#pock posts a thing

[hockpock]

I'm having a lot of thoughts that other people will probably say much more succinctly, elegantly, humorously. But they're worth saying.

They may have won an election. They haven't won you. Scared , angry, stupid people cannot turn back the clock to a time that never existed and they can't put the wimmin and the queers and the [slurs redacted] back into Pandora's box.

Grieve. Scream cry throw up, stay in bed for a day, burn some shit.

But fuck em. Don't let them win you.

Find your community, hold on tight, be safe. Be. Exist as hard as you can. Because fuck em, because you are not alone, because even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

Please.

[hockpock]

it's nearly that time

Flaming Gavle Goat Ornament Tutorial

You Will Need:

Craft felt in light brown or 'straw' color of choice, red, yellow and orange

Red ribbon in 2 widths

Thread- I used red and yellow; brown, orange or white would give different effects

scissors

Needle for hand sewing

pins or quilter's clips

polyfill stuffing or fabric scraps

a poking implement

a lighter or Fray check glue

paper and pencil

patience / approx 2 hours to waste making a meme for the holidays

To start, I drew a rectangle approx 3.25 in wide by 4 in high and sketched out a geometric goat shape. You could go a bit larger, but if you go much smaller it will be difficult to stuff. Remember that the sewing and stuffing will eat up some of your edges.

Cut out your goat template and trace it on your light brown felt. I used chalk, marker may work depending on how neatly you cut.

(I'll add a nice vectored template to this tutorial later, but I'll have to fight with the scanner first. )

Cut 2 of your goat. It doesn't matter if they're not exactly the same, as you can fudge the edges a little when you sew. If your felt has a front and back you can tell apart, you'll need to pick a "right" side of the fabric and mirror one of the goat base pieces.

I cut my ribbon decorations in advance, wrapping it around the stacked bases to check the length - remember you'll be stuffing this later so you may need to add a tiny bit more to accomodate.

Out of the wider ribbon, you'll need one for each leg, one for the tummy and one for the bridle. The thin ribbon will be to hang the ornament with and to wrap the horns- I did not pre-measure the horn wrapping because I wasn't sure how long it would need to be. Finish the cut edges of the ribbon as you like- I used a lighter to heat seal them but fray check or white glue will work. Glue will be more difficult to sew through.

Start sewing the goat bases together. I used red thread and a basic whip stitch, but you could get a couple different effects by using white or brown thread, or by sewing a blanket stitch.

Here's where I made life difficult for myself- stop when you get to the legs and wrap the ribbon in place, tucking the ends in between the layers. This secures them and hides the edges but is fiddly to pin and sew. You can also wait until you have sewn most of the way around and tack or glue the ribbons on top if you're less fussy about the ends showing.

Continue sewing around the legs and body, catching the ribbons in your stitches and repeating for the bridle ribbon. Stop at the base of the horns so you have room to stuff.

I'm working with modern plastic materials, so sadly (or not) this goat isn't terribly flammable, just meltable. If you want to be eco friendly you can stuff him with scrap fabrics. I'm using polyfill.

Use a chopstick, paintbrush handle or empty mechanical pencil to poke your stuffing into place. Smaller lumps of fluff are better and more maneuverable.

For firmer limbs stuff chopped up bits of your felt into the legs and head and follow it up with the polyfill.

My original plan for the removable flame was to do clever things with magnets, so if you want to give that a try this would be the point to toss one in before you close up the body. I was on a roll and didn't remember until I was working on the horns. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Remember you still need to put the tummy ribbon on and curse your clumsy giant fingers!! Getting everything situated and laying nicely may take a couple attempts. Once you've stabbed yourself with the pins a couple times, sew up the inner curve from the base of the horns on the neck to where the horns meet up again on the butt.

Be careful of where your thread tail goes and the direction of your stitches, it's easy to accidentally loop around the whole body or catch the horns.

There should still be a bitty opening at the base of the horns and at the butt (giggle here), if you flattened your stuffing during the last step and need to poke a teensy bit more in.

Tie your length of hanging ribbon into a loop and set aside.

This is another step where my need to hide the edges made life stupid and fiddly. Tuck the edge of a length of the thin ribbon between the layers on the bottom of the horns and wrap it around, and tack in place with a couple stitches. Loop it a couple of times until you get to the point you want to hang the ornament: I chose dead center, you may want him at a jaunty angle.

Fiddle with bendy felt, slippery ribbon and pins until your hanging ribbon's knot is sandwiched between the 2 layers of the horns and continue wrapping with the loose long piece, securing with pins or clips as needed and hopefully not making a big tangled mess of ribbon.

When you get to the end wrap it around a couple times and cut off any extra length, seal your ribbon and pin or clip into place.

Sew along remaining curves of the horn, making sure not to yank the hanging ribbon out of place and to catch the wrapping ribbon as you go. Accept there's no good way to tuck in this !$@!%%^$ slippery 1/8th BS ribbon and tack the butt end down with a few extra stitches.

Alternately, tack the hanging ribbon in place between the layers, sew the edges and then wrap and secure the horn ribbon with stitches or glue at either end. You could also skip sewing the edges of the horns together before wrapping them, but it will be more sturdy and secure with them sewn.

The fun part! fold some paper in half and draw your flames on the fold. Mine were a little over 2 in tall, and they should be a little smaller than the back of your goat at the base in order to fit in place. Cut out your fire and use it as a template for your felt.

The base layer will need to be on cut on the fold but the rest can be separate. Use as many or as few layers and colors as you like, it doesn't have to match exactly on both sides. You'll be folding this up so that you have 2 decorative sides facing out and a plain inside, so you'll be making two mirrored flames while it's still flat: one pointing up and one pointing down. Sew or glue the layers together.

I used a hidden stitch about a third of the way up from the bottom on the inside of the flame to pinch the sides together and pull it up into a V shape. This can be tucked up into the gap between the body and the horns and will hold itself in place pretty well if you have thick felt.

For more security/ shaping you could sew a loop of craft wire or an opened paperclip to the back side of the flame, or as previously mentioned do clever things with magnets.

Hang him on the tree with or without flames and enjoy!

Options for enjoying your handcrafted goat:

Pin the Flame on the Goat: Hide goat ornament on tree and give your participant (s) the flame (s), first to put them together wins.

Art Imitates Goat: Keep the flames to the side until/ if the real goat burns, and then apply to ornament. Celebrate with hot cocoa or warm winter drink of choice.

Voodoo Goat: Real Gavlebocken hasn't burned yet? Summon the flames by setting your ornament on felt fire! Celebrate with hot cocoa or warm winter drink of choice.

[gifti3]

its kinda disappointing how many ideas ill have but how many ill actually be able to engage with

[hockpock]

Made a sideblog for kitten spam

Sleepy baby

[lonesomedovescry]

Why did the grief taste like salt and iron?

You washed gritty bits of sand out of your mouth with a slug of whiskey. The burn warmed you from you deep in your stomach, spreading to your half-frozen toes. Your tent did little to nothing to spare you from the Grizzly chill, and your blankets cared just as much to keep you warm.

It had been months since the fallout of the San Denis Bank robbery. The camp fell into chaos and in your hurry to find Arthur yourself, you had lost everyone in camp as well as your lover. Your friends. Your family. They were as good as gone. Your search of Shady Belle proved fruitless, and your hunt for folks had turned you North.

Not a whisper. Not a word.

You stood up, back popping with satisfying cracks, and began to dress for another day’s ride. Off to strawberry, to sell the wolf pelts that lay rolled on the inside of your tent. The last buckle is fastened and you step out into the chill moisture of dawn, where a watercolor wash of blue tints the landscape.

You approach your mare with whispered words of greeting and feed her the remainder of your apples. You’d have to go to the grocery store while you were there as well. A twinge of pain as you remember the last time you were there with Arthur — he had bought you a new pair of boots. Deep brown leather, ornate stitching, and slightly pointed at the toe.

A small ‘A’ was branded onto both heels.

The ride to Strawberry was peaceful despite the distant roar of bears. Unlike the chaotic streets of San Denis you rarely had to concern yourself with the danger of passing people. It was the wolves and the mountain lions you had to be wary of, and it was easy enough to put a bullet between their eyes before they got too much meat off of you.

Men had a hunger for much more. In the wild, you can trust that the animals only want one thing.

You told Arthur as much on one of the evening rides to a nearby wildflower meadow the both of you were fond with. His grim agreement sent chills down your spine, the dark flickering of rage in his eyes, a look you so rarely had seen before.

You thought of his face as you stowed away your wares from the grocery store. The boyish sweetness he had somehow clung onto despite years of robbing and killing. The softness of his turquoise eyes whenever he looked at you, the shape of his sinful mouth. The scars that flecked his aging skin. Every fine line was perfectly where it should be.

He would laugh riotously when provoked. The sound of it had always brought water to your eyes.

“Hey, you!”

A voice snapped you at your of your daze. A haggard looking man strode down the narrow street, pock marked face flush with the kiss of liquor.

“You lookin’ for somebody?”

“Who’s asking?” You replied.

“Some gentlemen paid me to keep an eye out for you.” The man replied. “Told me to tell you all roads lead back to Valentine.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What’d this man look like?”

“Tall. Brown hair and beard. Blue eyes.” The man got a faraway look in his gaze, as if he was going back to that very moment. “Scar on his chin. Paid me quite a lot, told me to lay off the booze in the meantime so I wouldn’t miss ya, but I found ya didn’t I? Ole’ Itchy still sharp as a needle even a pint deep. I always had a —“

But you stopped listening, the roar of blood in your ears. He was talking about Arthur.

He was looking for you.

You have Itchy a quick thanks and freed your mare from the post before launching yourself into the saddle. A quick press of your heels and the mare was barreling forward and out of the streets of Strawberry, dust and curses of townsfolk on her tail.

You could’ve wept from the joy. You could’ve wept from the relief.

But you didn’t. You kept your face as hard as stone as you worked your mare as hard as you could, sweat lathering on her flank, hooves drumming a rhythm into the ground. The ground between Strawberry and Valentine was devoured and soon the smell of lanolin and manure came onto the wind.

The blur of the train station. The shape of the hillside church.

You ground the mare to a stop and tied her near a trough to let her cool down. Your heart was beating a mile a minute. Where could he be? You looked around you, eyes darting left and right, taking in everything yet nothing. You barely saw the faces of the people around you yet you knew none of them was Arthur. You’d know him if you had died.

“Y/N?”

That voice. You snapped around, heart in your throat.

“Arthur?” You called, still unseeing. Your voice was shaking as if afraid. Adrenaline was turning your blood to sugar water.

“Y/N!”

There, at the end of the street, racing past the saloon. His face was red and puckered by the sun, and his hair was much longer, but it was him. It was Arthur. You felt like flying suddenly — weightless. The closer he came to you, the more you couldn’t move.

When he was only a few paces away your knees buckled and you fell to the ground, knees hitting the dirt with a bark of pain, and then he was there with you. Warm hands grabbed the sides of your face and beheld you for his searching gaze. The desperation and relief in his features broke the damn inside you and you began to cry.

