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archieimagines · 2 years

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antidote | chishiya shuntaro

Summary: A doctor is a lifeline. In the Jack of Hearts game, Chishiya strives to be yours.

yeah, i took the physician reveal and ran with it. i tried to get into his head to portray him as well as i could in writing this and accidentally fell head over heels. let me know if i did him justice? warnings: large helpings of anxiety, chishiya-esque emotional manipulation, though affectionate. mentions of sex, fwb setup, my attempt at sounding medically educated. word count: 2741 requested by: anon (thank you so much for this brilliant idea, i loved getting stuck into it. i don’t write smut, but i hope this still gets you a little riled.) written by: archie support me on ko-fi

It’s human nature to fuck up. He should’ve known to expect it from you.

It was beginning to wear him down, your constant knee bouncing and nail biting since the third hour of this game. All he needed to do was watch. He was wildly curious to see how this would all play out, and he knew he was safe. Knew you were safe.

All things considered, it was a low-risk game: only trust was required, and he’d scored that easily by taking you under his wing. However, The idea of the Jack of Hearts was a poison injected into the bloodstream of the prison’s population. The symptoms of distrust and paranoia would migrate through the ranks, and the masses would spiral and die.

It was a simple game. The key was to not let your protector get infected.

But the symptoms were visibly taking a hold of you. The cafeteria table shook with your anxious tics, the water in your bottle sloshing enough to disrupt his attention on the surrounding cafeteria. He wouldn’t complain though. You weren’t annoying, no, but you could soon put him on edge if he let you spiral like this, and then he’d be infected too.

“Chishiya,” you called softly, clearly nervous to disrupt his spectating.

He didn’t tear his eyes from the scheming girl in the dress. She was particularly interesting in this setting; and by his deductions, not likely to be the Jack. “Hm?”

Your voice came meeker than normal. “What’s my suit again?”

He turned slowly, a brow quirked over a relaxed eye as he finally gave you his attention. “You forgot?”

“No. Just tell me.”

He sighed silently through his nose, calculating your thoughts. To ask this after he’d told you twice already, you must’ve been anxious about one of two things. One, that your addled mind would fool you into speaking the wrong suit. Or two, that you couldn’t trust him.

“Heart,” was all he said.

And you nodded. Your eyes hardened, clearly visualising the shape before your eyes. ‘Heart,’ he could practically see your mind reciting. ‘Heart.’

Or… Was that a calculating look? He flexed his jaw. Were you possibly tallying up the likelihood that he’d lied to you?

He focused on the accidental downturn of his lips. He shouldn’t be double reading you like that - his own intuition was the only concrete thing he had. He’d never been wrong before. He’d kept the both of you alive for this long based on his skill alone, and he’d not let your lives slip away in a measly Jack’s game.

With a slow blink, he made the conscious choice not to chip away at his own trust in himself, as was undeniably the Jack’s aim in this game.

Chishiya’s gaze lowered to where your fingertips danced on the tabletop. A heart shape. Over and over. Frantic, disturbed. You were slipping.

Against his better judgement, he reached out a hand to clasp over your fingers, quietly amused when those sweet, round eyes fixed on his face. You were so scared, so anxious, and the part inside of him that felt for you lit a soft smile on his lips.

You’d never been good at heart games with that anxious disposition, but that was why he’d kept you by his side. You were an easy window into the minds of his surroundings with how easily he could read you. Your distress on the outside showed blatantly the fear of the people in this game. Everyone under the roof would be feeling it. Even the Jack… Especially the Jack.

Chishiya had found you early on in the games-- only the two of you had survived the Six of Hearts. You were entirely integral to his methods of survival that day, so he stole you away to the Beach and was sure to never let you have a game without him. Losing you as the key to his readings would surely damn him someday. Yet somewhere along the line, he grew… fond.

It must’ve been your consistent proximity, he’d reasoned at first. How your constant being around became a sense of ‘normal’ for both he and Kuina, how your raw, unapologetic humanity was a refreshing shift in his life, how you were a brilliant vessel in the games.

He’d protect you, and you’d provide him the opposite perspective as the control in his readings where everyone else was the variable. The perfect symbiotic relationship in this land.

And perhaps that may have been the case. Perhaps that was the foundation for which he felt appreciative of you, the foundation for a so-called friendship. But it didn’t explain how you’d developed into more for him.

His hold on your fingers tightened, gaze fixed on them as he recalled how they’d thread through his hair, night after night. How they’d unzip his hoodie at the Beach. How they’d scramble to tug the sheets over your naked body when a militant barged through the unlockable door to call him into an executive meeting. He couldn’t help the huff of amusement at the thought. Your eyes were as sweet and panicked then as they were now.

But it wasn’t the same. There, you had the safety of the blankets in his room. A sanctuary. Here, you must’ve felt so exposed to the Jack’s poison. Knee bouncing beneath the table and water bottle gripped tight in one hand, what he could swear was a thin sheen of sweat over your skin. You were really losing your nerve, and he needed to be your antidote.

