happening, since we NEVER EVER sit down. he just yelled at me to sit down and shut the fuck up.

i got mad.

since we all sat down, the whole 4 communities, and got quiet, people around us started insulting us, throwing things at us and started a fight. so i ran to try and stop my people from getting attacked and tried to see what was going on w the other situation, w the arrested community leader. it got worse.

at half time, everyone was worried bc we just spent 20 minutes sitting down, without cheering, which is supposed to be our “job”. another community leader stood up w a mic and ordered the whole “Area de Animación” to leave the stadium in “solidarity” with the arrested community leader, and threatened the people who didn’t want to leave with not letting them in again. this caused more chaos and started a third fight , this time between communities.

i got even more mad bc a leader can’t threaten their own people, so i stood up, walked towards her and said to her: “there’s people working their asses off to be here. half the salary they receive is paid to be part of this club. it’s their highlight of the week. you can’t threaten them bc they don’t want to leave one of the best games of the year, especially for a man they don’t even know. they’re in love w this team. grow the fuck up.”

so it got to the worst part. people were crying, complaining, fighting each other, and i started receiving death threats.

“When we get out im going to rape you until you’re fucking dead.”

“I’m going to slice your neck in two the minute you’re done here.”

I actually had to knock out someone to stop from killing one of my people.

As you can tell, i was emotionally and physically exhausted. I can’t get strength from anything or anywhere. i lack motivation.

i need help and idk what to do.

#jude bellingham #real madrid #jude victor willliam bellingham #im fucking crying #send help #i need help please #sofia’s bar

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arbokzee · 11 months

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W and X from your latest reblog

Thank you for the ask! ♡

W: Take a picture of your lolita wardrobe!

This isn't very aesthetically pleasing, I'm sorry:

Some of my dresses are in need of a wash or mend, so they're not in this shot at the moment. ...I think I need a bigger closet.

X: What’s the worst print or dress you’ve seen?

I answered this question here but let me hit you with another one: IW's Roman Mosaic print, especially in the Tuck JSK cut:

The details are so small that you can't really see any of them from a distance, and they make the whole thing look muddy. This cut in particular is so plain that it makes the issues of the print so much worse (although the other cut doesn't look that much better, and has a similar problem of a tiny print with bold dark detailing as the Cendrillon Scallop JSK does). Even the model can't make it look nice

I love IW but this is a travesty.

#lolita fashion ask #i really do love IW i promise #they simply have made some Choices #not all of them good

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septembersghost · 2 years

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your post about how RED has a cohesive storyline is so amazing and helped me understand the album better, but then am I dumb to say Maroon helped make it make even more sense to me? because I guess I only saw the "bad" heartbreaking stuff but hearing her describe him like a close friend, feeling at home, made a lot CLICK

thank you!!! 🥰 that post has truly been in my head for a decade (every time red got cricitized for being ~sonically incohesive~ or the tracklist not making sense, i'd think to myself, the mosaic of genres is the point! the upheaval of the tracklist tells a story for a specific reason! she knew what she was crafting!!!), it means the world to me that people are understanding it further now, and to see red getting the praise and acclaim it deserves. plus taylor being able to embrace and show such joy and pride in it after everything, it's just so beautiful and transformative.

you are NOT dumb, and i love that maroon gave you a bit more of a guide for that too! it's interesting because i do believe those sentiments are all over red - "up in your room and our slates are clean, just twin fire signs, four blue eyes"/"somethin' about it felt like home somehow...your sweet disposition...you told me 'bout your past thinkin' your future was me...the one real thing you've ever known..."/"i wish i could run to you"/"you open your eyes into mine, and everything feels better"/"we had a beautiful, magic love there" - there are a lot of moments of true tenderness and reverence and magic in that love and heartbreak, it's part of what makes it heartbreaking, how precious it was for her made the belittlement/betrayal and destruction that much worse. the coziness in the beginning, with them laughing on the floor, the intimacy of dancing with no shoes, the touch so familiar she thought of him as home, is in that direct contrast with sobbing with your head in your hands, standing hollow eyed, going from "i chose you" to "i lost you," the emotion of that love feeling so big (faster than the wind, passionate as sin) that it colors the whole sky. she remembers it all too well!

#maroon is so good and distills red so beautifully...i'm obsessed #anonymous #letterbox #taylor swift #maroon #midnights #red

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creatinghelen · 2 years

Text

I posted 5,340 times in 2022

225 posts created (4%)

5,115 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@stayingstrong-andnotgivingup

@tinkercatt

@paint-it-happy

@prettygirlseat

@desultory-suggestions

I tagged 466 of my posts in 2022

#hj - 176 posts

#<3 - 78 posts

#ask - 53 posts

#answered - 52 posts

#anon - 34 posts

#repetitive - 6 posts

#me @ me - 5 posts

#mosaic <3 - 4 posts

#oh my god - 4 posts

#art - 3 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#for example the guy i went to brighton pier with and he won me a reversible octopus and we bossed the 2p machines and talked about our exes

My Top Posts in 2022:

last night I talked to my body. and I mean really, talked to my body. I apologised for everything I put it through when I was younger, and I promised not to do that again. but more importantly, I thanked it. I thanked it for getting me through every one of my hard days, for resisting my attempts to destroy it, for telling me what it needs. for being able to touch and hug and feel. and I cried. but I have never felt closer, and more at peace. maybe it’s time to have a chat. see if it helps.

1,806 notes - Posted September 30, 2022

and over time I’ve been realising that if I’m tired I need to let myself rest. that pushing myself will not make it better, it makes it worse. and if I need to push things back or rearrange to make that happen, that’s what I’ll do. because I am my priority.

3,139 notes - Posted August 23, 2022

you need to rest. no matter if you’ve “not done enough”. let yourself rest.

6,674 notes - Posted January 3, 2022

sometimes you’ll make mistakes. you’ll fall into old patterns again. what matters is that you pull yourself out of them. that you accept and forgive yourself. that you realise a slip up doesn’t mean you’re back where you were. that you’re still moving forwards. that you’re okay.

8,203 notes - Posted September 19, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I am a mosaic of everyone I have ever known and loved and touched and I find fragments of them in my playlists and how I make my tea. we may not know each other any more but we will stay connected like this. I hope a fragment of me is with you too.

18,920 notes - Posted September 29, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #omg I love this!!

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nysus-temple · 2 years

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Hi everyone, i'm back with my bullshit. Thanks specially to @margaretartstuff for giving me this idea.

Time to disappoint you all with my 7 ( 6 actually- ) different editions ( or versions- ) of the Odyssey, each one worse than the last because i got most of them when i was like 10 years old ! The good old days were i didn't have to worry about being a functional adult. Anyways.

1. ) This one for some reason includes the Homeric Hymns as well:

i remember buying it ONLY because in the one i already owned had Odysseus named "Ulysses" and i was going through a phase in which i was picky about it. Well i don't think i ever left that phase, let's be real 🥲

it's a good one, i like this one a lot, since as i said it includes other things as well.

The translation is good in general as well ( i mean they wrote "Helio(s)" instead of Sun, but that's up to the translator after all ), the verses have numbers as well and they didn't erase any part from it.

2. ) Oh this one, i have mixed feelings about this one:

The book is SO PRETTY and the translation is pretty nice as well, but uh, it includes that one "Penelope's Version" that Margaret Atwood wrote that is a big nono for me, it's one of those "feminist" retellings that WHAT A SURPRISE keep calling Helen a w/hore, but oh well.

It has some pretty drawings, they're funny more than anything else, but it calls Odysseus "Ulysses" so yeh, haven't read this version on a long time.

3. ) THIS IS— A MANGA—:

I've seen some people around here talking about it before sksnsk it's pretty, it's fun, but it's VERY short and i hate it.

It also, for example, include stuff that wasn't in the Iliad and lacks stuff that was in the Odyssey, like the Circe and the Sirens episode. I mean it is supposed to be summarized, but i wished it was longer, i'll find a newer comic someday...