“Arthur.” You whimpered, and reached for him. Arthur laughed breathlessly and kissed you hard, teeth clashing. Again. And again. And again. He kissed your face, drew his arms to your waist and crashed your body against his. One large hand cradled the back of your head, the other on your waist, and for a moment you both sat together in the street and trembled in relief.

—-

YEARNING

[rainychaoloveshack]

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ  𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

⋆°•☁︎ content . shadow x gn!reader, fluff to light angst, bad ending. reader is slightly implied to be human (and was written with a human reader in mind), but can be read with a mobian reader. also a crazy slow burn

☂︎ w/c 2k

☂︎ a/n.  hi! im so sorry for not posting. im still trying to get my writing drive back, and want to get some original works out before i work on some of those requests. either way, thank you for waiting! made this one extra long compared to normal to make up for it

This sucks.

Your eyes drift into a haze, staring deeply at the dark, hot liquid held between your fingers, feeling the heat seep through your frozen, shaky palms as you try to think of your next move, your mind muddled.

Just your luck; thirty minutes ago you had just missed the last train of the night, left to wander the streets looking for a place to stay, allured by the warm lights of a closing bakery. The owner must’ve felt bad for you, and decided to give you a handout; not that you’re ungrateful at all. The croissant's chocolate inside practically melts in your mouth, and paired with the somewhat mediocre closing-time coffee, it’s a match made in heaven, even with your taste buds burnt off from the sheer excitement of drinking something warm.

After the euphoria wore off, sitting down to think felt like the only thing you could do in the haze of the pure white clouds overhead, painting over the sky as frost sprinkles down to paint the town. You bring your head up to gaze at the shops across the park, still lost in thought as your fingers clutch around the cup tighter, seeking its warmth. 

There aren’t any hotels nearby that are close enough to walk to in this frost, let alone to walk home altogether. Maybe a taxi? But there aren’t any this late. And with the distance between here and your home, it’d be at least over 50 bucks, and spending that much on one ride…

Your thoughts jumble together, face scrunching up at your predicament with a frown. Calling someone is really your only choice, if anyones even awake. Maybe Sonic’s out late. 

Your numb fingers slip your phone out of your back pocket, tapping at the screen to try and spring it to life. Once the screen flickers awake, your eyes drift to the upper right hand corner, locking onto the red battery symbol.

Oh.

You immediately tap whichever contact pops up first on your phone without thinking, bringing it up to your ear and pleading under your breath for someone to pick up, but the ringing clicks off, and your phone shuts down. Awh, damn. You curse rather loudly once the screen turns black, letting out a long sigh.

… Payphone it is then. There was one on your way to sit down at the park, the bright, bold red already sticking out in your head. When life gives you lemons, yeah, you make sickly sweet lemonade. Surely. Now, for the change you have in your other pock-

���You. You called me.”

A voice calls out from beside you, strangely gruff, somewhat grumpy, like they’re taking pity on you. You turn your head and nearly jump at the familiar face, signature black and red quills standing out, paired with a deep brown trench coat and dark red scarf amidst the pure white snow, a small bag in his hand, his expression ever so stern. He ran over here to answer your call this fast?

“I was just about to leave. You… Didn’t see me walking up to you?” The disbelief and expression in his voice is astonishing for someone of his character, eyes widening in genuine surprise. Not a peep leaves your mouth, but a bashful smile spreads across your lips. Guess you really should’ve noticed him, huh?

Shadow’s lips part in a short sigh, eyes narrow at your embarrassed reaction, grazing over to the bits of snow piled up on your coat. “What’re you doing out here this late?” His tone’s somewhat rough, but his demeanor softens, noticing the way your body is shaking under the snowfall. The tips of his ears perk up, waiting for your answer.

With that, you explain what happened, your mouth and words muffled with the last bites of the croissant you found comfort in. Simple as that, though to him, you probably look idiotic. And soon enough, Shadow’s expression shifts into displeasure as your words pour out, a scowl forming across his lips as you get to the part where you tripped and stumbled into a snow pile.

“So that’s why…” He trails off, looking you up and down at your snow-covered body with a shake of his head. “Nevermind.” With a wave of his free hand, he turns away from you as if to walk away, but the most his body does is shift around, with his eyes cast towards some of the closed shops nearby. Silence permeates between you two, before your lips part to ask him why he’s even here this late, but judging by his now solemn expression, you can already assume why. Must’ve been on a mission for-

“Rouge.” Shadow says through gritted teeth, his back still turned, with his ears swiftly folding back at the mention of the bat. Yeah, that’s totally something she'd tell him to do; fetching her sweets and whatever she wants. Was he her errand boy tonight?

You have to hold back a snicker at how grumpy he looks, cupping your hand over your mouth to try and stifle it, but his ears turn barely in your direction, twitching at the sound of your laughter. With a short clearing of your throat, your joy dies down, and another question springs to life in your head, pointing to his bag. It’s been itching at the back of your brain this whole time, and you make a small grabby motion with your hand to signal your urgency to know.

“Oh.” He mutters, strangely soft compared to his other words as he raises his fist, still clutching the shopping bag in his hand. “It’s…” You notice how his lips press together as he forms his response. “Coffee beans. And cake.”

That’s it? You expected another article of clothing there, maybe for Rouge, but sweets?

It’s strangely cute. For a hedgehog like him.

“What’s wrong with it?” He can already see the growing smile on your face, and he wants nothing more than to tell you off for it, but another piece of himself wants to see it more. Shadow grumbles incoherently as you snicker, somewhat flustered at your signs of affection for him. “...Rouge asked me to pick up a slice for her. It’s from that new bakery that just opened.”

Oh! The one you went to! You tilt your now empty coffee cup up to look at the symbol on the front, then gesturing back to the bag with an excited grin. Shadow’s frown increases, but his eyes go soft, letting his hand fall back down loosely to his side, the bag hitting against his leg. 

“The croissant. How was it?” Stepping forward, Shadow points to the corner of your mouth, causing your head to tilt slightly in confusion. He sighs. “You have leftover chocolate there.”

You waste no time to swipe the chocolate off, thanking him for the heads up, and he returns your gratefulness with a short grunt as you enjoy the last remnants of your sweet adventure, but your smile falters, if only for a moment.

This is a meaningless conversation between you two, but with Shadow, it feels like a rare moment you have to savor forever. It’s Shadow, THE Ultimate Lifeform you’re talking to, yet the topic of conversation is cutesy sweets and cake! A chuckle starts to break out in your throat again, your chuckles growing into laughter as it pours out through the form of frosted air. You try to explain your joy to a very confused hedgehog standing in front of you, his red eyes piercing into your struggling form. His ear twitches as you catch your breath, quickly exhausted from the surrounding temperature. Once your laughter dies, he sighs and extends his free hand towards you. And you take it immediately, his warmth ever so alluring.

Such is the mystery of him. Even with carefree moments like this.

“Get up. I’ll get Rouge to come over. She’ll take you home on the way back.”

Swaying your body back and forth onto the concrete under your feet, you balance back onto your heels, right to the tips of your toes, then back down again, trying to ignore the brisk wind that just passed the both of you by as you wait for Rouge to arrive, force to huddle under the closed bakery’s curved awning. It’s fun to notice that not even Shadow, with his fur and all, is spared by Mother Nature and her torment, his muzzle scrunching up into a scowl, bringing his scarf up closer to his face.

He really should wear scarves and coats more. It’s customary and normalized for male mobians to not wear clothing, that you know. But it always felt like such a waste. Subconsciously, a grimace spreads across your lips, brows furrowing at your thoughts of mobian fashion. What a shame.

“Is something wrong?” Huh? Your expression clears up at his words, the hedgehog turning his head to face you. “You were staring.”

Oh? Oh gosh, you were. But you deny it with a small shake of your head, trying your best not to look away from him, since he’ll see it as an admission of guilt.

“Yes, you were.”

You cross your arms, shaking your head again, more firmly this time as if to push your point. Uh-uh.

“You-” Shadow’s ears flatten with a growl, shaking his head and glancing away with an annoyed click of his tongue once a small grin breaks out on your face, enjoying the rare back-and-forth banter between you both, no matter how brief. “Sometimes I really question why I even bother to talk to you.”

You hug yourself as you stare him down, offended by his blatant statement of contempt. Are you that bad now?

All he does to respond is let out a soft grunt, still refusing to meet your eye. “Try your best not to bug me until Rouge gets here.”

Letting a soft exhale of frustration leave you, you stand back upright and clasp your hands together, staring off into a flickering street lamp, the amber glow doing little to illuminate its surroundings.

Even more frustrating, the silence between you two is deafening.

“... Do you like it?” Shadow says suddenly, your eyes grazing over him as he pulls his scarf down, finally going over you with a soft expression, despite the tone that his words usually carry. “The coat.” His voice softens, too. You nod your head immediately at his question, and the corners of his lips twitch upward. But before you can internally savor the fact that you almost got him to smile, another cold gust of wind brushes up to you two, forcing a grimace on him instead.

It’s so damn cold. Too cold.

“Wh-What’re you-”

Your body leans and presses against Shadow's body, wrapping your numb arms around him with a soft sigh, as he watches your breath leave in a sheer cloud of white before his eyes. His ear twitches at the sound of your exhale, tilting his head in your direction to-

Oh.

Oh. His fur’s so soft.

Your body freezes up on the realization that Shadow’s cuddling closer, nuzzling his head your way for a second or two. The smell of his cologne hits your senses like a truck, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to not react outwardly in favor of his reaction. He comes off to notice his slip-up and backs away, letting your arms fall loosely to your sides in awe.

“It’s… It’s cold. Obviously.” He huffs, red eyes darting away to watch the road for Rouge’s arrival, yet nothing makes its way down the plaza’s street. “Where is she? Damn bat.” Shadow snarls out, strangely fierce despite the situation, digging his hand into his trench coat’s pocket to pull out his phone, but your hand wrapping around his wrist stops him before he can make the call. Your now warm palm pushes against his inhibitor ring, feeling the sheer frost it’s accumulated throughout the night, but you don’t care.

His thumb pauses above the call button, peering up to meet your gaze. “What?” He starts, but cuts himself short as he notices the look in your eyes, the anger dissipating from his face almost instantaneously. As your hand makes its way to his, gently pulling the phone out of his grasp. His expression’s absolutely unreadable finger twitching in your grasp as he stares at you in shock.

Before he can utter another word, inhaling his chest puffing up and mouth opening to do so, one of his ears flicks and turns to the way of the street, ripping his arm out of your grasp roughly, phone in his hand, grasped so tightly that you thought it might've broken just now. Your hand jerks back in surprise at the sudden action, but you finally notice what he sees.

A sleek, luxury black car rolls up beside the bakery, window rolling down to see a bat as white as the snow give you two a seductive wink, showcasing her signature cerulean eyeshadow. She seems to be dressed in a sleek bathrobe; probably interrupted halfway through a skincare routine to come and pick you and Shadow up.