“Follow me,” he murmured, his interest in the room’s population dissipated. With a gentle nod in a moment of reassurance, he let go of your fingers to let you take up your bottle of water and led you from the cafeteria.

His hands burrowed into his pockets as he walked. He took his slow time, sure to register his surroundings in his peripherals even as he gazed straight ahead, effortless as ever.

Your distinct footsteps followed close behind, audibly unsure and glancing around to the others as you tagged along. He knew you had no clue yet. You were playing it blind and suffering for it.

He took you aside into one of the prison’s meeting rooms where once upon a time, a board of directors would’ve gathered. They’d have administered handfuls of men’s fates, and they’d have considered them less than rats. Now this was where Chishiya would administer your own fate, purely because he held you dear.

He opened a palm to gesture to the end of the table. “Take a seat,” he spoke, ever relaxed, and watched you hop up onto the end of the table. It was rickety, chairs kicked and strewn about, the room only lit by the game-master’s searchlights that shone into the windows.

You looked far from comfortable perched up there, the glare lighting half of your face, and he found himself silent. He just looked at you for a moment. How beautiful you were.

He’d noticed many times, of course. The flutter of your lashes as you looked over his features in a fruitless attempt to read his face. Your parted lips channelling the oxygen that fuelled your body, though your lungs delivered it all shaky and uneven. You were stunning to him, even in the worst of times. Even when you were drenched in the crimson of lives you outlived.

But… There was something in this moment. Something about how right now, he was your lifeline. He held that beautiful existence in his hands and this time, he had the power to choose his method of helping. No supervisors to end your life with a swift letter, no list of priority to bump you down. Or at least, you were the priority.

“What is it?” You jerked him from his thoughts, your ankle bouncing once more where it swung below the table. “Chishiya?”

He gifted you a smile, but it didn’t soothe you.

Your eyes narrowed instead. “What are you hiding from me?”

A soft hum of laughter as he took slow, deliberate steps closer until he stood directly before you. A pinkness on your neck caught his eye and his head tipped in curiosity. He reached to slip a finger into your collar, lips pursed in question as he felt the irritated heat of your skin underneath. “Mm? Do you have a latex allergy?”

“Lat-? No.”

He pulled gently on the band at your neck, stepping even closer to peer at the line of irritation from the garment. It wasn’t until he finally removed his hold that he noted the moisture on his finger-- your sweat. The salt must have caught in the material and rubbed you raw, leading to irritation and the slightest blood spots beneath your skin.

“You’ve been pulling at the collar.”

“It’s tighter than when we started.”

Chishiya knew that wasn’t true. His was perfectly fine - comfortable, even - but he didn’t give a thought to argue. Your stress was having physical implications, making everything even worse for you. Anxiety really is a bitch, he mused.

“Water.” He held a hand out to the bottle and you placed it in his palm. His eyes fixed on yours as he opened it up-- and only at this point did he realise quite how close he was.

Your knees put a comfortable, familiar pressure on either side of his hips, his face uncommonly close to yours without the presence of a bed, but he had no intention of moving. He just took the space and owned it, relishing in the slightest hue of red that dusted your cheek, sure to notice it deepen as he raised your chin between his finger and thumb, guiding you to lift your face.

“This will be cold,” was all the warning he gave before trickling the water down your neck.

You hissed and jerked back, likely from the cold or the sting of the freshwater on your salted wounds. “Shit, Chishiya.”

He simply chuckled inwardly, lips hitched in a humoured smirk as he rinsed your skin. He let the little stream of water run across your throat, taking his time to work towards your other ear. His touch on your chin remained delicate as a doctor’s touch, directing you to look the other way for his ease.

This intimacy, he pondered. So rare in the home world. It was one thing to be a physician in a hospital, and another to use basic, opportunistic materials to heal someone who depended on him so wholly. A patient may fight to survive on their own accord, but here, in this game, with you… Everything rode on his word, on his actions. Everything.

A strange magnetism in his chest drew him ever closer to your skin, until his lips soon met the human warmth beneath your ear. It was a slow kiss, tender and deliberate, and he relished in how your body naturally leant into his.

His closed eyes let him hone on the quickened beat of your pulse, the ghost of a thrum against his lips. Your blood pumped the cortisol of your anxiety through the roof, and he remembered his mission to bring it back down, to calm you. He clung to this as a reason to retract from you. If this reaction was from his unsolicited affection, he should know better than to drive your adrenaline too high.

“Don’t touch it anymore,” he prescribed, voice level and cool, giving no hint as to how hard it was to lean back from you. “The irritation will lessen and you can focus more.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m focusing on,” you spat in a whisper, uncommonly callous with your words despite the pink to your cheeks as you watched him close the bottle cap once more. He’d seen you panic before in many a heart’s game, but not like this, not after his sparing affection. This game really was frying your nerves.