Sooomedaay...

LOOK AT THESE ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE !!

My main complain is the lack of, well, you know the drill, Minoan fashion, but wellp.

4. ) This is the one i use when i read the Odyssey out loud to little kids, literally:

It's very, VERY goofy. The drawings are just very cute to me and i can't help but laugh whenever i take a loot at it.

It's not perfect, i mainly use it as i said when i'm reciting the poem outloud, but look at that Helios

Look at that yellow dude with the rays of the sun as his moustache

i mean it does some stuff that did make me go "ehh" like saying "Helios, the god of the Sun" when Helios literally means sun, but not everyone knows that ( i think? ) so maybe that's the reason behind it.

And yes i'm aware that Odysseus is called Ulysses, welcome to Spain, most of the translations have that name and, well, you know, Hispania roots and all that.

5. ) MY FAVOURITE !!!

This. This thing right here. I love it with all my heart. It has illustrations that are either vase paintings, or mosaics, or more later-on paintings. The only complain i have is that the painting used for the sirens depicts them as mermaids- but oh well, they're called the same in Spanish so what am i gonna do about it 🥲

My personal favourites are these !! A couple of them sre actually very well-known:

Had to put them together due to Tumblr's limit of pictures. Sorry that they're kind of blurry, the pages are made of *that* paper.

I've read this edition multiple times and i still don't get tired of it, it's probably not the best one since i'm looking at it with the lens of a ξένο κορίτσι, not a Greek, so maybe if one had a look at it, it isn't that good, who knows.

6. ) Now, uh, yeh— a thing—:

Sometimes i forget the fact that the author is Italian.

This is a version for children aaaaandddd...

I mean- what else am i supposed to say about this version, i got it when i was 8, thanks to it Odysseus became the first and favourite Greek hero for me.

Is this cringy? Sorry about it 🥲

7. ) The seventh one is an old PDF document that i had to read when i first started learning Greek. It still has my notes and people don't like my handwriting much, so i'm leaving this here.

Hope you had fun ! And hope that you laughed at me, that one girl that knows the whole Odyssey by heart.

No i'm not ok.

#this was fun and. at the same time. self concerning.#imagine being Greek and finding out that some Spanish woman has a weird obsession #with a poem related to your culture #i would freak out #also TUMBLR isn't letting me post this #and i'm going insane #the odyssey #odyssey #not incorrect quotes

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rottenshroom · 2 years

Text

sweet grass and wild water | part two

02 › after hours – series masterlist

summary: the routine of your day-to-day life in the bustle of tokyo quickly becomes mundane. it’s when you receive a letter from your estranged father that your routine is disrupted, for better or worse. following the mystery of your absent father’s past, you find yourself in a small town that’s anything but ordinary.

warnings: strangers kissing lol, southern!kirishima, kinda pervy!kirishima, heavy petting, some fluff, angst of course, kirishima is basically comforting reader, with a lil spicy kiss

words: 4.7k

a/n: i hope it was worth the wait – thanks for reading!

click here to be tagged to future content

The sky outside is a dull mosaic of gray that resembles something like television static. A dense fog blankets the small town, daunting its residents. There hasn’t been a fog this thick in a long time, though you are currently unaware, and it’s natural for the town’s elder council to order a mandate.

You’re standing barefoot in the cluttered kitchen when the sirens start blaring from the distance, beyond the rolling hills. You draw the nearest curtain, unveiling the outside world to your sleep-ridden eyes, both curious and annoyed at the wailing sound that pierces your otherwise quiet morning. You blink in response to the exposure until your eyes can adjust to the level of light that floods your vision.

The murky haze that surrounds your father’s home is so heavy that you can’t see too far before the world dissolves into nothing more than empty, ash-colored clouds.

The familiar hum that buzzes against the counter pulls you from the deep thought you can feel yourself start to sink further into. You pull away from the window, letting the curtains fall back over the small beacon of light, shrouding you in the darkness of the mockingly empty house. Loneliness echoes throughout these walls, you think. It must be reverberating across the halls now, vibrations rattling your skull and infecting you with a forlorn feeling. You pick up your phone, ignorant to the name that flashes across your screen. You refuse to look at the harsh glow that radiates from your device, instead opting to blindly accept the call and bring it to your ear.

You balance the phone between your shoulder and cheek, grabbing the broom you previously hid in the kitchen’s pantry and dragging its bristles across the wooden floor as you speak into the phone, “yeah?”

“Oh, hey! It’s Kirishima, from -”

“Oh, um - hi,” You breathe into the receiver. You think you can skip the formal introductions now that he’s earned your trust. I mean, in the city, these sort of things just don’t happen, especially as a young woman traveling alone. He must’ve realized how vulnerable you are, or how uncomfortable you were last night, and still, didn’t make a big fuss of it, but managed to relax you, by simply being transparent.

“I hope it’s not too early, but I wanna get a move on things before the weather worsens,” He starts, then scrambles to tack on his manners, “That is, if ya don’t mind, of course!”

He’s well-trained, you think - you’re smug when you silently snicker at your own thoughts, laughing light into the phone, “I don’t mind. Can you pick me up in half an hour?”

Of course he agrees. Obligingly, a red pick up truck that you can see Kirishima’s broad figure inside of, slows at the property line and pulls up the driveway about 23 minutes later. He waits outside his truck, leaning against the passenger side as the car runs. He waits for your form to emerge from the doorway, huddling over your lock to secure the home shut behind you. You jog haphazardly across the lawn and into the passenger side that Kirishima holds open for you. He shuts the door once you’ve crawled into his truck. As he rounds the front to hop in the driver’s seat, you observe your surroundings in the silence.

The interior of this truck is much nicer than the other. You infer that this one must be his personal vehicle and the other is for work. The seats are leather, radiating a cozy heat where you sit. You relax into the passenger seat, soaking in the warmth that emerges from the leather interior. It’s a welcomed, albeit stark, contrast from the rickety house you slept in with only the comforter and space heater you brought to accompany you for the night. You made a mental note to remind yourself that a central heating system might be a good idea. Kirishima flicks on the radio before he starts to pull out of your driveway. You immediately recognize the voice that rings through the car’s stereo - the same one from last night.

In lieu of your recent discovery that the station was one for local news, you pay the broadcast more attention than you did yesterday: “The National Weather Advisory team has issued a severe fog alert for the city of Amekawa and surrounding areas until 6 00 PM JST. Contact with the fog is strictly prohibited. We strongly urge all citizens to remain indoors during this time.”

You look up at Kirishima, questions ready at your lips. Before you can ask, he turns the volume dial down, like he can sense your incoming inquest. He glances towards you and hums expectantly. You clear your throat before voicing your concern, “What does he mean?”

“Ah, sometimes the humidity levels of the mist that rolls from Amekawa river disperse toxins in the air when they come in contact with the atmosphere at this altitude.” He says, monotone like he’s repeated the phrase a thousand times. It sounds rehearsed, like a lie, but you brush it off as probably just being another quirk this place has to offer.

Everyone you’ve come across – well, only really Kirishima, so far – has been nothing but kind, though you can’t help but feel that the town is shrouded in mystery. There’s a dark presence that looks over the good-natured people here. Despite the shadows that you sense around this town, you see a lot of good things here, in the short few hours you’ve spent here. But you remember the welcoming environment as a kid, and use that to justify your judgment. There is a sort of charm to it, you suppose, and try to imagine the kind of appeal your father found in a town like this one.

You noticeably shift in your seat. His eyes meet you briefly, and he calmly assures you not to worry about it. You nod as he continues driving, eyes fixated on the road in front of him, seemingly content with the dubious answer your body language provides.