“Get in, sweeties.” She hums, unlocking the doors with a small click. “Sorry for taking so long.” Rouge gestures towards Shadow with a smug smile on her face. Shadow scoffs and steps forward, grabbing a hold of the door handle to pop it open for you. But before you step inside, you freeze for a second to register the knowing look in his eyes, a small wince growing as he notices your hesitation, but you say nothing and just take your seat inside, looking down at your hands in your lap as he shuts the door.

At this point, maybe walking home would’ve been the better option.

[photo1030]

Heyyy I have a suggestion to make it’s kinda stupid whatever so it takes place at the mayor’s party where Arthur Morgan and Dutch is meeting mr Bronte and reader come running to Mr Bronte for some random reason and sense she’s wearing a corset she can’t get all the air in her lungs AND SHE PAST OUT so Arthur or Dutch (I LUV THEM BOTH teehee) gotta RIPS her out the corset.. that’s all I got LOVE YOUR WRITING BTWW MWAH! ❤️❤️❤️

Hi there @lizzie2980 So sorry this has taken me forever. Thank you for being so kind and patient (and hopefully still interested?) This was a great prompt, had a lot of fun with this one.

This is a bit out of the canon story, hopefully that is OK. This is a little bit of flirty and protective Arthur, with a smidge of charming Dutch in there...lovely combo, if you ask me....which you did...(This is not part of my existing fic, Leather and Lace, btw)

(The images used here were found on a lovely blog that is apparently designed to help fanworks. Check it out! Thank you to whoever put that together. https://reddeadreference.tumblr.com/post/679731317406072832/the-gilded-cage )

*Special thanks to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

DON’T MAKE A SCENE 

Summary:  You are at Angelo Bronte’s house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.

Your hands clamp down tighter as the plump elderly matron apologetically yanks the strings of the restrictive corset. Nails of already shaky fingers dig into the wooden bedpost that you use to support yourself with as you stand on wavering feet. You wince on the verge of painful tears as Bridget stands behind you and pulls the threads of the already too tight garment even tighter still, testing the limits of its stitching and causing a gasp to quickly get sucked into your folded-up lungs with each pull.

Sunset has already begun, the brilliant orange disc settling itself softly behind the horizon line for the day, and your room slowly dims to a pastel dusk as you get ready, the wall sconces glowing against the ivory painted walls of your lavish private quarters inside Angelo Bronte’s mansion. The garden party below will be starting any minute, and the shadows that dance along the walls inside the house mask the dread inside your chest. It is as if your hope and spirit are diminishing with the quickly-fading sun. You are hoping that Bridget doesn’t see the trepidation creeping into your expression as she flits about you, but the older woman is too shrewd for that. 

“You know...Mr. Bronte…he isn’t going to wait much longer for you”, she murmurs as her weathered fingers begin to run over your frame, smoothing out the fabric of your dress, picking at errant threads. “He will eventually want what he feels he is due.”

The obvious statement hits your gut like a prize-fighter’s punch. “I know,” you utter with a dejected sigh, your voice almost a whimper in the air.

The thought of the man’s pock-marked, oily skin against your own makes you sick to your stomach. It would be like a vile lizard rubbing up against you. 

But Bridget is not unsympathetic to your situation. She is definitely a woman of experienced years, as the graying hair of her loosely tied-up bun gives testament to. And she knows a thing or two from her twenty-some years in service to upper-society households. 

“You know, sometimes when you’re a woman, you just have to do what you have to do. Close your eyes and let your mind go somewhere else when it’s happening.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air as if speaking about the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “Just tune it all out, let the man have his way, and then it will all be over quickly. In fact, it’s usually over quicker than you think.” She gives you a whimsical wink as a sharp cackle snaps out of her throat at her own joke. Whether Bridget is speaking specifically about Bronte, or any man for that matter, you are not sure, as this seems to have the feel of a rehearsed speech she has given many times over.

When Bridget sees the distaste of such a thing clearly coating your face as you silently stand there with your hands fidgeting over themselves, she continues.

“If you’re clever enough, you could let him have what he wants, but then have something for yourself on the side, you know.” 

Your eyes immediately shoot up to hers to find that knowing twinkle in her eye. The thought causes a humorless huff from your lips. 

“I can barely manage to look after myself, Bridget. I couldn’t manage that cat-and-mouse game.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and continues to primp and preen your outfit. 

Despite the odd advice, you are grateful for Bridget’s counsel. She is the only friend you have here in Angelo Bronte’s mansion. You are not a hostage per se, but he has made his opinions very clear on how he feels about a woman, especially one indebted to him, leaving the premises to socialize without him as your escort and chaperone; so improper, so ungrateful. 

It is especially warm tonight on the evening of the garden party that Mr. Bronte has been planning for weeks now. The whole household buzzes with excitement and anticipation for the fancy event, despite the sweltering weather. St. Denis is dreadfully hot and muggy, making it difficult to breathe on a good day. You’re not used to such heat. You come from the northern state of Massachusetts, which is much cooler. The heat here is bad enough, but the humidity clings to the air like a wet blanket. 

And this damn dress doesn’t help in the slightest. 

The dress that Angelo Bronte hand-picked for you to wear tonight is way too tight, making you lightheaded already. You watch in the full-length mirror as the constricting fabric pulls your body into shape under Bridget’s strong, able fingers, transforming your voluptuous figure into an hourglass. A deep midnight blue hued fabric that shimmers in the light is cut to hug and accent your physique, leaving little to the imagination of the observer. 

If the origins of the dress weren’t so distasteful, you may have very well liked the beautiful gown that currently clings to your form and drapes over your hips in a cascade of silk. But you know Bronte did not provide this gown to please you. No, he did it for his own inflated ego. Bronte will parade you around tonight like a prized horse out of his stable, showing you off to all in tonight’s attendance. And he’ll treat you as such too - like something he’s purchased and owns outright.

You curse yourself for letting yourself get into this situation. You hate that you have to rely on this man for a place to live. You arrived new to St. Denis a month ago and were promptly robbed upon arrival, leaving you with nothing. So much for civilization. 

Bronte noticed you at the train station, frazzled and lost, and totally beside yourself as to what you would do now. You came here with no relatives, no contacts, just the promise of jobs and new adventure out West from an ad you saw in the newspaper back home. The man quickly made your acquaintance, preying like a vulture on your vulnerable situation. He was charming with a note of authority, like he knew exactly what to do and where to go. But it quickly became apparent that he offered you his home as a sanctuary in hopes to win your affections. You’ve managed to play coy for awhile, however, agreeing to be on his arm and accompany him to various social functions in town in exchange for residency in his home. But you have denied the man what he wants most - you in his bed. 

An involuntary sigh passes your cherry lips as Bridget takes your hand in hers, patting it in the same way a grandmother comforts her troubled grandchild, and leads you to the vanity along the opposite wall so she can set your hair. Your body mindlessly drifts to the tapestry-padded stool, like a lost flower petal in the wind, void of any energy or enthusiasm. 

Bridget’s nimble fingers curl your hair and pin it back to showcase your pretty face, adding in beautiful crystal clips for decoration and she even weaves a few flower buds from the garden into your locks. You sit silently in front of the vanity mirror with a blank stare, a melancholy overtaking your soul as you watch her prepare you to be the perfect accessory to the rich man’s life. The motherly woman’s presence comforts you, but she is also serving you up to the master of the house like a slice of beef on a silver platter for him to devour. 

“There, now. Don’t you just look breathtaking?” she breaths in awe. The deep-set lines around Bridget’s hazel-colored eyes crinkle as she admires her masterpiece. Your eyes refocus to catch the old woman’s proud gaze in the mirror, and then back over your own reflection.

“Yes, Bridget,” you whisper with a sad smile, your lower lip quivering just slightly. “You did a fine job. Thank you for your help tonight.” She catches the reluctance in your fluttering eyes and can only nod in agreement. She lovingly pats your arm in an attempt to comfort your growing uneasiness. 

“Well, I had better get downstairs and tend to the kitchen, then. Don’t hide up here too long, miss.” And she wipes her hands on her apron as her wide hips carry her to the bedroom door before she slips out and you are alone with your thoughts once again. 

With a deep sigh, you haul yourself up to stand. You swish the heavy fabric of your dress-skirts to the side to allow you to amble over to the balcony doors of your private room. Pulling the double-doors open wide with both hands, you step out onto the freshly painted wood as a rush of humid air hits you like a wall, causing you to take a brief pause to try to catch your breath. Your hands eventually find their place upon the smooth railing as you step up to the edge to look out over the balcony at the garden party below. 

Jovial music floats up to your ears from the string quartet that is playing on the patio beneath you. String lights delicately criss-cross over the open garden area, resembling a net that has caught a thousand fire-flies. Bronte’s guests have already started to arrive and their chatter fills the air, alternating with the clinks of champagne flutes. You casually observe as greedy fingers grab at the delectable food and free alcohol that is meticulously displayed along elegant tables that dot across the property, the delicious aromas wafting through the evening air. 

The scene laid out before you is like a page out of the society section of the newspapers. Always over-the-top, always impressive, Angelo Bronte spares no expense in his functions. Decadent food, expensive wines, extravagant decor. Always to impress the upper echelon of society. And yet, you have no desire to mingle with the high-society of St. Denis. From what you’ve seen, it’s hardly impressive to you. 

You watch with disinterest over the crowd, observing from the elevated vantage point as people collect in small groups, then turn to whisper to each other like conniving socal piranhas the moment one of the fold turns to leave to join another circle. With a scornful roll of your eyes, you have no idea how you are going to make it through this evening unscathed. 

And then, a collection of unknown men catch your eye. You’ve never seen them in Bronte’s circle before. And they clearly don’t belong. Under closer observation, this is an assembly of rugged looking gentlemen, a sharp contrast to the other guests in attendance tonight. Though they may have donned fancy tuxedos and hats, the way they carry themselves indicates they are not used to wearing such garb. Their eyes nervously shift all around instead of at whoever is addressing them as if more interested in what is happening around them rather than trying to assert social connections. Your bottom lip gets pulled between your teeth as your curious gaze lingers on them, trying to determine if they were invited or snuck in with the crowd.

As if he can feel your eye on him with the sixth sense of a trained outlaw, Arthur instinctively looks away from the men he is standing with and looks up towards the balcony of the great house and notices you. He doesn’t smile or even move for that matter, other than a single eyebrow lift as if in confusion. Your breath catches a bit at being caught staring. But yet you cannot bring yourself to break eye contact with the startling blue eyes gazing back at you from across the garden. And you can’t help the soft smile that blooms across your blushing cheeks at the ruggedly handsome man. 

When the mystery man eventually turns his attention back to his companions, you shake your head back to reality and decide you’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to begin to make your way down to the garden party and get this over with. You leisurely stroll along the length of the wrap-around balcony of the house to the stairs that will carry you down to the patio. Your hand has to grip the railing of the staircase as you walk, as your dress is so tight that descending the stairs makes you out of breath. The boning of the corset digs painfully into your ribs and hipbones as you move. Such a dreadful, masochistic thing, you wonder why on earth women put themselves through such torture for the sake of fashion. Once at the bottom, you attempt to take a deep breath, bringing your fingertips to your temples before bracing yourself to join the guests. 