“Focus on keeping your head,” he murmured, the slightest snort slipping out after. “In every sense of the word.”

“Shut the fuck up, Chishiya.”

It was endlessly amusing to see you like this. The fire that came from your lips right now had never been rivalled before, and any regret he’d had at choosing a Heart’s game for you quickly dissipated. Fascinating to see you lose your mind.

But, he couldn’t toy with you too far. He allowed you to hear his chuckle, low and rumbling in his chest, only audible with the proximity he kept. “Sincerely. Focus on staying calm. All you need to do is trust me.”

“Not so easy in a place like this.”

He took the chance to look surprised. This was his opening to seal any of his own concerns about you. “You think I’d feed you the wrong suit?”

He paid careful attention to how you hesitated, watching the thoughts dance their patterns behind your eyes. You were looking at him without seeing him, close enough that he could see his reflection in your irises. Calculations, calculations, ones that you so visibly struggled to work out. Would he dare tell you the wrong suit? Would it be out of choice or pre-emptive, lest you try to end him first, purely because you’d worried?

Moments passed, and the longer it went on, the more his worries tugged at his thoughts. He needed to prove himself to you to save his own skin. Both of your skins.

His hands settled lightly on your lower thighs, set snug on either side of his hips, and he gave a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t need to worry,” he murmured, voice low and soothing as butter on a wound, “We’ll survive this together.”

That endearing little tug between your brows encouraged him on, and he couldn’t help but take your chin in his hold again. To hold that sweet face, so trusting, so impressionable. He watched the hope shine in your features before turning your face the slightest degree, exposing your ear once more, to which he leant in. His breath just tickled your lobe as his nose nudged on your shell, words slow and deliberate. “I know who the Jack is.”

The change in your body language was instant. You jumped back to peer at his face, brows high and eyes wide, no longer slouched and dejected. Your hand gripped at his white jacket, fisted into the fabric to keep him close as you murmured, “Really?”

A slow nod. Relaxed eyes and knowing smirk shone in the searchlight, and he planned his next words carefully. He didn’t want you to know who his suspects were, in case you gave anything away and steered the game from its natural course. “I have two suspects, it’s just down to seeing which fails first.”

The elation in his chest at seeing your relief was disorienting. The way you sighed out with almost a laugh, head thrown back to let it escape you… It was an image he wouldn’t forget for a long time. The serenity of his antidote, saving you from the Jack’s poison.

His brows shot up as you snatched his shoulders into a tight, relieved hold, thighs tight on his waist and arms looped around his neck. Your face pressed into the junction of his shoulder, nestled against his hair. “Thank fuck,” you breathed, edging on tears. “You worked it out? I should’ve known. I should’ve!”

He didn’t say anything, only astounded that you might be so liberal in your affections outside his hotel room. But then, he did bridge that gap first. And there were no regrets. He allowed himself to indulge in it, his own arms finding their home around your waist and his nose in your hair. Of course it was a trick of psychological conditioning, but if he focused just right, he could almost smell the residue of chlorine from the days at the Beach.

He indulged in splaying a hand across your back, rubbing soothing circles over your form. This body… He knew the ins and outs of it. He knew where every mole dotted your skin, he could estimate the length of your lower ribs without flaw. His thumb pressed slow pulses in the flesh between the back of your ribs, imagining that he’d place his stethoscope there.

What a sound he’d hear. Each breath, the source of your survival.

Would it be too arrogant to consider himself such a thing too?

#chishiya x reader #chishiya imagine #shuntaro chishiya x reader #chishiya shuntaro x reader #nijiro murakami x reader #nijiro murakami imagine #alice in borderland imagine #alice in borderland headcanon #aib #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #nijiro murakami #written by archie

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 7 months

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I Didn't Know You Smoked

Steven Grant x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Steven has a secret habit.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Everytime I write something I feel myself putting on the clown make up more and more.

Warnings: Use of ‘fag’ as the British and Australian slang for cigarette, reader doesn’t smoke, blow job, fingering, p in v sex, cream pie, maybe kind of a cream pie kink from Steven if you look closely, swearing, typos, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 2741

The scent of smoke caused you to pause midstep. You shrugged off your backpack and hung it up on the side as you walked to the kitchen and put down your shopping bag. You’d been able to start cooking when you realised you were missing a few key ingredients and had made a quick dash to the corner shop.

The smell of smoke hit you again, and even though it was very clearly cigarette smoke your mind quickly spiralled to smoke from a fire. Shit. Had you left a candle on in the bathroom?

You’d lit one when you had a bath after work, the image of the flame somehow catching the towels and running up the walls burst into your head.

You rushed to the bathroom, yanking open the door with such a force that the hinges groaned under your exertion.

Steven practically jumped out of his skin, whipping his head around to look around at you, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?” He yelps.

“Shit, Steven, sorry, I thought I’d left a cand…” You pause, and truly take in the scene before you.