Kirishima’s rattling off about crop maintenance when the pair of you come rolling to a stop outside his massive shed. He climbs out, quickly circling the front of the truck to help you out. Similar to the last time, his scarred hands envelop your hips in his secure grip. His fingers brush over the waistband of your jeans, shallowly digging into the fat that just barely spills from them. Although brief, the contact sends a flurry of chills down your spine that you try to conceal – doing your absolute damnedest to hide the reaction that threatens to surface.

You follow the man into his workshop: eyes scanning the inside. Various tools line the walls. There’s an echo that follows every noise made in the small warehouse. He guided you to what you assume is a tarp-covered vehicle. And if the wheels that peek out are anything to judge by: it’s your tarp-covered vehicle.

He uncovers your car and starts to work. You offer your assistance, and he assigns you to sit beside him while he works and hand him the tools he needs. Kirishima, without breaking a sweat, manually cranks the huge jack that elevates your vehicle, suspending it in the air. He grabs a bluetooth speaker from his workbench and offers it to you. It’s the first piece of modern technology you’ve seen since crossing the border into the agricultural region. You almost want to kiss the familiar looking device, but choose instead to simply connect your phone to it. You choose a song you love to serve as background music.

Kirishima continues working as you make busy with the little speaker. He uses a homemade creeper to slide under the car – just a board of plywood bolted onto four wheels.

“Torque?” He says, extending a hand out in your general direction. You place the tool in his open palm. The silence is comfortable, broken up by your music that rings through the garage. You glance around and take in the other machines that are set up the way yours was when the two of you first approached it.

“Are all these yours?” You ask, mindlessly pointing at the machines before realizing he can’t see you, and faltering. He must know, however, exactly what you’re talking about, because he answers as much, “The other cars belong t’some of the folks in town.”

“So you’re the tow truck operator and the mechanic?” You scoff, almost in disbelief. He sounds bashful, rather than defensive, when he replies, “it’s a small town, sweetheart.”

You sigh, shoulders hunched over in defeat, and grumble, ��I guess.”

His hand pops out again, “Lug wrench?” and again, you hand him the tool he requests.

“My grandfather owned a shop in town,” He starts, “and my father owned a junkyard just outside of it.”

You hum when appropriate, to indicate your interest in his story. You lower the volume of the music by a notch or two, for you to be able to hear him better. Though the action is subtle, Kirishima appreciates it when he notices.

“My brother operated the tow truck and my uncle was a mechanic. That was a long time ago, though. It ain’t like that anymore.” He waves it off. He can feel the tear start to pool at his waterline, and blinks them away. He thanks whoever is up there that you can’t see his face. He feels so shameful in this moment – feels so fucking weak.

“What happened to them?” You prompt him when you realize that he isn’t going to continue speaking on his own accord.

“Same thing that happens to lot’sa folks in this town.”

“And what’s that?” You ask, coaxing him. He’s so vague in the way he speaks right now, so solemn like your father used to be. You wonder if it’s just something lingering in the air - the ghost that you think must haunt this little village in the country. Country folk are always so hard-headed like that, stubborn and seldom. Getting information from any of them, you assume, is like pulling teeth. You’re no dentist, so you urge him to continue with soft words rather than inhospitable medical equipment.

“The forest.” He says simply, nodding in the direction of the outskirts of town. You wait for him to expand on the single phrase with bated breath. Then he does, “them woods are a maze.”

When Kirishima says this, a clear and verbal warning, you reflect on the things your father used to tell you: “There’s danger near the wood’s edge.”

You don’t press him any more, as it’s apparent his family did not heed the warnings of the land. You make the wise decision not to comment any more on the matter, as the suffering he’s faced is likely punishment enough. Your father always made a point to stress the importance of circumvention - especially in regards to the forest on the southern end of town. So you shut up and let the silence fill the room again.

The world around you goes dark. Though you can’t see, you can hear Kirishima grunt, the sound of wheels screeching against the concrete floor, then a sigh, “Well that’s the power.”

“What kind of fog causes power outages?” You ask.

“There are some things you just don’t ask about.” He answers, practically snorting at your naivety. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.

Kirishima gets up, flipping on the flashlight that appears in his hand. He locates a nearby bin against the opposite wall. The music is stopped, leaving only the steady sound of his footsteps to reverberate in his wake. He shuffles through the bin for several moments. You squint, trying to see what he pulls from the storage tub from where you remain seated. He seems to find what he’s looking for as he returns to you with an armful of something you can’t quite make out.

As he approaches you, the dim glow of the flashlight illuminates the shadowy goods in his hands. It takes no more than a few seconds for you to recognize the familiar silhouette - candles. He sets them in a circle around the pair of you, then takes his time to light them: old school, with a match. You grin as he flicks it across the box, flame roaring to life after a successful sweep. The small ember lights up his face when he carefully cradles the flame by cupping it as he connects it to the wick of each candle.

“What happens now?” You question. Your eyes are trained on the glow of candlelight that illuminates the underside of his angular chin. Your gaze drifts upwards to the firm line his lips press his mouth into. He snuffs the lit match and says, “Now we wait.”

You know he’s serious when he resigns to a more comfortable position. You mirror him, finding a seat on the concrete floor that isn't yet biting into the fat of your ass. The room grows quiet for the most part, with the occasional crackle of the fiery pillars surrounding you. Before you let your eyes flutter shut, you notice Kirishima scoot towards you from the corner of your vision.

The suggestion leaves your mouth before you can think too long about it, “We could get to know each other.” His breath lapses and the room goes still. You want to cringe at yourself for even proposing the idea - a clear byproduct of loneliness.

When you left the city, you weren't expecting much, but you at least hoped to become familiar with some of the fresh faces in Amekawa. You needed someone to talk to at this point, therapy becoming a mundane practice, especially when you had no friends to even tell your therapist about. Kirishima is cute - like shamefully so, for such a face to be hidden so far in the weeds - and you might be able to see yourself gushing over him at your next virtual session.

“Alright, alright,” He mumbles, breaking the silence, as he adjusts. You take in a deep breath when he accepts the offer you give. You’re shaky - buzzing and excited as you expel your nerves in the simple exhale that follows. This is what coming here is about: meeting a new kind of people, learning about your father, stepping outside of your comfort zone.

When you feel him settle in closer to you, your eyes shoot open, searching for him in the faint light. You tilt your head quizzically when you find his eyes are already on you, or rather, your figure. He surveys your body, eyes casually scan up to your face. Your face burns hot at the prospect of what he’s doing. You wonder if he likes what he sees. You pout at him, cocking an eyebrow and whimpering in provocation of the question that eagerly sat waiting at Kirishima’s mouth.

How could he resist you like this? You’re so sweet, trusting despite your upbringing in the city; complacent despite the headstrong aura you emit.

“What’s your zodiac sign?” He asks animatedly. You laugh, answers laced with strings of giggles that Kirishima loves the sound of.

“You know about astrology?”

“‘Course I do. S’hard not to with the kind of night sky we’ve got out here.” His reason is sound, you determine, so you tell him your sign.

“Mm,” He hums, solemn, like he’s deep in thought at your simple response.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You argue defensively, using the pad of your index finger to firmly poke his solid shoulder. From the brief contact alone, you could tell how muscular he really is beneath his clothes. The hurried probe leaves you blushing, suspicions confirmed.

“So, what’s it mean, star boy?” You press further when he doesn’t answer you. He’s been watching you for a while now, glare honed in on every rise and fall of your chest or twitch of your fingers.

“I’m not telling you.” He declares in a sing-song voice. His tone is light, carried by the chime of laughter.

“What?” You jump up, fingers spread wide to cover more surface area when you coltishly smack your palm to his muscled chest, “You’re such a tease!”

He feigns a look of hurt, soothing the point of impact with his palm. He hisses like it hurts. Upon seeing your face, a flash of what he hopes is only mock anger. He leans back and snickers, “I’ll let you know when I find out if what they say is true.”