First order of business, you scan the crowd to locate your host. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually lock-in on him when you hear his boisterous, condescending laugh echoing over the throng of people. Angelo Bronte really is a toad of a man. And despite his money and power, he is rather socially inept. Maybe it’s the fact that he's not from this country. Or maybe society is held differently in Italy. But either way, the elite here in St. Denis have mixed feelings about the wealthy man. Mixed as in, they like his wealth but do not care for the man. And that is where you come in. 

Bronte’s idea is that having a beautiful, refined and charming woman on his arm will make him appear more distinguished. Your role in this little arrangement with him is to be the doting young paramore, helping him to navigate the social circles. No one needs to be the wiser that the two of you sleep in separate rooms on completely different ends of the house. But for appearances sake, Angelo Bronte has acquired himself quite the crown jewel with your presence. 

As you meander through the crowd, you keep getting intercepted by random party guests, each one handing you a new glass of champagne. Your eye catches Bronte’s a few times as you mingle, as he checks to make sure you are performing as expected. Of course, the witty jokes, effervescent laughing and demure little smiles that emanate from you work according to plan. You can see Bronte pointing you out to guests from across the garden, a crude grin of approval splitting across the faces of the men he leans into, all chattering with hushed tones and hungry eyes. It’s enough to make your corset-restricted stomach turn. 

After about forty five minutes of false chuckles and empty smiles, you are desperate for fresh air and peace and quiet, so you discreetly head to the rose garden which is off to the right side of the party, hoping to find less people there.

Wandering aimlessly through the maze of hedges and rose bushes, you manage to find a quiet little corner away from prattling visitors and raise your tired eyes to the heavens above. The smog of St. Denis covers the night sky and it leaves you with a heavy feeling of disappointment that even the vast galaxy of stars is being kept from you in this dreadful place. With a dispirited sigh, your tear-misted eyes slowly roll shut, attempting to find some sort of solitude from this hell on earth. 

“Is this a safe place to hide?”

The sound of a deep, gravelly voice suddenly cuts into your mind, causing your eyes to snap open as you spin to see who is speaking to you. 

And there he is. The handsome fellow who you were staring at from the balcony. He stands quietly, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. It takes you a few moments to realize that he is indeed real, no fantasy apparition to come to stand before you. Confused blinks skitter across your face as you take in the sight of him. Now that you are up close to him, you can see just how tall and broad-shouldered he is. 

“Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offers when you hesitate to answer, his simple apology carrying little fanfare or bravado. Just a simple statement with no malice, no ill-content and no agenda towards you. 

“Oh…no…you didn’t startle me,” you manage to stammer as you try to regain your composure.

The stranger’s ocean-blue eyes float across your frame, head to toe, assessing you with a slight tilt of his head.  “You sure about that?” he jokes as he gives you a deeper smirk now.

Picking up on his genuine humor, you release the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “No, you’re fine,” you assure him. “I just needed a minute, is all. I didn’t expect anyone to be back here.” 

When you lob a smile back at him in return, Arthur takes a gamble and begins to move slightly closer to you, specifically intent on maintaining this conversation. “Hmm, needing to get away from the herd? Is that it?”

The term causes a chuckle to erupt out of your throat. “Yeah, something like that.” You begin to step towards him as well, both of you moving slowly yet purposefully towards the other to close the gap between you until you are about three feet from each other. The air surrounding the garden is like that before a thunderstorm, exhilarating because it could be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time. The two of you stand quietly, simply staring at the other like a couple of clumsy teenagers not knowing what to say. 

“No offense, but you don’t seem like you belong here,” you finally break the amorous spell with a raised eyebrow. As your words hover like a butterfly in his ears, you note the faded scars along the man’s chin, embedded into his tanned skin and nestled beneath his rugged beard that you can see was probably hastily groomed for this evening.

He doesn’t deny it, but counters almost playfully with “I could say the same for you.”

You flirtatiously narrow your eyes at him. “What makes you say that?”

He waves his large finger towards you. “You carry the same disdain for this place on your face that I do.”

Well, you have to admit, he’s got you there and all you can do is nod in agreement. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pinch his fingers together to accent his point. “It's ok, though. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.” And he tosses a perturbed glace back over his shoulder towards the noise of the party. 

“I guess that makes us two peas in a pod, then, doesn’t it?” you muse with a glittering smile that makes his chest tight.

A grin pulls at the corner of the stranger’s plump lips, causing his scarred chin to wrinkle. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?” 

“My name is Y/F&LN”. You extend your hand out and his large hand completely engulfs yours, dwarfing your delicate fingers with his own. You immediately notice how his skin is rough, yet warm to the touch, his hand strong in a comfortingly protective way. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

And the two of you hold each other’s gaze like a spark of electricity pulsing through the air to connect you. You can feel your fingertips go numb as your heart beats faster within your perfume-dusted chest. And Arthur hopes that you do not notice how he thickly swallows, flexing his now-sweaty hands before awkwardly kneading his thumb into the opposite palm. 

But your beautiful little moment together is short-lived when you hear your name being called out into the night, snapping you back to the real world. And before you know it, a very anxious-looking Bridget appears from around the hedges, her eyes darting around, her lips pressed tightly together in worry. 

“Miss Y/N, there you are! Mr. Bronte is asking for you.” She gives you a sharp wave in her direction before her eyes quickly slip to the burly gentleman to your right.

An embarrassed school-girl blush dusts your cheeks as you clear your throat. “Yes, of course, Bridget, thank you. I’ll be right there.” You turn back to Arthur. “Well, Mr. Morgan, it was very nice to meet you. If you will excuse me, please.”

“‘Course.” Arthur dips his head with a respectful nod as you float past him, your fingertips nervously tucking a few tendrils of hair behind your ear. 

Bridget gives Arthur a good look up and down before she turns and follows behind you back towards the music of the garden party with a sly, smug smile drawn on her lips. “Maybe you’re more clever than you think,” she whispers impishly in your ear. You shoot her a cautionary look as you smooth your hands over the fabric of your dress, making sure that you are presentation-ready before you make your way to your host. 

As you navigate the crowd to approach Bronte, you take notice that he is talking to the other men that came with Mr. Morgan. The moment he catches sight of you, Bronte’s face lights up.

“Ah, Miss Y/N! There you are! Come, Come!” He waves you over to stand next to him. “I’d like you to meet some special guests.” Bronte crudely clutches your hand, bringing it to his saliva-slick lips before eagerly wrapping it around his arm. “This is Mr. Van der Linde, and his associates, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Matthews. Gentleman, this is my…’companion’, Miss Y/LN.”

You force down the bile in the back of your throat that the toad conjures up as a graceful nod and accompanying smile adorns your pretty face when you turn towards the men you are being presented to. “Gentleman, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mr. Van Der Linde greets you as he flashes a sultry grin in your direction, boldly reaching his ringed hand to take ahold of yours that sits tucked in Bronte’s elbow. He brazenly brings your digits to his warm mouth to place a tender kiss along your knuckles. “Call me Dutch.” His dark eyes fully take you in with a glitter of mischief behind them. “Mr. Bronte is indeed a lucky man.”

Unlike Angelo Bronte, you find this new social contact of his to be quite charismatic and charming. And while most of the attendees of this event carry some level of bravado, this man standing in front of you seems to be quite different, the type to put his money where his mouth is. 

Interest flashes through your eyes at this dark-haired stranger. And Bronte is quick to notice. With a deep scowl of disapproval, his arm quickly snakes around your waist, holding you possessively against him in the presence of these men, so tight that it makes you squirm against his grip. You are about to protest the moderately painful discomfort when Mr. Morgan suddenly joins the circle, his azure eyes immediately targeting the meaty hand that grips your hip before lifting to meet your grimacing expression. The sight makes his face turn dark with a menacing presence to it. It almost shocks you to see the stark contrast to his demeanor from your encounter a few moments ago. 

“Quite the shindig you got goin’ here, Bronte,” Mr. Morgan says cooly, his statement breaking the tension of the social circle. “You always run things like this?”

The disapproval in your new friend’s voice causes one of the other men in his group (Mr. Matthews, is it?) to shoot him a glare of warning, to which Mr. Morgan shrugs off. 

Bronte lifts his nose at the rub, but he will not be made a fool of so easily at the challenge. “Ah, I’m sure you country folk are not used to such luxury, yes?”  

“Personally, I don’t care for it,” snarks Arthur with a snort of derision. “Hard to enjoy myself like a gluttonous pig when there’s people right outside the gate starvin’”

As you stand there next to Bronte listening to these men throw thinly veiled contempt at one another, you begin to feel dizzy. Your head starts to swim, spots dancing before your eyes, making your stomach lurch. But no one notices at first, except for Mr. Van Der Linde.

“You alright, miss?” Mr. Van Der Linde questions you with concern skipping across his dark features. 

“Oh, yes,” you wave him off. “It’s just…just this heat…” You begin to fan yourself, desperate for some cool air to caress your face. 

And suddenly the world around you starts to spin and your knees give way underneath you as if they move of their own accord. You begin to crumple in front of everyone and Dutch is quick to catch you just before you hit the ground, his strong arms shooting out to enfold you and ease you into the grass. The moment Arthur sees that you are in trouble, he promptly hovers over you as well, catching your hand into his own and placing himself between you and Bronte as things go dark in front of your eyes.

A collection of curious guests begins to gather around the spectacle, whispers and fingers discreetly pointing in your direction.

“The lady needs some air,” asserts Dutch as he kneels behind you.

Arthur is at a loss on what to do at first, but is quick to notice how restrictive the corset of your dress is, as your chest can barely move as you desperately gasp for air, your face turning red from the heat of the evening.

With a look of determination, Arthur’s rough hands wrap around your biceps and carefully lift the upper part of your limp body to lean against Dutch, who cradles you into his chest for support. Without a word, Arthur grabs at the fabric of your dress and quickly rips the corseted area wide open, easily tearing the seams under his hands, to release your lungs, exposing the delicate silk undergarments and bare skin hidden beneath. Shock slaps Angelo Bronte in the face as he stands behind Arthur, helplessly watching this embarrassing little scene unfold before his eyes. 

Ignoring the judgemental gasps of the partygoers, Arthur then proceeds to snatch a glass of champagne out of the hands of one of the nosey women craning her neck to see the spectacle and tosses the liquid into your face. The moment the bubbly fluid hits your skin, your eyes instantly pop open as you deeply gasp, desperate to expand your lungs to draw in fresh air. 

Arthur cautiously watches your face in anticipation as you rapidly blink the sweet nectar out of your lashes. Your eyes land on Arthur in confusion as to what has just happened before looking down at yourself and realize that you are now exposed to the whole party. But Arthur immediately takes off his jacket and lays it overtop of you as you sit nestled safely against Dutch who is still behind you. And Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the threads of alertness brightening your features once again. 