He’s stood on the toilet, crouched a little so that he can reach the tiny top part of the window that actually opens. There’s a cigarette in his left hand. You can just see it from your angle. Steven’s hand outside in the cool evening air.

“You’re smoking?” There isn’t any judgement in your voice, just surprise.

“Yeah, fuck, sorry,” he turns to hastily blow smoke out of the window, practically trying to shove his whole face outside before he grabs the old jar from were he had propped it on the window sill and stubs out his cigarette hastily. He puts the butt in there after and screws on the lid.

You’d seen that old jar on his desk plenty of times. Just assumed it was filled with odds and ends. You didn’t realise it was his secret ashtray.

The sight of him blowing out the billow of smoke is kind of… nice actually. Despite his obvious panic there’s something about it you can’t quite put your finger on. You shake your head.

“No, don’t worry, I just… didn’t know you smoked?”

Jake smoked, you could set your watch to his cigarette breaks; they were so precise. But he would always, without fail, go outside. Rain or shine, freezing cold or oppressive heat. He didn’t seem to mind if the lift was broken or not, outside he would go and the butt would go in the bin on the street after. Never on the floor. Jake was a stickler for that, had got into more than one verbal (and physical) fight with strangers who just flicked their fag onto the pavement.

Marc had smoked, several years ago. But had quit and never touched another one since. It always used to puzzle him when he had the craving for one after not smoking for over a decade.

Most other ex-smokers he spoke to talked about being revolted by cigarettes once they had fully stopped for a few years. Now that he knew about Jake, and his continuing habit, whenever the urge got too strong he just tapped out and let Jake go for a cigarette. (Marc still argued that smoking was bad for them, while Jake countered that technically Khonshu’s suit healed any damage every time they wore it. Which had led to a very lengthy debate over if Jake’s true reasoning for serving the moon god was so that he didn’t have to quit his nicotine fix.)

They didn’t smoke often, and Jake went more than out of his way to minimise any smell that clung to them. But it meant that you never found it puzzling if they smelt like smoke. It just meant Jake had had one.

Steven had never mentioned smoking himself, in fact he often scolded Jake for it.

“I don’t smoke, I mean,” Steven blushed a little, his shoulder slumping. “Well, that’s a lie, innit? I smoke… sometimes?”

“Sometimes?” You repeat with a small smile.

“Sometimes… just sort of,” he shrugs. “Feel the urge sometimes. I used to… before I met Marc and Jake, once or twice a month, just one fag, you know? I hid a packet under the sink.”

“Under the sink?” You laugh kindly and Steven smiles and nods.

“Yeah, here,” he gets down off the toilet and points at a little space under the taps. “And then I’d smoke out the window so I didn’t set the alarm off or stink out the place. I tell you, I used to always get confused because sometimes I would smell a bit like smoke, even though I hadn’t touched them in weeks.” He shrugs again. “I thought that’s just what happened.”

You chuckle. “And you still sneakily have a fag every now and then.”

He nods and grins bashfully, “every now and then… I know I should be good and go outside like Jake does but… it’s like, part of the ritual now. You know? Stand at an awkward angle and half hang my head out of the window. Wouldn’t feel right otherwise… plus sometimes I just can’t be fucked.”

You laugh loudly and he smiles, glad that his little joke amused you.

“Marc and Jake don’t know…” He says shyly.

You nod and mime zipping your lips and he grins again.

“Thank you, love.”

You lean to give him a quick kiss but he pulls back a little.

“Sorry, I mean, I definitely taste like smoke, disgusting, you don’t want that do you? No.” He shakes his head. “I’ll brush my teeth.”

You screw your face up a little in what Steven at first assumes is agreement at not wanting to kiss him while he tasted of cigarettes.

You let out a little grumble and take hold of his cheeks, holding him firmly as you place a kiss on his lips.

Even though the action is brief he does taste like smoke. And it’s kind of… nice again. A strange little spark of heat begins to grow in your belly and suddenly you can’t get the idea of fucking Steven with a cigarette dangling between his lips out of your mind.

The way you know he would writhe and whimper, biting down on the butt to try his hardest to stop it from slipping out of his mouth.

He moans low against you as you slide your tongue against his, spreading that smokey flavour across your taste buds.

“Hmm,” he pulls back just a fraction to speak, even though his hands slide to your hips to pull you closer. “What’s gotten into you, love?” He grins.

“Nothing,” you mumble and kiss down his jaw, running your teeth over his neck and leaving sloppy bites.

Steven shivers, a little gasp of air hitching in his throat as he urges you even closer. You bump against his quickly hardening cock and he groans, bucking his hips forward to rut against you. Kissing his neck was always his weak spot. Practically guaranteed to get him hot under the collar at a second's notice.

He whines a little as you move away from him for a momentarily, his fingers tighten instantly against you, trying to keep the space between your bodies to a minimum.