You only notice how close you are when your thigh brushes his. He flexes the muscle under your gentle graze. The friction is unfamiliar, but your body wants to whine for more. You lean into the gravity of his mass and find a position you deem comfortable enough - one where you can feel the warmth he issues. He looks at you, anticipant.

“So, why do you live here?” You implore, but when you see the look of confusion that burdens his features. You clear your throat and try to clarify, “I mean, you’re young, attractive, you don’t really seem like the kind of weirdo that -”

The words just sort of tumble from your open mouth in a pathetic attempt to hide the fact that you definitely just told him - to his face - that you find him cute. The lilt in your voice is suggestive, though you stop yourself before you can go as far as to insult him. The damage is clearly already done by the way he barks out a laugh.

“Kind of weirdo that what?” He asks mockingly, cupping a palm to his ear and leaning even further into you, “that lives in the country?”

“Mhm,” You reply, smiling cheekily. You bite your lower lip to contain your teasing expression, rolling the puffy skin between your teeth, “those would be the ones.”

“Is that what they’re teaching you folk in the city?”

You laugh, unable to suppress the emotion you wear in response to your playful banter. Your face feels hot, “something like that.”

He straightens when the laughter between you naturally fades, “I take care of my nan. The house pops built is out here and I like the quiet.” His answer is a genuine one - that much you could tell from the sincerity in his tone. His heartfelt admission causes your voice to break, warbled from the onset of tears when you speak, “yeah, my dad did, too.”

He sees the grief-stricken expression on your face and light-heartedly excuses himself and your father both, “best reason to live out in the sticks.” His grin is wide - infectious - so you mimic it with your own, and reply misty-eyed, “you sound just like him.”

“I don’t know what he was like to you, Y/N, but your old man was a good guy. This little town sure misses him.” He says, absentmindedly tracing patterns into your thigh with his index finger. Neither of you realize the motion, so natural in the way you gravitate towards each other, until either of you are speaking anymore. Kirishima continues to paint across your skin with feather light touches using the pads of his big fingers. His palm, when put up to size, swallows your thigh – fingers only adding to the expanse of his reach.

You swallow. You’re full of resentment. There’s so much anger boiling inside you. You’re teeming like a kettle at the thought of your father being anything other than a deadbeat. People admired him – hell, they still do. After he left you, he made a life for himself in the middle of the sticks that was honorable, if what Kirishima says is true.

He stopped picking you up for long weekends on the farm, stopped visiting altogether. He stopped calling you, and he stopped sending birthday cards, and he stopped fucking caring.

You’re furious – tight fist wrapped around Kirishima’s wrists and carving crescent moons into his skin from the impression of your chewed-up nails. He massages shapes into the meat if your leg, pressure hard but steady. The motion grounds you, bringing you back to the reality at hand. You apologize furiously when you realize what you’ve done, promising to make it up to him somehow. He laughs at the panic in your eyes, like it’s trivial. He brings his hand from your thigh to your face and cups your jaw. It’s so warm, you instinctually nestle into the open palm.

Despite the roughness, his skin on yours makes you feel like you’re on fire. His touch might be addictive, you think.

You lean into the burly man, sinking further into the beckoning heat that radiates from him. Of course, you think, a hulking man such as himself likely generates a heat competitive to that of a well-fed furnace. You don’t realize that he’s stopped talking until your neck cranes up a little to really look at him. You can’t help but notice his plump lips, which are currently uncharacteristically sealed.

Frantically – nearly erratic – your eyes dart to find him. You find confirmation that aligns with your suspicions: he’s already looking at you. Your cheeks start to burn at the likelihood that he just saw you basically frothing at the mouth while checking out his own pretty lips, tongue, and teeth.

You notice his eyes crinkle up at their corners, face screwing up as he asks you, almost demeaningly, “d’ya wanna kiss me, sweetheart?”

Definitely, you think – like you’ve been making it obvious how badly you want him. It doesn’t sound so confident, however, when you mutter out a humble, “yes.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” He taunts. His hand moves from caressing your jaw to a single lithe finger under your chin. He directs your face to his, lips lined up and ready. His pretty mouth and soft sounds (the ones you’re sure he’ll make) are just seconds away.

“Was waiting on you,” you glower. He should know better than this.

“I’m a gentleman,” He says, lips ghosting yours, “You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” his eyes flicker up and down your body, “but I know how to control myself around a pretty thing like you.”

Your palm finds the back of his neck, drawing him closer to you until the distance between you is barely even there. He lets you pull him closer, but it’s obvious that if he didn’t want this, he could easily pull away, overpowering you. You’re pressed flush against him, chest to chest. You can feel his heart beating on yours. Your legs are tangled with his own thick, beefy ones. You mouth against him, almost growling at his assumption, “you’ve never met someone like me.”

Finally, your lips slot together and you swear the world stops.

He softly grazes the tender skin of your mouth before he dips further into you, capturing your lips with his own. He’s so soft against you – lips cracked but they move so effortlessly when he’s kissing you. He grins into the kiss, tongue poking through his teeth to swipe at your satin lips. His kiss is teasing: warm and wet tongue tracing your lips. He moves languidly, slow like honey and saccharine sweet. He slides the muscle to prod at the seam where your lips meet. He wedges himself into your mouth as you loosen your jaw to accommodate him.

Your tongue darts out to meet him. The slick sound of them poking and prodding each other is almost lewd, but he continues to lap into your mouth like it’s still not enough. His firm grip is on your waist and he roughly pulls you towards him until you’re fully seated in his lap.

You’re so soft and sweet around him. He can feel the heat between your thighs on his cock, even through the several layers of clothing that separates you. You writhe in his lap and he groans at the friction you make.

You rock against his thick, corded thighs, scooting close enough that your clit can kiss the tip of his cock through your clothes. The pressure you crave is so close you start to rut against the hardness that pokes the inside of your leg. You’re eager to feel the tent in his boxers grow.

You roll your hips meanly against him, like you’re proving a point. When he grunts, you smile devilishly. Circling your hips in his lap again, but this time you can feel his throbbing member against your aching core. You roughly grind into his length, pussy twitching at the contact when he grates against you. He’s big, you can tell from the way his hips buck up to meet yours.

You moan in response to his jerking motions, gasping as he lifts your weight with his pelvis alone. The force of gravity presses your pussy more snug against him. When the outline of his cock is enveloped by your hot cunt, you shiver. Bumps bloom across your skin – arms and legs covered in plucked chicken skin. Adrenaline rushes through you at the prospect of being stretched out on his fat dick this position.

The kiss you share prevails – passion flourishing under the heat of his touch. Abrasively, you grind over his crotch, desperate to draw those wanton sounds from him again.

Meanwhile, his intention remains a little more sinister. He’s already been greedy, but as his desire to ravage you grows, he can’t imagine the idea of taking anything less than everything from you. You’re ravishing – cute and charming and nothing like anyone Kirishima has ever met before. You’re such a pretty little thing, perched on his lap, “you look so good like this.”

A pathetic whimper escapes your lips at the praise. You look at him through half lidded eyes and a lazy grin that just spurs him on further, “and you make such pretty sounds.”

His fingers dance from your chin, tracing the column of your throat, to your collar. His hands dip below the hemline of your shirt, fingers drift teasingly between the valley of your breasts. His hands descend in search of your own, and finds them still at your sides. Regardless of your body language, you continue to kiss him with fervor. His thick hand wraps around your wrist and you notice how his grip swallows your arm. He guides your open fist to his clothed erection. He hisses at the contact, throwing his head back in a guttural moan, “you feel that?”

“Mhm,” You sigh, and begin to palm at his length. Your eyes widen when you really get to feel the weight of his dick in your hand, “s’big.”

He laughs loudly when he sees the expression on your face. His arm wraps around your figure and lies his palm flat to the small of your back, ushering you closer into his embrace. Your chests are crushed against one another. He nudges you with his shoulder and your head lolls to one side. From this vantage point, he can bend just a few millimeters lower to hover over the shell of your ear.