“Get the hell outta here,” Arthur orders the crowd, waving them away with a wide arc of his long arm. “Nothing to see here, just a woman needing some air, is all.”

“Can you stand, miss?” Dutch’s deep voice carries softly over your shoulder and into your ear, anchoring you back to consciousness. 

“I think so,” you venture, although the wavering in your voice is not entirely convincing. Your head is still swimming with confusion, but at least you can breathe now and the pounding in your temples has started to recede. 

Arthur takes your hand again, his other slipping under your arm to guide you to your feet as Dutch carefully steadies you from behind. 

“I don’t know what to say,” you say sheepishly looking up into Arthur’s worried face. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bronte suddenly bellows, finally finding his voice of outrage. “Thank you?! You make a scene in my house and you say ‘thank you?!”

“Easy, leave her be,” Arthur growls out, turning his threatening gaze to the party’s host. “Can’t you see the lady isn’t well?”

“No, she most certainly is not!” Bronte spits back in anger. His heartless, burning eyes now land back on you, his nostrils flaring wildly with impatience as his expression screws up into a hateful scowl. “Nuisance! I knew it was a mistake to bring you here” he hollers at you, flecks of spittle flying in your direction. “Should’ve left you at the station where I found you!” His finger thrown in your face causes you to shrink backwards, leaning your back into Dutch yet again, where the man’s hands protectively come up to cradle your arms. 

But Arthur is not having any of it, protectively placing his large bear-like frame between you and Bronte, towering over the other man and desperately trying to refrain from landing his massive fist into his face. “You best keep that finger to yourself, Mr. Bronte, else I'll break it clean off.” Arthur’s tone is low and deep, his threat making a shutter cascade down your spine as you watch with baited breath for what is to happen next. 

“Get out! All of you! Get! Out!” Bronte screams, waving at the group of newcomers. “And take that bitch with you, too!”

Your heart sinks as you watch the Italian spin on his heels and storm off towards the house, his arms flailing wildly as he vents his frustrations and anger out into the ether. The party has clearly ended now, as the guests murmur and whisper amongst themselves about the outrageous scene and begin to file out of the garden to leave. 

Your head hangs a bit in shame as you nibble nervously on your pink bottom lip, holding Arthur's jacket over your chest like armor. You have no love lost for Angelo Bronte, but the idea that you now have nowhere to go is a little terrifying. You have no money, no provisions. Nothing. 

Arthur turns to look at you, seeing your soft face frozen in stunned silence. His own countenance turns sheepish as he now realizes that he has cost you your home. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rub behind his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to get you tossed out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” You shake your head and place a grateful hand along Arthur’s arm. “You probably did me a favor.” Your smile is warm and forgiving, but it doesn’t make him feel any less responsible for your new predicament. “But I meant what I said, Mr. Morgan. Thank you,” you whisper emphatically. Your gentle voice causes butterflies to flutter in his belly. 

“You have anywhere to go now?” Arthur asks, his blue eyes burning into your own. God, how you could get lost in those eyes for hours. 

Sadly, you shake your head, confirming his suspicions. 

“Well, then,” interrupts Dutch from where he still stands behind you, “If that is the case, you are welcome to come with us, Miss Y/L/N.” He offers you another of his charming smiles as he holds open Arthur’s jacket as you slide your arms in, and he pulls the oversized garment protectively over your shoulders. He then offers you his arm to escort you away from the party, with his entourage in tow. 

Arthur gives a lofty eye-roll to the heavens at Dutch’s attempt to swoon you, causing Mr. Matthews to chuckle at the interaction. But you smile graciously at Mr. Van der Linde’s offer as you gladly accept his arm and begin to walk with him. You look back over your shoulder and give Arthur a demure little grin, which he returns as he follows you and Dutch out to the front of the property towards the awaiting carriages with Mr. Matthews and Mr. Williamson close behind. 

“Thank you, Mr. Van Der Linde,” you smile brightly up at him. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.” 

Masterlist for more Arthur goodness

Taglist: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4

[hockpock]

Programming I'm Totes gonna submit to a con one of these days:

The Millennial Meme Cringe Power Hour: a singalong.

xX_*~All the worst earworms from the 90s, 00s and today~*_Xx

[wellitseugi]

Synopsis: Jokes about Miya twins both being her boyfriends are about to become just half-jokes.

Warning/Notes: fluff; alcohol; no use of y/n or any other name; fake-dating; random oc for the plot. I would like to hear what do you think about my first 1k+ ff in English. Only constructive feedback!!

!! Do not copy or translate !!

Her friend crossed arms, "Girl, you're insane. They can't be your boyfriends. Especially, not both."

She had a meeting with a few friends, and alcohol obviously had started to do things. Laughing was much louder than usual, energy just burst out of her, and her head was a bit dizzy. Now, she was here, onto the "gasliting everyone into random nonsense" stage.

"Yeah. Ask Atsumu. Or Osamu. Or both. You'll see," she nodded with an arrogant smile and took one more sip of whatever it was in the glass.

One of her friend took out her phone and started to record. It was a messy video with everyone laughing, her stuttering and camera rolling around, so if anybody rewatched it, they would probably vomit. Anyway, the video had been posted. Honestly? Nobody payed attention to it. At least, for now...

Her next day started interesting. After a glass of water and a pill, she heard a knocking on a door. With an irritated sigh, the girl slowly stood up and looked to see who those early visitors were.

Miya twins. Both. It was strange. At least, suspicious. She frowned but opened the door for them. Atsumu had flowers, and Osamu had her favourite snacks. They were clearly holding themselves back from laughing.

"What are you doing here?"

They were still outside, and she hadn't even said hello to them. Osamu hid his chuckle under a caught. His hand lay on the girl's shoulder. She shuddered and hugged herself from a sudden cold blow of wind. With sharpness in her eyes, she gave them a silent sign to come in. So they did.

"Did you see your phone today, genius?" Atsumu giggled, putting the bouquet on the kitchen counter.

He sat down with one of his dangerous smirks. She was in trouble. He threw a random candy from her table into his mouth. Osamu followed his brother and sat beside him, nudging a snack toward her. When was the last time of Osamu looking so relaxed? She couldn't remember.

"No. Why?" the girl sounded drier than a desert.

A pause. Two amused gazes met very pissed-off one. Osamu nodded to himself like if he'd made an important decision and walked around the table, lying on her shoulders with a whole weight. While Atsumu was watching the scene like a cat that ate the canary, his brother pulled a phone out of the back packet and pocked it right in her face. She fell his hot breath tickling behind her ear. A herd of ants ran down the girl's spine. His muscular frame definitely made things to her head, that was pulsing from the tiresome pain.

The video started. There she was. Drunk and unbothered. The phrase was clear: "Yes, I'm dating the Miya twins. The popular volleyball player and the just-as-popular chef. You heard me." And the past, absolutely insane version of her pointed to the camera, then burst into laughter. Where was the video? On the Internet. Particularly, on Twitter.

How many likes did it have? Almost over 30 thousand.

"You must be kidding me."

She looked as if someone had told her that her dog died. She hid her face in her palms. The headache was unbearable, and her thoughts couldn't even put themselves together into something understandable. Girl was thinking about how she wouldn't be able to leave her house for ages, but suddenly... muscular arms hugged her.

"What are you doing, Osamu? And what's more important... what am I supposed to do?"

"Date us, obviously." Atsumu chortled, and his brother started to pet her head.

She shrugged him off and stood up, walking back and forth and rubbing her temples. She stopped and looked at those two relaxed idiots.

"What am I supposed to do?" she repeated.

Osamu turned to face her.

"Look... You can start dating one of us and then say that it was a joke. Like, drunk half-joke. Simple?"

She didn't look really impressed with this idea.

"Or you can leave the country and change your name."

Atsumu gave her the most innocent smile ever. She sighed and shook her head in disbelief. Osamu stood up and put his hand on her shoulder.

"So? I can volunteer as your boyfriend. Fake boyfriend, of course."

His smirk let her know that it wasn't that fake as he insisted.

In a few days, fans were fed with a photo of the girl, holding Osamu's hand.

Who did that? Osamu himself, with a fluffy description: "me and my girlfriend 😋 not sharing with stupid brother @tsutsumiya".

"That's the stupid thing I've ever done."

"Doubtful, but whatever you want to believe in, darlin'."

He left a peck on her forehead. She wiped it away and crossed her arms. It was hard to pretend that she didn't like it. Anyway, better to act like that and not end up being hurt. She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.

"Stop that. Nobody can see us."

"Wow, you're so stupid. Amazing."

"Wow, you're talking to me like I'm your brother."

He proudly smiled and winked.

"True love, isn't it?"

"Osamu, it isn't funny. I won't have a real boyfriend with you."

She tiredly closed her eyes, wishing it was a dream. Osamu was looking at her for a moment in silence. Then he sighed and sat next to her.

"You don't like me that much?"

His voice suddenly lost its amusement, and it was much quieter now. She opened her eyes and frowned at him with confusion. Slowly but firmly, the folds on her forehead started to smooth out.

Sudden realisation flooded her. She looked at him wide-eyed.

"I thought..." her mouth went dry. "I thought you were joking. I... don't understand."

"Well, you should, empty head."

He smiled and gave her that look, which always made something inside her flip.

They were looking at each other for a long time, both scared of what might come next. She finally smiled with uncertainty.

"Mhm... okay," she nodded to herself and looked away, feeling how her cheeks were getting hotter and hotter. "Hate you, by the way."

Osamu leaned and whispered right into her ear, "Hate you too, by the way."

It was like an explosion. She was on his laps, her hips were squeezed hard by Miya's hands. And there they were, kissing like crazy. His lips were so soft, and only that fact was making her so bothered. Her fingers tangled into his hair, tugging it sometimes so hard that Osamu literally moaned. Their tongues were rubbing against eachother, and their breaths was abnormally fast. Osamu wanted her closer, wanted to make her realise that she needed him. His hand went down under her shirt, painting soft circles on her bare skin. He wanted her to remember his touch forever.

"Damn, guys. Do you know what 'pretending' means?"

She literally jumped off Osamu, when Atsumu's voice broke the sounds of their wet making out.

[19ryan17]

Cheat Meal

Thanks @aigains for the photos and inspiration

Ryan kicked open the door to his apartment, still toweling sweat from his dirty blond hair. It was the usual post-gym ritual—protein shake in one hand, Nike hoodie clinging to his sculpted, sweaty chest. His abs peeked through the open front of his hoodie, the kind of body that made people turn heads at frat parties or beach trips. He wasn’t cocky about it—well, maybe just a little—but he worked hard to stay this cut. Track team in high school, gym almost daily, and a clean diet—except tonight. Tonight, he wanted a cheat meal.