“Here,” you grab at the cigarette packet on top of the cistern, and pull one out before you offer it to him.

Steven raises his eyebrow at you.

“Just, erm, can you put it in your mouth?”

He pauses for a second, chewing at his bottom lip nervously. “I don’t want to smoke in front of you love, if I’m messing up my own lungs then-”

“No, no, you don’t have to light it… just…”

His eyes widen ever so slightly and a small smile pulls at his lips. “You like it, huh?” He teases softly.

“No.” Heat burns at your skin but you can’t help but laugh lightly. “...yeah.”

He chuckles and takes the cigarette, nuzzling into your cheek. “Alright, but… let’s not tell Jake about this, yeah?”

You raise your eyebrow at him this time. “And why is that?”

“Oh,” Steven shrugs, moving the cigarette between his fingers in an almost hypnotic pattern, “no real reason.”

“Really?” You grin.

“Hmm,” he smiles playfully, “Jake gets lots of things.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah… and maybe I want this to be my thing.” He kisses you quickly before he puts the cigarette in his mouth and leans close to your ear. “I bet if I stuck my hand down your trousers my fingers would come back soaking, wouldn’t they?”

“Steven,” you try to chastise but your voice comes out all whiney and desperate. You can’t take your eyes off the way the cigarette just hangs from the corner of his mouth, bobbing with every word.

He chuckles, taking it from between his lips so he can kiss you roughly, and hold the back of your neck with his other hand.

You lick hungrily into his mouth and push him back against the wall, trying to regain some control over yourself and the situation.

He lets you, in all honesty he always lets you do whatever you wanted, smiling the whole time when you pull back like the cat that got the cream. “Never thought you’d have a smoking kink, love.” He puts the cigarette back in his mouth.

“It’s not a smoking kink,” you scowl playfully and drop to your knees.

“No?” He teases lightly, pretending to take a long drag.

“No.” You unbuckle his jeans, pulling down the zip and relishing the sound of his contented sigh as you palm his cock.

There’s a little wet patch of precum already soaking into his boxers from the tip, a visual cue of how desperate he is despite his quite commendable effort at seeming calm. His dick twitches as you touch him, as you languidly push his trousers and underwear down his hips and take his length in hand.

“No,” you repeat, “I have a you smoking kink.” You give him a little smile as you look up at him before you run the tip of your tongue along his velvet warm length.

He shivers, letting out a small cry of satisfaction as his eyes close and eyebrows pinch together. The sight of him pressing his head back against the tiles with the cigarette at the edge of his mouth sends a sharp thrill down your spine.

You lap at his slit, board, flat licks that have him shaking and squirming in no time as you lightly squeeze and pump him from the base.

He tries to stay still, to let you play and tease at your own pace for as long as possible. But his self control is rapidly dissolving.

By the time you suck his bulbous head into your mouth he’s practically crawling up the walls. He groans low in his chest, glancing down so he can watch you slowly bob your head back and forth, taking him deeper and deeper each time.

You moan around him, trying to open your jaw and take him further but he’s so thick it’s nearly impossible.

Heat burns distractingly at your core and you can’t sit still, shifting on your knees to rub your legs together to try to relieve a fraction of that maddening ache.

He wants to grab you by the back of the neck and force his cock down your throat, wants to buck and trust and cum so deeply until he spills from your lips.

Instead he bites his teeth together, almost severing the cigarette in two and claws at the tiles as bliss twists and grows in his stomach.

You manage to take him a fraction deeper, your throat aching as you pick up the pace, squeezing his thighs and swirling your tongue around his tip as if your life depended on it, as if his pleasure was the only way for you to breathe.

His stomach muscles clench, balls contract and you can tell he’s painfully close by the little whimpered moans that slip past his lips with every breath. You’re about to-

Suddenly he grabs hold of your chin, pulling you back off him and groaning at the trail of salvia that connects him to your mouth. He pulls you up and into his arms with a rare show of his strength and kisses you deeply, the cigarette falling to the floor.

“Steven,” you moan, the sound muffled by his lips.

“Off, off, off,” he mutters, undoing your trousers and pulling off your top and bra. He strips you so fast it makes your head spin, and then he’s sitting on the toilet lid and pulling you down onto his lap to straddle his thighs.

Your hands fly to his shoulders and you have just enough time to tug his t-shirt over his head before he presses two thick fingers into your entrance.

You moan, keening as he curls them, the sensation like lightening along your nerves and Steven swears.

“Oh god, you’re so fucking ready for me,” he mumbles, salivating as he sticks his fingers in his mouth and pushes you down onto his needy, weeping cock. His hips instinctively buck up as his tip notches in your entrance, sheathing himself halfway.

You moan, high pitched and throwing your head back as he stretches you deliciously. You barely have a second to adjust before he grabs your hips and forces you all the way down and it’s perfect. So full and hitting so wonderfully deep that you gasp. You can feel your slick gushing out of you, making a mess of him as he bounces you on his cock.