“Is this okay?” He whispers. You just nod dumbly and let him grip your hips, manipulating the way you move on his cock. He continues to mouth at your neck, sucking purple shapes into the tender skin and drawing sobs from between your lips. You roll your hips with building intensity. He loves how excited you are; how enthusiastic and mindlessly you bounce in his lap.

He paws at the swells on your chest, kneading at your sensitive mounds. You cry at the pressure and indulge him. You seek vindication through pleasure, grinding the heel of your palm into his hard member. He retreats from your swollen bosom to your waist and coos, “you’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

The bump and grind doesn’t last long until the power’s back on and the two of you separate. The tent in his pants is still pitched when you pull away, clambering off his lap, abashed. He, on the other hand, wears a smug expression on his pretty face, “you didn’t have to stop.”

You blush, unsure of what to say, but you’re feeling emboldened after the actions that just occurred. Rather than speaking, you crawl towards him on all fours. When you’re close enough, your fingers nimbly slip past his waistband. He growls when your hand smears his own pre cum across his swollen head, “I didn’t say I was stopping.”

tags: @idimmadontgiveashit @hitoshislut @bunni-honeey @namjoonie17717 @panjoby @nuttyunknowndetective @hey-itslulu @nonamecheeta @nene-33 @ialwayswantedtobeginger @olgamoth-a-fox @meeriitas

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨5

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) threats, implied and mild violence

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: So between Friday and Saturday I’ll be doing eight hours a day for @buckyownsmylife‘s writeathon (like 12-8pm EST) but you can send an ask at any time. I will share a list of what I intend to work on and possible ideas later today if you wanna ask some questions or gab about whatever. After the last few days on tumblr and that nonsense, I think we need a little carelessness.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You walked and walked until you could no more. You stopped in front of another humongous set of gates and ordered an Uber. You waited in the dark in the shadow of the wall and a car slowed as it approached. You waved as the model and plate matched the app and got in. The driver remarked on the odd pick-up but you just shrugged and dialed.

You’d called your mom several times and she hadn’t picked up. It was almost eleven then so you gave up as her voicemail beeped once again. You dropped your head back against the seat and held your head. Everything was fucked.

You couldn’t believe it. Clark making the offer, Marcus trying to barter with him. It was all so fucked up. Five years. Five years! You never thought Marcus to be that type, shallow and greedy. Sure, he griped about money but you always made due and you thought if you had each other, it would be enough for him. But it wasn’t and he was ready to trade you to a stranger for a check.

You felt nauseous and crossed your arms over your stomach as you hunched over. You felt like crying but you knew you couldn’t. You had to get what you needed and get out. You weren’t going to stick around to argue with either of those assholes. This was the last time you were going to let your hope be crushed.

How much time had you wasted? On both of them.

You got out in front of your building and finalised the tip for the driver. You felt worse that you were going to leave your work in that cretin’s house. That he thought he could just buy you like he did the canvas. It was all just a ploy to get in your pants. And the way he said it, “I’ll fuck her either way.” Like you would fall into his arms agog and smitten.

You rushed up the stairs as your eyes began to well and you sniffled as you unlocked your apartment door. You wanted badly to trash the large monitor sitting above Marcus’ glowing tower. You wanted to shred all his clothes and take a hammer to everything he owned.

You didn’t. You grabbed your laptop from your desk and swept into the bedroom. You pulled your floral duffel from under the bed and loaded it with your laptop, tablet, and a pile of clothes. You tossed the zip-up pouch with your passport and other important documents on top and hauled it over your shoulder. He could keep the rest of it. You didn’t care if it ended up in the dumpster.

You checked the time as you closed the apartment door and headed down the hallway. It was after midnight. You wondered if they noticed you were gone. You didn’t care. You were sending every penny back to Clark, even if you had to dip into your savings; those years of squirreling away in hopes of buying a home with the love of your life.

That was what you thought he was. You just couldn’t understand how he could be so easily won over by overpriced cars and the ridiculously overdone mansion. You came out onto the street and stopped.

Where could you go? There wasn’t a bus out of town until the morning. You could get a hotel room for the night and head to your mom’s then. God, you felt rotten at the thought of showing up at her doorstep, another failure on your shoulders. You swore to her the last time you talked that you were finally getting your feet under you.

Why were you so stupid?

You dried your cheeks with the back of your hand and adjusted the strap of the heavy bag and turned down the sidewalk. There was a Days Inn not far from your place. They might have a vacancy.

You didn’t make it two steps before you heard the car door. You tried to ignore the man as you were eager to be anywhere but out in the city streets after dark. It was too late to react as the passenger door opened and the dark figure blocked your path. The driver came up behind you and you cried out as you were seized from both sides.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you shrieked, “let go of me.”

“Shut up,” the driver said as he covered your mouth and the other man took your bag.

You murmured into his palm and kicked out with your heel, barely missing the passenger with the sharp tip. He opened the back door and threw your bag inside. He turned back and grabbed your legs as you thrashed and both men struggled to angle you in after the duffle.

You pushed your chin above the man’s hand and gasped, “please, what--”

“Shh,” you were finally forced past the door and it slammed behind you, nearly catching your skirt.

You sat up and pulled on the door handle but it didn’t budge. You couldn’t pull up the locks and your fingers just slid down the switches. Even the windows wouldn’t roll down.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” you kicked the door desperately, “please--”

“Hurry up,” the passenger growled, “don’t wanna keep the boss waiting.”

“Hey! I’m talking to you--”

“And you better stop,” the driver pulled out a gun and turned to point it at you, “close those sweet little lips and be a good girl. We got a far way to go, doll.”

You swallowed and pushed yourself back against the vinyl seat. The driver turned forward and shoved the keys in the slot as the other bent around the console and reached to snatch your clutch from you. He wrestled with you for a moment then ripped it away. He took out your phone and waved it triumphantly as the car began to move.

“Please, what--”

“Don’t make me tell you to shut up again,” the driver warned as he focused on the road, “god damn maniac got me out in the middle of the night with this shit.”

“It’ll be a good cut,” the other man said, “can’t complain about a late night if I’m getting paid.”

“The boss? Who--”

“Fuck, you ever know when to shut up?” The passenger turned to glare at you, “you’re really not doing yourself any favours so please.”

He looked forward again and flipped on the radio. He turned the dial so you were deafened by the raucous tones of hair metal. You cradled your ears and huffed as you fell back against the seat. The street lights flashed down on the seat beside you as you passed and you shook your head.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. But the question still remained; who exactly was Clark Kent?

🎨

You screamed as the man dragged you out of the car. The other came around to grab your other arm as you swiped out with your nails. Your ankles bent under you as you tried to stop yourself on the mosaic stonework. The large mansion loomed over you in the dark, still night. The party was over and all the cars were gone.

You writhed as they forced you through the front door and you tried futilely to shake off the larger men. Your chest hammered with panic and you leaned back as you were dragged up the stairs. You grunted as you wriggled and hissed at how they twisted your arms back and held them firmly.

“Please, please, just let me go--”

“Well, doll, we’ve come this far,” the driver snickered, “you really think you can get out now?”

“I don’t-- who are you? Why are you doing this?”

You were dragged towards the pair of pale doors that stood open as they offered a peek of the studio within. The amber glow of a lamp washed over shadows and limned the lines of the overturned easel as you were taken inside. You whined as the men stopped just past the doors.

Clark sat in the same chair he sat in for your sessions. He smirked as his eyes fell upon you but your own skittered over to Marcus as he sat on the stool by the table of paints. You blinked and batted away tears of disbelief with your lashes. His eye was swollen and his lip split; thick rope held his wrists behind his back and coiled around his torso and legs.

“What--

“Let her go, close the door,” Clark demanded, “I can handle her.”