He ordered pizza on impulse. Something greasy. Something he could devour while binging whatever dumb action flick Netflix shoved at him. He almost forgot about it until the doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, the guy standing there wasn’t the bored, acne-pocked delivery dude he expected. This guy—Tommy—was hot. Like, “should be modeling for a leather jacket brand” hot. Brown hair in a lazy side part, some scruff on his chin that looked sculpted, not accidental. He had a sharp jaw, sly brown eyes, and a confident smirk that made Ryan pause mid-step. Tommy handed over the pizza with one hand and sized Ryan up with the other. There was no subtlety in his gaze—it slid up Ryan’s hoodie, lingered at the line where abs dipped into basketball shorts.

“You look like you earned this, man,” Tommy said, voice smooth like warm syrup. “Been working out?”

Ryan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. Just got back from the gym actually.”

Tommy stepped a little closer—barely noticeable, but enough to tighten the air between them. “Bet you need to refuel. Cheat night?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Just felt like pigging out a little.”

Tommy’s smile deepened like he knew something Ryan didn’t. “Good. You’ll like this one. It’s... special.”

Ryan blinked. “Special?”

Tommy shrugged and turned, leaving a faint musky scent in his wake—woodsy, rich, with a hint of sweat. “Call it a house recipe,” he said, walking off into the night.

Ryan was weirdly unsettled—but also a little flushed. Something about Tommy had clicked something deep inside his chest. Or maybe lower.

He opened the box, and the scent hit him like a punch: garlic, cheese, meat, oil. It was almost too much—but he dug in, moaning softly at how good it was. Way better than any pizza he’d had on campus. That night he ate the entire thing without thinking. The last slice left a slick smear of grease on his fingers he licked off slowly while watching a mindless action scene.

The next day, he felt fine. Maybe a little... slower? He skipped his morning run. Just didn’t feel like it. The pizza had been heavy, and his stomach felt bloated in a way that was weirdly satisfying. He tugged at his hoodie—it fit a little snug in the chest? Probably the laundry.

That night, he ordered again. From the same place. Same delivery guy.

“Back already?” Tommy said with a teasing smirk, holding the box like it was a gift. He wore a tight black T-shirt this time, and Ryan noticed the shape of his chest under it—broad, a little soft, with a noticeable shelf. He looked strong but comfortable in his size.

“You put crack in these or something?” Ryan joked.

“Only the good stuff,” Tommy said, brushing a finger against the edge of Ryan’s palm as he handed over the box. “I added something extra tonight. You’ll love it.”

Ryan barely remembered closing the door before diving into the pizza. It was even greasier this time. Strings of cheese clung to his chin. His fingers were soaked in oil. He didn’t care. His stomach bulged slightly by the time he finished, and he sat back with a dumb grin, rubbing the dome of his belly through his hoodie.

That night he passed out on the couch, shirt halfway up his abs.

———

Over the next week, Ryan’s cravings became impossible to ignore. He wasn’t even waiting until dinner—he’d order a pizza mid-afternoon, and Tommy was always the one to deliver it.

“You’re glowing,” Tommy said once, leaning against the doorframe as Ryan stood shirtless, sweat beading on his chest from the heat.

“Yeah?” Ryan asked, rubbing a hand over his chest. His pecs felt… puffier? “Guess I’ve been bulking up.”

Tommy smirked. “You sure are. I like it.”

Ryan flushed. He had no idea why Tommy’s compliments were getting under his skin. He wasn’t into dudes. He was sure of that. And yet when Tommy’s hand brushed his as he handed over the box, Ryan held the contact a beat too long.

That night, he didn’t wait. He sat on the floor, box open in front of him, his fingers and chin slick with grease. He ate like a beast. Tommy had left a handwritten note inside the box: “Keep growing for me ;)”

By the second week, his routine had changed. No more runs. Gym skipped “just this once.” Hoodies felt tighter. Shorts dug into his waist. He started noticing how winded he got walking across campus. His breath would catch after stairs. At first he tried to hide it, but the wheezing was real.

His track buddy Mason clapped him on the back one day. “Yo, Ry. What’s going on, man? Haven’t seen you at the gym. And, uh…” Mason motioned vaguely to Ryan’s middle.

Ryan looked down. His tee—an old Under Armour one—was clinging to a subtle curve of a belly now. The abs were mostly gone, replaced by a slight softness that bunched when he sat. His thighs looked thicker too, like his muscles were starting to blur with fat.

“Bulking season,” Ryan lied.

Mason laughed. “Looks more like hibernation season, bro.”

Ryan laughed with him, but it stung.

He shaved less. It started as laziness. Then the stubble grew longer, thicker. One morning he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—shirtless, with a soft, light dirty blond mustache beginning to form over his lip. His cheeks had dark fuzz. And his chest hair was spreading—wispy but growing darker, denser.

He considered shaving it. But something stopped him.

Tommy noticed too. The next delivery came with a raised eyebrow and a low whistle. “Damn, you’re starting to look... real good. Real manly.”

Ryan looked down at himself. He wore boxers and a too-small tank top, his gut poking out slightly. Grease was already staining his fingers from the slice he’d half-finished before even greeting Tommy.

“You think?” he said, shy.

Tommy didn’t answer. He stepped forward, gently reaching up to rub a smear of cheese from Ryan’s cheek. His thumb lingered there. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Let me feed you,” he said softly.

Ryan blinked. “Wait, wha—”

Tommy took the slice from his hand, brought it up to Ryan’s lips, and fed it to him. Slowly. Grease ran down Ryan’s chin. He opened his mouth, chewing, flushed, his breath heavy. When Tommy leaned forward, their mouths inches apart, Ryan didn't back away.

Their lips met. Softly at first. Then hungrily.

Pizza grease smeared between them as they kissed—Ryan’s first kiss with a man—and something inside him broke open. He moaned softly into Tommy’s mouth as the delivery guy’s hands found the growing swell of his belly.

“You’re getting perfect,” Tommy whispered against his lips. “Keep eating for me, Ryan. Don’t stop.”

It had only been a few weeks since Ryan first noticed the softness around his stomach, but now his abs were completely buried under a thickening layer of fat. He still wore the same tank tops, though they clung tighter and rode up more, exposing the subtle curve of his gut and the first hints of a happy trail that hadn’t been there before. The same trail that now had dark blond hairs snaking higher each day—coarser, thicker, spreading outward across his stomach like ivy.

Ryan tried to ignore it. Maybe it was bulking season. Yeah. He’d just do a cut soon, he told himself. But even he didn’t believe that anymore—not when he couldn’t stop thinking about pizza. Or, more specifically, Tommy.

That delivery guy kept showing up at his door like clockwork, somehow always on shift when Ryan placed his orders. The guy never wore a full uniform—just joggers or jeans, a tight tee or sometimes no shirt at all. Every time he came over, he smelled like cologne and fresh dough. And every time, he brought something extra: an extra garlic crust, a tub of dipping sauce, a double-thick milkshake, “forgotten” breadsticks. Ryan didn’t ask for them, but Tommy just winked and said it was a “loyalty reward.”

The worst part? Ryan kept accepting it all.

One night, Ryan opened the door in only his boxers—too lazy to throw anything else on. His belly had definitely softened. A faint crease had formed under it when he slouched, and his thighs brushed slightly as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Damn, Ryan,” Tommy murmured, eyeing him up and down. “You’re looking real good these days. Comfortable.”

Ryan blushed. “Dude, you say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s true,” Tommy said with a smirk, stepping inside without being asked. “And you’re only getting hotter.”

Ryan didn’t reply. He was too distracted by the smell of the pepperoni and the way Tommy’s arms bulged through his sleeves. Tommy watched him the whole time he opened the box, those dark eyes glittering.

“You want a slice?” Ryan asked, grabbing one. He paused halfway to his mouth.

Tommy plucked it from his fingers. “Let me.”

He fed it to Ryan slowly, watching grease pool in the corner of his lips before wiping it with his thumb and licking it off. Ryan shivered. His cock stirred in his boxers, but he didn’t say a word. He just chewed, slowly, shamefully aroused.

“Grease looks good on you,” Tommy whispered.

Ryan was still chewing on that moment—both figuratively and literally—a few days later when he dragged himself to the gym for the first time in a week. He barely lasted ten minutes on the treadmill before his breathing got ragged. His shirt stuck to his sides in wet patches. And when he caught sight of himself in the wall mirror, he didn’t see the athlete he used to be.

He saw a sweaty, bloated dude with a plush belly and a thickening line of chest hair peeking through his stretched neckline.

He went home early. And he ordered another pizza.

By mid-month, people were starting to talk.

“Bro, are you okay?” asked Connor, one of the tight ends from the football team. They’d caught Ryan halfway through devouring an entire box of cheesy breadsticks on the quad lawn. “You used to be all about meal prep and macros. What happened?”

Ryan blinked at him, cheese still stuck to his lip. “Dunno. Just chillin’. Feels good, y’know?”

Connor laughed nervously. “Yeah, but, like... you’ve kinda let yourself go, man.”

Ryan just shrugged, unbothered. He stretched back and let his hand rest casually on his belly, which now pushed his hoodie out in a subtle arc. He was still in denial, but he couldn’t pretend anymore that this was just “bulking.” His face had rounded out, his jawline fuzzier than usual—not just from the extra padding, but from the dirty blond mustache that had started growing over his upper lip. He hadn’t bothered shaving it off. Tommy had said it looked “scruffy in the best way.”

The first time they kissed, Ryan had already outgrown his favorite jeans.

He’d been lying on the couch, belly exposed under a too-small tee, groaning from the amount of food he’d just eaten. Tommy sat beside him, watching with a lazy grin and running his fingers through Ryan’s now noticeably hairy thighs. The contact made Ryan twitch—and not from discomfort.

“Look at you,” Tommy purred. “You were so tense the first time we met. Now you’re soft. Warm. Heavy.”

Ryan didn’t respond. He just looked at Tommy with a strange mix of guilt and hunger.

Tommy leaned in, slow, deliberate, until their noses almost touched. “You know you want it.”

Then he kissed him. Deep. Greasy. Hot.

Ryan moaned into it, letting Tommy’s hands slide over his belly, under his shirt, thumbs brushing his newly grown treasure trail.

By the time finals rolled around, Ryan had practically dropped his gym schedule altogether.

He spent most of his time sprawled on his bed, shirtless, snacking between naps and study breaks. His legs had thickened, covered in wiry blond hair. His armpits were rank by noon most days, and he’d stopped caring. His cheeks looked fuller, his mustache was connecting to a beard now, and there was a dark shadow of hair down his chest that made even him pause in the mirror sometimes.

He started wearing sweats more often, not just because they were comfy—but because his old jeans simply didn’t fit anymore.

“Dude,” said Nate, another teammate, during a library group session. “Is that a beard?”

Ryan scratched his cheek lazily. “Kinda. Dunno. It just started growing.”

“You’ve been different lately,” Nate added, eyeing Ryan’s belly bulge under his oversized hoodie. “Tommy got you under a spell or something?”

Ryan chuckled softly. “Maybe.”

That night, Tommy showed up with two boxes of pizza instead of one.