He groans, eyes glazed over, blurting out fragments of sentences with every thrust. “Can’t believe you like me smokin’ that much, fucking amazing, so wet, squeezing me so tight, ah,” he moans loudly, pushing his forehead against yours and kissing you messily, so hungry for every part of you.

You gasp against him, meeting his powerful thrusts with your own and chasing that sweet release so desperately.

“Gonna fucking smoke everyday, become a chain smoker just so I can always have you whining on my cock, every single second, just keep you filled up and- oh shit!” Pleasure cracks into his being, surprising him with its suddenness and intensity. He moans loudly, rutting against you as he pumps you full of his spend. His skin sweaty, his hair clingy to his forehead as his hips slow and he comes down from his high.

Steven looks up at you with dark eyes, “fuck, sorry.” He kisses you sweetly, still breathing hard.

“It’s okay,” you stroke his head and he preens up into your touch. Your thighs twitch, your need still thudding hard and making you squirm ever so slightly.

Steven hisses softly at the movement, overstimulation flooding his mind with both pain and pleasure.

“Sorry, I-”

“Keep moving,” he groans, pressinging his face against your shoulder and lightly biting your skin. “Cum on me.” He mutters, keeping his left arm wrapped around your waist while he snakes his right hand down between your bodies and rolls your clit between his nimble fingers.

You gasp and whine lightly. Rocking yourself up and into his touch.

Steven moans again, mouthing at your skin and the wet mess between your legs as you move. He thrusts upwards shallowly, rubbing you in perfect time.

“Steven,” you pant, squirming as your legs start to spasm, the pleasure so close it’s on the tip of your tongue.

“That’s it love,” he whispers so softly, “that’s it.” He looks up at you with his large doe eyes, completely enraptured with you in that moment. “You can do it.”

You cry out, so, so close it’s driving you mad. The pull of his fingers, the rock of his hips, the fact that he’s still hard inside of you and pushing so deep.

“You can cum for me,” he bites his bottom lip, his voice like silk. “Can’t you?”

Pleasure spikes up and overtakes you, blossoming out and hitting every nerve. You moan, quieting yourself ever so slightly by pressing your lips to his and kissing him messily.

Steven echoes the sound as you cum, your walls squeezing him so tightly and sending an aftershock of deep satisfaction through his veins.

You breathe heavily as you calm, and he hugs you tightly, grinning and still looking up at you with those beautiful eyes.

____________________________________

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346 notes · View notes

alonglistofbirds · 6 months

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[2741/11080] Cresent-caped lophorina - Lophorina niedda

Also known as: Vogelkop lophorina

Order: Passeriformes Suborder: Passeri Superfamily: Corvoidea Family: Paradisaeidae (birds-of-paradise)

Photo credit: Ben Tsai via Macaulay Library

#birds #Cresent-caped lophorina #Passeriformes #Passeri #Corvoidea #Paradisaeidae #Lophorina #birds a to z #Vogelkop lophorina #described

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maoistyuri · 20 days

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Rolling edit: 2024-09-08

Spotlight on the two lowest-amount-raised since the last update: (Compilation below!)

Spotlight I: @supportmyfamily (blog terminated)

This is the fundraiser of Ahmed Al-Saidi, a former dental technician. This fundraiser is for four families (Him, his wife and kids, his parents, his brothers and their kids). If they have created a new blog, please share it with me.

This fundraiser has raised 112 of a target 30000 GBP since it started. Donate here.

Spotlight II: @zakariafamily

This is the fundraiser of Mohammed Al-Habil (not the same fundraiser as alhabil/aya2mohammed). He was injured at the time of the fundraiser's publication, and has a paraplegic daughter. This is a family of seven.

This fundraiser has raised 190 of a target 20000 EUR since it started. Donate here.

My compilation list:

If you can, please pick some and donate! Please note that SEK (when present) is approx. 11kr : 1$US (+X since 2024-09-01)

@aya2mohammed 28206/50000 EUR gofundme (+1233)

@ahmedomer9 2766/50000 EUR gofundme (+894)

@nourhabil3 685/60000 EUR gofundme (+465)

@fatensama12 16403/50000 USD gofundme (+306)

@hassanmadi2 864/50000 EUR gofundme (+371)

@bshaeromars-blog 17313/40000 USD gofundme (+865)

@basharbfamily 320/50000 EUR gofundme (+252)

@yahyaahlbil 306/50000 EUR gofundme (+296)

@abeeribrahim2006 16089/70000 CAD gofundme (+904)

@motaz345 44432/250000 SEK gofundme (+7835)

@osama-family 2741/50000 GBP gofundme (+722)

@ezzaldeens-blog 2025/20000 EUR gofundme (+976)

@fidaa-family2 24930/30000 USD gofundme (+4264)

@lobnaalser 5956/50000 EUR gofundme (+1528)

@rodainaayyad83 10385/30000 EUR gofundme (+245)

@yousefjehad3 7361/15000 USD gofundme (+1663)

@abdalhadiaburas 5363/65000 CAD gofundme (+787)

@family-aya 4085/15000 EUR gofundme (+1139)

@basel1995s 8153/60000 CHF gofundme (+295)

@aseelo680 22000/50000 USD gofundme (+3680)

@supportmyfamily 112/30000 GBP gofundme

@zakariafamily 190/20000 EUR gofundme

#gaza #focus

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promptsforthestrugglingauthor · 3 months

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Writing Prompt #2741

"Cheer up! Not all of us have a destiny to fulfill. You're going to have a great adventure."