The moment the hands left your arms, you spun but an arm caught you swiftly around the waist. You were flung back so you sprawled across the floor. You cried out as you met the polished wood and your body rang with pain.

“Hey,” Clark warned and his footsteps neared you as you pushed yourself up on shaky arms, “that doesn’t happen again, got it?”

“Sorry, boss, I was just--”

“Go,” Clark barked as he knelt and took your arm.

The doors slid closed with a harsh snap and you hit Clark’s chest as he tried to pull you up to your feet. You dug your heels into the floor and pushed yourself away from him. You turned and got up on your knees. You climbed to your feet but he was quick to block your path to the doors.

“You left so suddenly,” he crossed his arms, “not even a goodbye?”

“Fuck you. Fuck both of you,” you sneered, “I heard your offer,” you paused and looked around at Marcus, “and I heard you too. I’m not a whore.”

“Sweetheart, I know you’re not,” Clark said patronizingly, “but apparently he doesn’t.”

“Whatever, let me go, I don’t want either of you,” you snarled.

You tried to brush past him and he grabbed your arms and backed you up. “Sweetheart, I don’t have to pay for it. Understand that. And we did settle on a deal but I’m not paying for your services.”

“What-- Why--”

“I’m paying him to watch,” Clark winked, “I want him to see how he fucked up. I want him to see what a real man can do for you.”

“I’m not interested,” you tried to shrug him off but he held firm, “get off of me, Clark. We’re done. I’m sending you your money back and I don’t want to see you again.”

“Where are you gonna go, huh? No job, no prospects, no money?”

“I did alright before you, I can take care of myself--”

“Sweetheart,” he framed your chin with his hand and leaned in, “this is where we make a deal of our own…” his blue eyes clung to yours as he lowered his voice, “you can go along with it and the boy gets to walk off with just a couple bruises or… he doesn’t leave this room on his feet.”

Your eyes rounded and your lip quivered. You sucked in air and steeled yourself.

“I told you, I’m done with both of you,” you hissed.

“Uh huh, but I know you’re not gonna let him die just like that,” he turned his hand and rubbed your cheek, “besides, neither of us are stupid. I saw how you look at me and you know what lies behind those eyes.”

“No, I don’t…” you uttered and looked back at Marcus. He squirmed on the stool helplessly as he stared at you intently, begging you silently as he bit down on the gag. “Why are you doing this?”

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he trailed his finger over your lower lip, “it’s okay. Haven’t I been good to you?”

“I can’t… please, don’t make me do this.”

“Come on, let’s sit down,” he dropped his hand as his other clung to your arm, “we have some things to sort out first.”

He pulled on you and you locked your legs. After a moment, your knees buckled and you let him lead you over to the chair. He sat and drew you onto his lap. You sat stiffly as his hand tickled your lower back and crawled up to pick at the straps of your dress.

“You see everything I have, everything I can do,” he said staunchly, “I can snap his neck as easily as I snap my fingers,” his other hand settled on your knee and squeezed. He nuzzled your shoulder and grazed your skin with his lips, “and even if it came to that, I’d still have you, sweetheart. This isn’t about what I get, I know my prize, this is about you and how you want things to go.”

You shuddered and shakily touched your neck. You hated the way his fingertips sent shivers through you and his lips made your stomach churn. You stopped his hand as it crawled up your leg.

“I… I only wanted to paint,” you said numbly.

“And did you really think that was all I wanted? A painter?” he scoffed and slipped his hand from beneath yours. He felt along the slit of the dress and shoved his hand beneath the fabric.

“I don’t… know…” you squeezed your thighs together as his fingers curled into your flesh.

“You really want to make this difficult? Sweetheart, you can’t even begin to know who I am and what I can do. This is just a taste.”

“Wh-why me?” you stuttered as he forced his hand between your legs and kneaded your flesh.

“Why not?” he replied.

He slapped your thick lightly and urged you off of him. You stood and he reached beneath his jacket as you wobbled on your weak legs and looked at Marcus desperately. He shook his head and let it slump down on his chest.

“Now, Marcus,” Clark revealed a dark pistol, “we talked about this. If you want your money, you don’t get to look away.”

You stared at the barrel as he pointed it at Marcus and lifted a brow. You flinched as your emotions swirled in your stomach and every one of your nerves was set alight.

“Sweetheart, you have one minute to make up your mind,” he pulled back the hammer, “as much as that looks gorgeous on you, I want you in only this.”

He pushed his fingers into his pants pocket and pulled out the diamond necklace. He held it out and the gems twinkled in lowlight. You swallowed and reached to take them from him.

“Who are you?” you asked as you hooked your fingers through the chain.

He chuckled and ran his fingers along his beard, “I’m exactly who you need me to be.”

#clark kent #dark clark kent #dark!clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #portrait of a dangerous man #mob au #au #mob!au #dc #dcu

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novaviis · 3 years

Text

sick!dick au. Bruce's POV. read in order here.

For most everyone else, it starts at the Gala.

For Bruce, it starts in a grey little office, with a stack of papers and a glitter pen.

Dick will confess after the fact to the fainting spell in the apartment he shares with Wally, and the months of progressively worse migraines, including an incident on patrol with Jason – and Bruce is none-too-pleased with that information being kept silent, but he picks his battles and this isn’t one of them. Still, looking back nearly everyone will unanimously agree that the night it really “began” was the Gala.

For Bruce, it begins when the social worker hands him a creased manila envelope. Inside is a birth certificate, a social security number, and an immunization record. Bruce looks through the contents of the envelope. Is this really it? Yes, he’s never exactly done this before, but he feels like there should be more. Guardianship of a child shouldn’t be reduced to three pieces of flimsy paper in an envelope. There’s a coffee stain on the corner. The social worker doesn’t really know what to say to that; this is just the way it is. She slides the rest of the paperwork across the table. Everything’s already been looked over by his lawyers, all he needs to do is sign. She pats her pockets, muttering to herself before bringing out a red glitter pen and sheepishly offering it to him.

Bruce is in his twenties. He’s impulsive with his compassion and he just witnessed another little boy watching his parents die. He knows he can give this boy what he needs. Or he’s going to try. But between the drive to bring this boy’s family justice and the need to heal a part of himself in the process, he’s somehow skipped over just how huge this is. He’s thought about it, of course, but always with the under current of doing whatever it takes to make it work. He was going to give the boy a home, give him the closure that Bruce never got, and maybe he’d save him from turning out like… well, like Bruce. Only now he’s staring down at Guardianship written in big block letters across the top of the stack, and it’s sinking in now that he’s not just taking the boy in. He’s going to be his family. And it doesn’t change a thing, his resolve doesn’t waver, because he knows he can give him a good life, but it’s that one word. Family. His family is starting out with a coffee stain, a stack of papers, and a glitter pen.

He signs the papers. Dick is already waiting outside with Alfred, who’s taken him to the small cafeteria down the hall. The boy hasn’t spoken much, in the days Bruce has taken to get to know him. Bruce had asked Alfred if he was like that – after. And Alfred had looked at him sympathetically, answered carefully. Yes, he was, in a sense. Bruce had been quiet. Shellshocked. Traumatized. But Bruce needs to remember that he had him, at least one steady presence in his life. Dick has no one. It’s going to take time.

It shouldn’t be so easy, Bruce find himself thinking over and over as they finish up. He tucks everything away into his briefcase, bears with the social worker smiling and shaking his hand and thanking him for doing such a good deed as if this is a charity stunt for publicity and she doesn’t seem to care either way. He asks again, just before he closes his briefcase, if she’s sure that there’s nothing else he needs. Report cards, keepsakes, family medical history, he doesn’t know. She shakes her head, all pleasant smiles. No, that’s all he came with – as if he’s a shelter dog. Bruce latches his suitcase shut.