“You need more fuel,” he said with a grin.

Ryan didn’t even protest. He just opened his mouth for the first slice, juice and oil dripping down his scruff as Tommy pushed it in. He burped afterward, lazily licking his fingers.

“You’re my favorite customer,” Tommy said, eyes gleaming. “So soft. So sexy.”

Ryan leaned back, groaning, full and happy and just a little drunk on whatever spell Tommy was weaving.

His gut pushed high, round and proud, the new fuzz spreading around it like a halo. His beard caught some cheese. Tommy licked it off.

They made out again. Longer this time. Dirtier.

And Ryan knew—deep down—he wasn’t going back.

[lafiametta]

for the anora x Igor one-word fic prompt : scars

When his shirt first comes off, she’s too distracted to notice, so it’s only as they’re lying there on her bed, the thin morning light filtering in through the curtain, that her eyebrows lift a little and she traces her fingers up towards the center of his chest.

She glances up, cheeks flushed with the sheen of exertion.

“Holy shit.”

Igor says nothing. She does enough talking for the two of them already and he sees no reason to change that now.

“Did you get fuckin’ stabbed or something?”

He shakes his head softly. “No.”

This isn’t really how he had imagined their first post-sex conversation going—even though technically they’ve already had sex, which he’s not sure counts, given how complicated the whole thing was. He’s mostly just pleased that they got to do it in a bed this time and that it seemed like something she was enjoying for its own sake, not because she thought she owed him anything.

“So then what happened?”

He curls onto his side to face her, his arm slipping under a lumpy, flannel-covered pillow. He doesn't have to glance down to know what’s there: a pale ridge running down his sternum, almost twenty centimeters from top to bottom. If she looked closer, she would see a dozen tiny pocks on either side, now faded with time, marking where they put the stitches in.

“Heart surgery.”

A small pinched line appears between her eyebrows and for a moment he’s touched at her display of concern.

“Was it like a heart attack?”

“No,” he says, suddenly feeling the need for a cigarette. But the pack is in his jacket pocket, all the way across the room, and he doesn’t want to leave the tiny nest of warmth that her body and the sheets are providing. “I was born with...” —he pauses, the English words frustratingly distant and unreachable— “There was a hole.”

What he’s telling her is not enough, and he knows he could switch to Russian and have the whole story out in thirty seconds, but there are things that even in your own language you don't really have words for, that can't be shaped into easy explanations. It’s impressions, mostly: the antiseptic smell of countless doctors’ offices, the strained voices of his parents behind closed doors, the blindingly bright room he woke up in, his scrawny ten-year old body nearly swallowed up in the expanse of the hospital bed.

“You were born with a fuckin’ hole in your heart? Jesus Christ.”

She curls back and reaches towards the top of the nightstand, returning with a vape pen. The bedsheet has fallen down to her waist, offering him a distracting enough view that he doesn’t fully register that she’s finished taking a puff and is now offering it to him. It’s peach-flavored and fairly disgusting, but the sensation of nicotine hitting the back of his throat is enough to make up for it.

“Although it’s kind of ironic,” she murmurs. “Igor’s supposed to be the hunchback, but that’s some real Frankenstein shit right there.”

Perhaps to soften the bite of the joke she inches closer, until she’s almost snuggling against him. Her dark hair curtains over her cheek and shoulder, glints of pink tinsel shining like tiny stars.

He reaches out to run his hand along the bare skin of her back. It's smooth, unmarked, perfect. But he knows as well as she does how little that can matter. There will always be scars no one can see.

[send me a one-word Anora x Igor prompt]

[gryphis-eyes]

⊙ Post tenebras spero lucem

【After the darkness I hope for the light】

Haha you thought I abandoned the over the garden wall pac ? Well almost but it's better late than never uh ? I guess I wasn't in the right mindset for it but now that I'm using what I put as a title like a mantra everyday to not go mad I guess it's time to help the people. The goal is to give you advice in order to get out of a dark period

◇ Deck used ; medieval tarot, shakespeare oracle

Pile 1 pumpkin

Cards ; 10 of swords, Ace of wands

Troilus and Cressida - Act 1, scene 2

【Cressida】 - ” Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. "

In your case maybe the dark period just ended or its still going, no matter where it is you’ve just went through a tragedy. Something put you down maybe even backstabbed you and now you barely have the strength to get up. In a less dramatic way some of you might have just ended a really hard project that took all your energy, burnout perhaps ? The third case I got is for my people who are dealing with mental illness who had hard time maybe it was harder than usual or simply a period where depression came back full force.

No matter the case, the way out is the same ; you have to bring back passion into your life. If you have a clear idea of it and what you have to do, take it easy do it slowly. For some of you before jumping on the ”do it” step you might have to remind yourself what is/are your true passion, ask yourself what can light the fire in your heart, what truly make you vibe regardless of people’s opinions. Do not stay stagnant you need to move in order to make your heart beat again. Recognize what makes you happy and let it make you shine. It's ok to feel overwhelmed when something end but staying in this grieving instant will only increase the pain and make things darker. Let your light come back at its own pace there is no need to go mad if you don’t manage to do this new thing everyday, what is important is to let yourself rest when needed, push yourself when you feel like you're just making excuses. An advice that worked for me ; try to use one of those habit tracker but without putting the days on it, just the amount of time you’ve managed to do your thing even if its only 5 minutes or 2 hours.

Have faith in yourself you deserve to shine ☆

Pile 2 the beast

Cards ; 3 of swords, Knight of swords R

King Lear Act 5 scene 3

【Edmund】   "Th’ hast spoken right. ’Tis true.  The wheel is come full circle; I am here."

I've had a quite precise image and I hope I'll describe it correctly ; you know when a wheel with something on it turn and there is a little moment where it slows down because of the weight but then goes faster cuz the weight moved ? I hope it's clear omg Basically you're being slowed by a weight that is quite harmful as if there was a little monster on your back who keep pocking at your back with a dagger. This monster can either be your self-criticism habit or straight up someone ”close” to you, it can also be an accumulation of problem that lead to you ending up confused on where you are in general. Perhaps the wheel slowed down so much that it made you forget what was the initial goal or where you were going. Since everything is slowing down a little pause won’t create any problem, stop trying to move forward not only to rest but also to have a little brainstorming moment. Where are you going ? Why ? Is this weight on your back really worthy of stopping you ? Maybe even try to get rid of it or make it lighter. Moving forward while being exhausted and weakened will only create more obstacles and make you more tired. It's a moment of solitude but use it for yourself, get yourself on solo date, get a little treat. I feel like this advice might sound annoying to some of you but do you wish to be efficient or to push yourself until you burn out which will make you unable to continue, take on your health and might ruin the things you're trying to do because you'll be exhausted ?

Choose wisely, the wheel won’t turn just because you want it to

Pile 3 ; Wirt & Greg

cards ; Page of Pentacles and you got 2 oracle cards !

Twelfth Night - Act 2, scene 5

【Malvolio】 (he reads) " If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands. Let thy blood and spirit embrace them"

Richard III - Act 3, scene 7

【Catesby】 "He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord,  To visit him tomorrow or next day.  He is within, with two right reverend fathers,  Divinely bent to meditation,  And in no worldly suits would he be moved  To draw him from his holy exercise."

I think your path is unusual for society standards which also make it harder than it's supposed to be, after all you got the opposite of the normal spread for this PAC, 2 oracles instead of 2 tarot cards and only one tarot card instead of one oracle card. You're on a great path but also on a phase where everything is either slowing down or fully stopped. You've been brave, deciding to take a path where you will build everything brick by brick everything is self made including yourself. Like Greg and Wirt all you want is to get out of this damn forest but you've reached winter and everything is harder (harsher would be a better word). Like it is required in all dark times and winter, it's better to let yourself slow down (or pause) in order to reflect because forcing yourself to move forward will only make yourself even more tired. The soil is fertile and you've put the seed in it, they haven't got out of the soil yet but it doesn't mean they aren't growing. Tho an other scenario might be more logic in your case : The problem is the root and this seed needs to be planted somewhere else. I get that the environment is really bad for you, you're still an apprentice (and a bold one) but people around you are probably all against whatever you're moving forward so all they do is crying behind you so you have to go back on your steps to baby them. It is a painful and long thing to do but it's time for you to accept the idea that your current environment (that might be your place since forever or social circle) isn't for you. It's unfair but if it can help you remember that you're not alone on this path many people (especially from this generation) are in the same lonely path as you. It's time to move on, if your current social circle wish to support the real you they will reach out or at least they won't start discouraging you or try to make you look back. This moment of slowdown happen because you look back way too much and maybe you realize how far you are from the village, you barely see the smoke or lights because you're deep in the forest but it's time to take a deep breath and move on.

Maybe the next town will be yours, maybe you'll find your place in the woods but what is sure is that your place wasn't this village full of vipers.

⊙

[asteriass]

The progression of the “Villainess” trope

Y'know, thinking about it, it's very ironic how a trope made to subvert one's expectations & give more depth to 1 dimensional villains in cliche novels by "humanizing" them more & providing their side of the story, eventually became oversaturated with cartoony villains & flat MCs. Thus, completely failing in its goal to "subvert expectations" as it too turned into mind numbing cliche, becoming the exact opposite of what the troupe initially aimed to achieved.

I am talking about "Villainess" series.

I remember seeing a twitter post a while back saying how a lot of the villainess stuff the authors & studios are putting out nowadays lack any sort of nuance when it comes to its characters. And how a lot authors simply switch the roles of the cast (Like: OG MC -> villain | OG villain -> MC) & call it a day. And I 100% agree with that.

This troupe kinda ended up becoming the dictionary definition of the saying, "You either die as a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become a villain” lmao

What could've been an opportunity to write nuanced villains & morally ambiguous main characters, turned EXACTLY into the cliche it was pocking fun at.

In an attempt to reveal how the MCs of your typical cliche novels can also be in the wrong at times, flaws that the story & its (in-canon) fandom may purposefully ignore, the villainess stories ended up doing EXACT SAME thing EXECPT this time it's the "villains" doing it rather than the OG FL or OG ML of the “OG novel”. In an attempt to stop cliche villains from remaining cliche, while we did ended up getting slightly more nuance for the “OG villain” characters, in the process, the OG MCs turned exactly into those flat cliche villains.

Alot of villainess series poke fun at the troupes they themself use, but not in a satirical way.

So many villainess series poke fun at the OG novels for being problematic or stupid & the fandom of said novels basically ignoring its flaws & problems, only gushing over the OG FL. Which yea, is nice & all, but y'know... that's exactly what those villainess series do too. SO MANYY of them borderline have the FLs participating in literal slavery. & More often than not have a borderline colonizer ML. Not to mention the numerous which carry weird undertones of colorism, and many such other things. All the while, the fandom of these villainess series continue to ignore their glaring problems & flaws & instead just gush over the FL and ML.