I knew that they were only trying to be kind, but I had seen what horrors destiny brought people.

#writing prompt #writing #writers on tumblr #oc prompt #imagine your ocs #dialogue prompt #story prompt #story inspo #story ideas #creative writing prompt #creative writing inspo #creative writing ideas #original prompt #daily prompt #daily writing prompt #promptsforthestrugglingauthor

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alovesongtheywrote · 8 months

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Nightmare Academia P.22 | Spencer Reid x Reader

♥ Summary: In this chapter of Nightmare Academia, you and Reid reunite. And you get a little tipsy. [Prof!Spencer Reid x GN-Prof!Reader]

♥ Warnings: alcohol mention, general softness

♥ A/N: im genuinely super happy with this chapter, have fun with it

♥ Word Count: 2741

Series Masterlist

♥♥♥

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

Your voice still echoed in the otherwise silent air of the office. You looked back out the door, down the hallway and around, searching for where Reid might have been hiding. Spencer didn’t move. He didn’t answer. He just stood there, stock still in the office, staring right at you.

“Seriously, where the fuck were you?” You looked down at the bottle in your hands, “I haven’t started drinking yet.”

Again, Spencer didn’t answer, but this time he didn’t stay still. In a split second, moving faster than he’d ever moved in his goddamned life, he crossed the room. Before you could process how fast he’d moved, or pause to think, or take a breath, his arms were wrapped around you.

His grip on you was strong but gentle. His usual hesitation at human touch was banished by his fear and the intensity of the situation. He held you close for a second- close to him like you were something important. Something more than a thorn in his side. Your eyes widened at the sudden contact. It was kind of amazing that you hadn’t dropped the wine bottle in your shock. As it was, you felt a tiny bit stunned and a tiny bit saddened. You really needed that hug.

“I thought you were hurt.”

His voice was so soft, so quiet, that even with his lips against your ear, you had to strain to hear him. It was odd, honestly. Spencer usually had so much to say, but for once, he was silent. You could feel his hands shaking against your back.

“It wasn’t me. I’m not hurt, it’s not me.”

He pulled away before you could elaborate, “What happened? Who’s-”

“It’s Frank. Someone shot him, they think it was Adam, but it wasn’t. Now Adam needs character witnesses, and I-” Your words came faster and faster until there was no more air in your lungs. Your hands quivered slightly, and Spencer reached out again, taking the wine bottle from you and placing it on the desk behind him before he gathered both of your hands in his.

It didn’t really help much. Spencer’s hands were still trembling, so your hands just kind of trembled together. It wasn’t bad, per-say. The contact did help calm you down, it’s just that nobody stopped shaking.

“It’s okay,” Spencer reassured you, “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

“Okay,” you choked on air, very clearly not okay, “I’m okay. I just- look, I know it’s a lot to ask because you’ve met the guy like, one time, but would you be a character witness for Adam? It’s just, you’re a Fed. You’re a Fed, and you know him, and that will go over really well with almost any jury, so-”

“Hey, hey,” he brought your hands closer to his chest, brushing his thumb over your knuckles over and over again, “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you need me to do, okay?”

“Okay. Okay,” you took a deep breath, finally allowing yourself some peace, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

He gave your hands a final squeeze, almost memorizing the way they felt in his grasp before he had to let go. You both missed the warmth instantly. Spencer cleared his throat and took a step back. He wouldn’t meet your eye. He looked anywhere and everywhere but you. It was like he was very suddenly allergic to your face. You kind of wanted to scream. Instead, you sighed.

“Get back here.”

“Sorry?”

“I said get back here, you motherfu-” You cut yourself off, burying your face in his chest. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, trapping him, giving him no chance to escape. Not that it mattered much. Spencer didn’t want to escape.

He returned your embrace without hesitation. His long, slender fingers brushed long strokes against your spine. He melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder, and in turn, you melted into him. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt, trying to drag him impossibly closer to you, and to his credit, he let you pull him in. The two of you stood there for a moment, letting the universe fall back into place. Spencer felt so warm wrapped around you. And he smelled nice. And you realized you’d never been this close to him without him bleeding out. And you realized that you really didn’t want him to let go.