Back then, it was just a passing thought. He doesn’t spare it another over the years, because he doesn’t need to. Time went on, Dick becomes an inseparable part of his life. Bruce will always silently maintain that Dick was the one to save him in the end. He’s not a perfect guardian, not a perfect father, and he makes more mistakes than he can count. They argue, they have fallings out, and still they always work through it – because they’re family.

And the issue of the family medical history does not resurface until that champagne gold night. Until he catches Selena watching him from across the ballroom, smiling behind the rim of her wine glass and cocking her head to tease him. Until, he’s distracted between secretively searching the crowds for her and forcing himself to smile and laugh with Gotham’s elite, so he doesn’t notice the commotion rising up on the other side of the room. Until his youngest son comes racing toward him through the crowd looking more scared and shaken than Bruce has ever seen him. Until he breaks through the ring of bystanders and sees Dick passed out on the floor, Wally kneeling over him beside himself with panic. Until the ambulance and the fury of the waiting room (making a mental not to raise absolute hell with the Hospital’s board of directors) and the doctor pulling him to a side room, a little grey office, to ask the dreaded question. All at once, it comes back to that moment, and Bruce sighs, scrubs his palm over his tired eyes. No, he doesn’t have Dick’s family medical history. It doesn’t exist. Realistically, it isn’t Bruce’s fault, but that has never stopped him from shouldering blame.

Selena reaches out in the following days it ask in on how Dick’s doing. Bruce is cordial, tells her that her concern is appreciated but Dick seems to be doing fine. And on the other side of the phone, he can hear her moving around her penthouse, maybe standing at the window – she’s glad to hear it. Let her know if he needs anything, if she can do anything to help. It’s early days then, and none of them know just how bad it’s going to get.

It’s a slow progression at first, and then it’s not. It’s months between seizures, a steady increase in migraines – but life goes on. It’s not as if Bruce is hovering every Dick at every second. He’s a grown man now, with a career and a home and a partner. Bruce supports him in any way he can, until it gets to the point that he has to make the hard call. The argument he has with Dick that night, in the study of Wayne Manor, is something he’ll never wash from his memory. He’s used to making the tough decisions. He’ll be the asshole if he has to, he can handle Dick’s anger, but he’s not going to allow him to take this much risk into the field. Benching Nightwing until they have a handle on this is a necessary call, but Dick is stubborn (who on earth did he learn that from), and unwilling to step down so easily. And as the argument reaches its fever pitch, Bruce pacing and ranting, listing off his rational, he hears Dick call his name in a wavering voice and it cuts through the background noise. Dick, the colour drained from his face, eyes unfocused, conceding that he’s about to lose this argument, will haunt him in the same way as the worst things he’s seen in the life he’s chosen. That’s the moment he knows that this isn’t just going to pass, the moment he bolts to catch Dick before he can topple forward and hit his head. This isn’t something they can wait out. He’ll never regret making the call, but he will always regret the way he put the pressure on Dick, as if he’d just made things worse.

The thing is, this lasts years. It becomes a part of all their lives – because it’s Dick. It isn’t all consuming, it doesn’t eat away at their thoughts every minute of the day, but it’s a resurfacing concern that’s rarely spoken about aloud. And Bruce sees how this changes his family. No one can say that the Wayne clan is the most well adjusted and healthy family, but Bruce does his best. He realises and appreciates now more than ever just how much work Dick put into keeping them all functioning. Keeping them together. He never thought he’d taken it for granted until then. It shouldn’t have taken this to bring the family closer together, but it does, and as much as Bruce hates that, he’s not going to fight it.

Time goes on. Still. It’s a slow progression at first, and then it’s not. Bruce is in a meeting with his chief executive officers when his secretary buzzes in over the speaker saying there’s a call for him on the line. He thanks her for letting him know and tells her to take a message. She says the young man is telling her it’s an emergency. One of the CEOs is about to launch into a presentation and Bruce doesn’t spare him a second thought. Picks up the phone, pushes away from the board table, and paces to the window. Wally’s voice comes through saying his name, shaken and urgent, rambling out sentences too fast for Bruce to hear.

Wally. Slow down. What happened?

He stopped breathing. Fuck, Bruce, he called me at work – sounded like a seizure so I ran home, but he – it didn’t stop, he wasn’t breathing.

That first night, after Bruce has sent his reluctant children home with Alfred, it’s just him and Wally left with Dick. The end of visiting hours is fast approaching. Bruce steps out to let Wally have his time with Dick, allows him some privacy. He eventually makes his way up to the terrace balcony on the upper floors, a green space with massive glass walls and an open ceiling. Fresh air for the first time in hours does wonders.

Selena is there. She approaches him from the other side of a low hedge, bundled up in a cashmere sweater and scarf – ones he bought her ages ago. When he asks how she knew, she smiles. She has her ways. Tim called her, didn’t he. Yeah, he did. They stand in silence for a while, staring out at the mosaic of lights against the persistent dark of Gotham, before she puts a hand on his arm. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, Bruce, she says, and the coy smile fades into sincerity. Come to me when you need to.

Three days after Dick is admitted to the ICU, Bruce calls Damian into the study. It’s late, they just got home from visiting an hour ago. They’ve been arguing a lot lately, before Dick went downhill. Mostly regular thirteen-year-old boy versus father arguing, but a few too many frustrated shouting matches in the Cave. Bruce can’t help but wonder if it’s in part because Dick hasn’t been there to act as a mediator. Still, the past few days have been quiet, if not tense. Damian complies when Bruce calls him down. He’s wearing a sweater he stole from Dick months ago, the bulk of it swallowing his smaller frame like a blanket. He has the sleeves rolled up, his hands in the front pocket, when he pauses in the doorway. Bruce gestures for him to sit across from him at the desk. He can see the way Damian is bracing himself for a lecture, wondering whatever it is he did wrong this time, as he takes his seat. Bruce, in his chair on the other side, watches him for a moment before deciding this won’t do. He stands, and pulls his chair next to Damian’s and pulls a file over from the other side of the desk.

Wayne Men are at a higher risk of Prostate Cancer as they get older. I get tested every few years. He tells him. My Mother’s side of the family, the Kanes, have a history of Crohn’s Disease. It’s prevalent in people of Ashkenazi Jewish decent. I’ve never had it, or had symptoms, so it’s unlikely that I passed it on to you, but not impossible. And when Damian stares back at him, he leans forward, presses his hand to his son’s shoulder. I want you to know these things, Damian. It’s important that you know your history.

And with any other child, it may have not been a good idea to have this conversation right then. Any other child may have been scared. But this is his son, and Damian is as frank and pragmatic about these things as he is, and Bruce knows that he will appreciate the honesty, knows that those questions have likely been rattling around in Damian’s head for a while now. They spend another hour that night talking about their family, beyond just medical history, and Bruce answers any questions Damian has.

Dick gets worse. Wally leaves to find answers. Bruce is doing everything he can; medical bills are nothing to him, he checks in on his children, calls in favours from the league to keep watch of Gotham when he’s needed at the hospital. It’s the most he’s ever relied on others in his entire life.

It’s just him in Dick’s room one night. He’s at the window when he hears Dick rasping his name. It’s been rare lately that he’s been coherent enough to really speak without being prompted, so he has Bruce’s full attention immediately. He crosses over to the bed, braces a hand over Dick’s. And Dick doesn’t say anything for a long while. His eyes are half closed. Bruce is close to assuming he’s fallen asleep, when Dick’s unsteady hand slides out from under his, and rests on top with a barely there squeeze. Dick is staring up at him. His voice his so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the monitors, but Bruce hears it.

Take care of Wally.

Bruce doesn’t waste time on don’t talk like that sentiments. He doesn’t tell Dick that he won’t need to, that he’ll be fine, because Bruce does not make promises he knows he cannot keep. He nods. He will. Dick doesn’t need to ask him to take care of the family, that much is an unspoken understanding, but if this is a piece of mind he can give Dick, it’s without hesitation.