And I'm not even saying this in a hating sort of way (well, aside from the series with issues of colorism, orientalism, etc). Moreover, this is all not to say that one can not enjoy such stories, because admittedly, there is indeed fun in just reading a simple and familiar story line. But this is all more me being intrigued by this trope’s almost ironic progression as companies rush their staff to produce something which they think will be able to ride the waves of the current trends, only for the vast majority to simply drown in a sea of mediocrity (with many even being canceled due to this)

[Though I mean, something as simple as villainess tropes won’t be the only one to go through this. Like a lot of Shakespearean works, a subversion of the classics & typical troupes back then, got turned into ones of those classics and by many are now considered cliche. And that's just scrapping the bottom of the barrel!]

[letmedixonyou]

The Room of Old Sins: Prologue

Read about series and find other chapters -> here <-

words: 1190

warnings: the series itself is really spicy and contains a lot of sexual content, so I just want to warn you about any potential spice right here and now. You're responsible for what you read!

A/N: Hello, muffins! I've started new series, and I am really proud of this one! I have a few chapters written already, so I want to start posting and see if you like it! Once again, there is A LOT of spice in this one! Enjoy, muffins! 🖤

The door creaked open as I pushed it gently. My heart was beating faster than ever, and I felt somehow unsteady on my feet as I took a step inside. My eyes were blurry from the anxious tears I tried to keep from flowing, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My whole body went tense as soon as I took a step inside the room. My mind filled with the images of the life I thought I'd left behind. Looking around, I tried to hold onto my present, but it seemed like the memories of the past were starting to consume me yet again. I never thought I'd be back here, feeling almost as vulnerable and lost as I did then.

The room smelled of damp and decay. The furniture, placed so immaculately by the walls were almost unrecognisable, slumped with the years of being exposed to the nature that crept inside through the cracks in the roof and walls. The vines, unknowingly representing my current state of mind - the memories slithering in and messing with my usually calm brain. The sunlight was illuminating the inside poorly, seeping in through the tiny gaps, but just enough for me to see the disarrayed state of the place. My eyes immediately were drawn to the pole, situated on a platform in the middle of the room.

The smooth chrome finish that I remembered had succumbed to the relentless march of time, pocked with tiny pits and flakes where the metal had corroded. A dull, reddish-brown hue cloaked the pole, giving it an almost ghostly appearance, like an artefact from a bygone era, staring right at me. The base was littered with specks of dirt and debris. The pole wobbled slightly when I touched it, its once sturdy foundation weakened by years of abandonment. Cobwebs clung to it in delicate, dusty threads, weaving intricate patterns that danced in the dim light and the soft whooshes of air that I was making by walking around.

Scanning the inside of the room further, I saw the bed, tilted to the right because of the broken legs. Its silk sheets were stained, and you could just enough see that they were red once. Now, the time and ever-changing weather left them dark and dirty. The pillows didn't look like pillows anymore, but more like the thinnest pieces of paper, wet and dirty, laid at the top of the bed. The mattress sagged like a crumpled accordion, patches of the once-plush surface now exposed and worn through. Springs jutted out here and there like skeletal fingers, threatening to tear at anything—or anyone—that ventured too close. A faint, musty odour clung to the bed, silently letting me know how long it's been. Torn bits of fabric hung from the edges, swaying slightly with each draft that slipped through the cracks in the decaying walls. The bed frame, once a stately, elegant piece, was now a sad, rusted skeleton, creaking ominously with every subtle shift in the room's atmosphere.

It felt like all of these things were whispering my name, begging me to come back. Begging me to touch them, to use them again. They seemed to be stuck in time, not knowing that the world has gone mental and the things that happened here, won't happen ever again. I could almost hear the music, sensual and loud, masking any other sounds in the room, like the slight squeak of the pole or the click of the heels on the wooden platform. My heart was beating so hard, I could hear the blood pumping in my ears.

Do not panic.

I told myself over and over, pushing to stay calm. I took deep breath and I let it out slowly. My eyes closed for a second as I tried to ground myself.

Looking back at my life, I would never go back and do what I have. It was reckless and stupid, and I shouldn't have done it in the first place. I only did it, because at the time, it seemed like a good idea. I never really thought about how scarring and dangerous it would become. How much life it would suck out of me, leaving me emotionless and willing.

I should've listened to my mother. I should've never ran away from home. She was right, but I was young. I lived thinking that parents were always wrong. I always tried to defy them, tried to prove them wrong. But this time… I should've listened. Maybe that way I could've ended up in a better position.

I've never spoken about it to anyone. I don't like sharing the details of my fucked up life, and most definitely don't like being ridiculed and looked at with disgust. I knew what people thought of me, of what I've done. Hell, I've heard it so many times that it became sort of a norm for me. So, for most of my twenties, I kept it to myself. It wasn't worth it. Why would I ever share if just going to be used against me later? I knew it would be, so I just kept the secret buried deep inside of me. Or so I thought…

When he asked and pried about my past so many times, trying to convince me to tell him, I realised that I haven't got much of a choice. It was this or he'd leave. But I wasn't even sure if this whole thing wouldn't make him leave anyway. It made me frustrated and scared at the same time. I felt like maybe I should be the one to leave. He'd probably thank me. I was so obviously not good for his mental state. He was adamant, though, and I came to terms that he needed to know. And maybe I needed him to see. I needed to take him to this place and show him who I really was. Tell him my story, and trust me, it's so much worse than you could even imagine.

So I spoke. Sharing everything, even the tiniest details.

For the most part, he didn't say anything. He just listened when I talked and then stared at me for what it felt like eternity. He stared like… I was an alien. Like he didn't know me at all. And it was the truth. He barely knew me. I shared only parts of my life that I wanted to share, nothing serious or crazy, like my mum making pancakes every Sunday or my sister's soccer team winnings. It was always short and sweet, and I never steered the topic into the uncomfortable parts. This? This was insane, and I knew it. So I braced myself, waiting, expecting, silently begging for him to say something.

He never did, and I am still not sure what he thought of all of this. But right now, laying on the old sheets of a half broken bed, his blue eyes staring at me like I was sent from up above and his fingers rubbing circles on my cunt, feels like all the years I've spent here didn't matter.

All that mattered was him.

[delusionalmultifandomwriter]

Photosynthesis (fluff)

Luke Castellan x gn!demeter!reader fluff

Prompt: It's spring clean at Camp Halfblood and Luke wants to bath in sun with you

I feel like i haven't posted in forever because i was busy grinding Stardew Valley. But im back so enjoy!!

Spring at Camp Halfblood was always an event. It was time for a deep clean of all cabins and the big house, sweeping the arena and taking care of all the minor things before the majority of the campers arrived for the summer.

As the counselor of the Demeter cabin it was your job to supervise the campers that took care off the strawberry fields. They had to be in top shape before the next season.

Today was one of the first sunny days of the year, even though with the wind it was still a little cold. You were shooing some campers around, most of them being your siblings but Luke also spotted some satyrs and a few unclaimed kids. Castor and Pollux both leaned over rows of strawberries, parting the plants and placing the spare ones into buckets gently.

"Connor, Travis, put that worm down!" You shouted across the strawberry field. The two raven-haired boys where running across the field, stepping on some plants and pestering the other kids with some worms they found in the dirt.

Luke smiled at you as he approached you, taking in the sight of you. You were wearing the orange camp halfblood tshirt, blue jeans and green flipflops. You were giving the siblings a killer gaze which left Luke laughing. He approached you quickly and wrapped his arms around you.

"You need to teach your kids some manners." You growled unhappy. Luke kept you in a tight hug and rocked you around a little. "And you need to take a breath." He mocked, pocking your forehead and rubbing over the angry wrinkles on your forehead.

You huffed and bumped your head into Luke's shoulder before you raised your head and kissed him gently. Luke smiled into the kiss and rubbed his thumbs over your hips.

"You look very pretty today." He whispered. "The spring gives you a nice glow." You smiled in return and couldn't help but to blush a tiny but. "I'm so glad the winter is over." You groaned into his chest. The winter always left you feeling dull and empty.

Luke rubbed your back up and down. "Agreed. I hate seeing you so sad because of it. Now you are blooming again, that's way better." He laughed slightly and you could feel the laugh vibrating in his chest. You grinned up at him but suddenly, there was a distant scream and two laughs. "Oh for heaven's sake." You grumbled angrily and pulled away from Luke.

You jumped over a few strawberry plants and stormed over towards the source of the scream.

Connor and Travis where hiding behind the Athena cabin, a metal bucket with some worms in the between them. Annabeth Chase, one of the younger Athena girls, was ducking away as they threw worms at her.

You growled angrily and raised your hand. One of the closer apple trees bowed down its branches and picked up the two boys by their hoods.

"Whoa, oh no." Travis shouted as he was lifted a few feet into the air. "And what excatly are you two doing here?" You ask sternly but cracked a smile as you saw Annabeth giggling in the distance.

"We were spreading the worm colony." Travis argued quickly. "That's right. So all plants have enough worms and become pretty." Connor added.

You rolled your eyes and let the tree hold them a little higher over the ground. "I am very sure that Annabeth is pretty enough and doesn't need the assistance of some worms." You argued.

Luke appeared behind you and stopped next to you, standing tall with crossed arms and a smirk. "Luke, help! They're being mean." Connor said, suddenly very whiny and you had to hold back a laugh. Luke chuckled and nodded.

"Mhh, sure. Very, very mean. The most evil person we will ever meet." He joked and patted your hair.

"Can you please let us down?" Travis asked with big, innocent eyes. "No." You said unrelenting. "Please!!" They now whined in unison.

"Come on." Luke patted your back encouraging. You rolled your eyes annoyed. "No."

"What if you get a kiss for it?" Luke suggested mischievously. Connor and Travis groaned dramatically. You smirked at Luke. "You know what... it's a deal."

Luke smiled and leaned closer to you, kissing you gently which caused the siblings to make fake gagging noises. Luke pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You get another kiss if you let them go now." He whispered. You grumbled unhappy but dropped the Stolls on the floor. They both quickly got up and headed off in a swift pace, turning their heads a few times anxiously which made you laugh.

Luke wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder. He let out a pleased sigh and peppered your neck with a few kisses which caused you to giggle. "Brats." You mumbled and leaned back into Luke's embrace.

Luke chuckled. "Don't let them ruin your day. Instead i wanted to ask if you wanted to go to the beach with me and do some photosynthesis?"

You burst out laughing. "You know im not a plant?" You chuckled and turned around to hug Luke tightly. "But i would love to lay in the sun with you."

Luke smiled and hugged you back tightly. "Awesome. See? It's photosynthesis."

You rolled your eyes but smiled widely. "Whatever you say, love."

[hockpock]

Watching Muppet Christmas Carol, as you do.

The big finale is very heartwarming, Scrooge redeemed, The Love We Found etc....

But think about it from Miss Piggy Mrs Cratchett's PoV

You were planning a quiet family dinner and your husband's asshole boss shows up with half the neighborhood and an UNCOOKED FUGGIN GOOSE and says 'surprise, you're hosting!'

I don't care if you're paying the mortgage all of a sudden, that's still a dick move