He ends up at Selena’s door after visiting hours. She buzzes him in, and when she opens the penthouse door neither of them say a word. She guides him over to the couch, pours two glasses of good wine, and when she returns, he’s already got his face in his hand – not sobbing, not breaking down, just… exhausted. She isn’t sure Bruce knows how to break down anymore. In the end, she just sits with him. Rubs his back, tentatively at first, not sure if he’ll let her. Bruce not only does, but he shudders under her hand, allows himself to breathe with her, and it’s enough to let the pressure ease and the ache to come in. He allows himself feel to it.

Because that’s his son. That’s his first son. And he’s failed him.

Years from then, when this is all in the past, he’ll let it slip. It’s over a late night coffee with Dick in the Cave as they wrap up a case, near to the anniversary of the Dick’s surgery. Maybe it’s the string of late nights and no sleep wrecking his inhibition, maybe it’s something he needs to get off his chest. But Dick stares at him, goes quiet, sets down his coffee mug.

You did everything for me, Bruce. He says. You never failed me.

And, someday, Bruce will believe it.

#dickwally #batfam #sick!dick #I've wanted to do Bruce's POV for years and it just hit me in one sitting

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cherryjuicegf · 3 years

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66 and/or 72. I'm so glad you're back and writing Chrysa!!! 💖💖

thank you so much my dear, and thank you for this prompt!! also please accept this as a late birthday gift because i wanted so much to write something separate but my brain refused to work 😔 i hope you like it!! 💞💞

1.2k, tw implied sexual harassment

66. guiding them away from a situation that makes them uncomfortable & 72. giving them little nose kisses.

🌸 send me prompts 🌸

The banquet hall was flooding with life. Music had barely stopped from the time they got there. People were dancing and jumping like there's no tommorow, their laughter echoing in every wall of the mansion and maybe on the streets outside of it. The hall was impressive, drown in golden mosaics on the floor and walls that were made instead of using said gold to feed the starving people of the city. A banquet envied by the wealthiest lords, such was its splendor.

Geralt was suffering.

He was almost sure his doublet was at least one size smaller than his everyday clothes. There were no windows, it was too hot. Too loud. He had convinced himself that if the scent of lust coming from every corner of the hall became just a little bit stronger, he would burst. Or aard something else to make it burst. Either way, not a desirable outcome.

It's for Jaskier, he kept telling himself, it's only for Jaskier.

Said Jaskier was, however, nowhere to be seen. And this shouldn't make him nervous or anxious or sweating with concern, why should it? Only that, for the greatest part of the night, he had noticed a second pair of green eyes staring intensely at the bard. The first pair was his. Well, he had to admit it to himself some time. And the way Jaskier looked tonight, dashing in his silver doublet and charming smiles and sweeping the stage, he didn't have much hope denying it anyway.

He scanned the room. When his look returned to the same place it started, he clenched his fists. No Jaskier. Even worse, no green eyes. The man wasn't a cuckold husband, Geralt knew. He didn't want to kill Jaskier. And except for this case, there was only one alternative; he wanted to fuck him.

And Geralt shouldn't mind, of course he shouldn't. Strangely enough, he didn't even felt jealous. No, what he felt was afraid. Because in the man's eyes there was lust, no doubt. But there was also something else. And their dark shadow, when they met Jaskier's eyes, made the bard shiver.

And Geralt had seen it.

The scent of lust did become stronger eventually. And Geralt would curse the gods and then some, if he didn't realise that he could smell none of it inside the room. Instead, his gaze trailed to the wooden door some meters away from him, one of the many leading to the chambers. And his heart picked up its beat.

With quick steps, he approached and opened the door slightly. He waited for a moment. Listened.

Don't you think we should–

Come on now, I know you like it.

I'm actually–

Geralt cleared his throat loudly and closed the door with an accidental bang. The man in front of Jaskier jumped and turned around. He peered at Geralt and, seeing as the witcher stood tall in front of him, he smiled nervously.

Geralt tilted his head. "The bard is with me," he said in the most politely threatening voice he could muster. The man chuckled and raised his eyebrows in a defeated expression but Geralt's glare didn't let him utter a single word. Instead, he stepped back and passed beside him, disappearing behind the door. And Geralt turned to Jaskier.

And for a second, his heart fluttered. Not because Jaskier looked that bad and if he did, he did a good job in hiding it. But because the heavy scent of discomfort coming from him, the deep blush of his cheeks and the smile he never managed to fake in front of the witcher made Geralt commit otherworldly attempts not to run behind the man and grab him by the collar.

He didn't. He only stepped closer, seeing how Jaskier was still leaning on the wall, his body tense and raised his brows. "Everything okay?"

Jaskier looked at him as if he was just noticing his presence. After some seconds, as though forcing his mind to work, he nodded with a smile. "Yeah, perfectly fine."

Geralt hummed. In the darkness of the corridor, he could still see Jaskier's palms stuck on the wall behind him. He sighed and reached for his hand, holding it tight in his. He could feel its light tremble and he raised his look. Jaskier swallowed. With a snort, Geralt shook his head. "Come."

And pulled him away from the wall. And Jaskier followed. But this time, Geralt smelled no discomfort in the air, no fear. Only trust. And something else. Something that made his heart beat just a bit faster.

Soon, they reached the doors to the garden and stepped on the paved path, going out into the night. It wasn't cold, but cool enough for the breeze to hit their faces. Jaskier didn't seem to mind though. Geralt watched him as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He loosened his grip, but didn't let go. "What about now?"

Jaskier smiled and this time Geralt knew it wasn't fake. "Much better," he said and looked at Geralt with a gaze that made his knees plead to give in. Even like that, flushed in the most unfortunate way, he was beautiful. "Thank you for this. I felt like suffocating in there."

His eyes shone blue, brighter than the most precious of diamonds. Under the moonlight, Geralt discerned their wettness. Admittedly, it was not the first time this happened. But he would lie if he said it ever became any easier. He shook his head and as Jaskier's tears threatened to fall over his smiling facade, he stepped closer and took his face inside his hands. "Hey." Jaskier froze for a second. But then, as though starving, he leaned into the warmth of his touch. Geralt stroked his cheek with his thumb. "Don't fret now. He's gone."

Jaskier nodded with a small huff. Then looked at Geralt, the look in his eyes almost pleading. "Can you do me a favour, Geralt?" Geralt didn't answer, only raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. Jaskier bit his lip. "Can you stay close to me for the rest of the night?"

Struggling to ignore the redness of his lips and craving to suck the other man's taste from them, replace it with his own, Geralt smiled faintly. "Yeah, I can do that." He gazed at Jaskier with no special subtlety but damn it, he had drank a bit of wine to justify himself. The bard's nose had gone red from the cold. Without thinking, he leaned and placed a gentle kiss there. "If you want me to."

"But of cour– Geralt." Jaskier's eyes were wide now and slowly, embarassingly slowly, Geralt realised what he's done. And rushed to pull back, clearing his throat, but then Jaskier's hands cupped his on his face. Jaskier looked at him daringly, and raised an eyebrow. "Did you just kiss my nose, Geralt?"

A pause. "No."

Jaskier laughed and oh, what a beautiful sound. He batted his eyelashes, the idiot. "Can you do it again?"

Geralt wouldn't. He really wouldn't, because he had already gone too far making a fool of himself. But he was too close, and Jaskier's hands were warm and his lips– no, his nose looked so kissable. And what else can a man do? So Geralt slowly leaned in and once more, he kissed his nose. And Jaskier giggled and whispered 'again' and really, who was Geralt to refuse? He kissed again with a smile, and again, small, soft kisses that made his lips tingle.

And Jaskier laughed silently under him, his hands holding Geralt's tight, until he met Geralt's eyes again and shook his head. "Stupid, stupid witcher."

And, smiling, he pressed their lips together.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #fic recs #101 ways to say i love you with actions prompts #samstree #prompt fill

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