“Sorry to jump you with affection, but I, uh-”

“Technically, I jumped you first,” he paused for a second. His hand paused with him, stilling at the small of your back, “Please never leave me another message like that- at least not one without extensive context.”

“I scared you pretty bad, huh?” you pulled back to stare up at him, a shit-eating grin crossing your face despite the circumstances.

“Badly. And I wouldn’t say you scared me,” Spencer’s voice pitched up as he lied, “It’s just-”

“You thought I was dead.”

He sighed but smiled, resigning himself to your victory, “Something like that.”

“Something like that,” you mocked, letting your head fall back against his chest with a dull thud. Right then might’ve been a good time to move, but neither of you did. You were tired. You’d been tired for the past twenty-four hours or so. You were moving through a living nightmare, and now that you’d found a source of comfort, you weren’t about to let go.

Comparatively, Spencer was trying to fight his nightmares- even there, standing up and awake with his arms around you, he was still fighting off his worst fears. It was kind of hard to blame him for that. In the past few years, he’d lost a girlfriend and a mentor to brutal and horrific murders. Even more recently, his co-worker’s niece had been kidnapped, sold on a black market for serial killers, and nearly tortured. The BAU was fending off a shadowy network of hitmen. The world felt more and more dangerous every day, and Spencer was terrified that it would take more of the things he cared about.

And he cared about you.

“Fucking fuck you were gone for a while,” you mumbled into his chest. You weren’t super sure that he heard it, but the soft huff of a laugh he let out gave you some confidence.

“Too long, apparently,” Spencer pulled his head away from you for a moment as he gazed back at the smut-filled bookshelves, “Though it looks like you’ve kept yourself busy.”

“Oh, that?” you asked, finally (and reluctantly) unburying yourself from his hold, “That’s been going on since before you left.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “You didn’t notice?”

Spencer was too busy staring at the smut to answer.

“Huh. I guess you’re losing your edge, Doctor Detective.”

“I’m not losing my edge, I just didn’t think to look for smut in my office.”

“Well, maybe you should have.”

“Where did you even put everything?”

“Don’t worry, pretty boy. All your books are safe and sound. I promise.”

He stared at you for a moment. A light pink blush painted his features- he wasn’t sure if it was because of the book about minotaur sex on his bookshelf, or if it was because of you. It could’ve been either. It could’ve been both. It was probably you.

You picked up the wine bottle.

“So, uh. Do you want a drink?”

“I’m good, thanks. Besides, the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse found that the rate of all alcohol-related emergency department visits increased 47.0% between 2006 and 2014. The Alcohol-Related Disease Impact application estimates that there are more than 140,000 deaths caused by excessive alcohol use in a year. I-in other words, that stuff kills.”

“Oh. That’s-”

“I’m so sorry, that was weird, I-” Spencer’s already massive eyes got even bigger. He shook his head as if trying to rid his mind of all the statistics it contained. For a second, Spencer looked a little bit like a kicked puppy- a little dog who had made a mistake and knew it was about to be reprimanded for bad behaviour.

That look physically pained you.

“That was fine, Spencer. You’re fine,” you tried to sound reassuring, “And hey, now I know about the dangers of drinking in excess. My original plan was to down the whole bottle, but now I’m informed.”

Spencer briefly wondered if he was cursed, because you just kept saying things that made his heart have a little freak out in his chest. Not like, a butterflies in the stomach, he’s in love and isn’t realizing it type of freak out, but a, “Holy shit something is wrong and we lost sight of that, oops,” kind of freak out. Or perhaps a, “Holy fuck, what is it with this person and saying things that make me panic,” freak out.

“I’m glad I informed you.”

“Me too,” you opened the bottle, “Though I do want to be clear- I decide when I die, pretty boy. No alcohol is doing that for me.”

“I- that’s nonsensical. You don’t really get a choice about when you die.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

You hopped up on the desk, sitting with the open wine held between your thighs. You leaned back, peering at the drawers, but you didn’t find what you were looking for.

“I don’t think we have cups.”

Spencer crossed his arms and stepped towards the desk, leaning against it, beside you, “Do we really not have cups in here?”

You shook your head and pursed your lips, “Apparently not. Are you sure you don’t want any? Because I know you have a thing with germs, and once I get mine on the bottle-”

“I’m sure,” he smiled, “I shouldn’t drink, anyway.”

“Oh? Don’t tell me you’re a sloppy drunk, Spence.”

Spencer choked on air at the sound of you using the nickname. It didn’t matter that you were teasing him, the intimacy of the nickname was still killing him.

Trying and failing to recover, Spencer stuttered without thought, “I- it’s- someone needs to remember to get more cups.”

“Right. Cups,” you let out a tiny little laugh, “Well, in that case.”

You brought the bottle to your lips. The wine was pretty good. It had been a gift, making it free to you, and free wine can never be all that bad. While you were having a fine time with your wine, Spencer was watching you drink, studying the column of your throat, and running his eyes over the spot where your lips met the bottle. You were gorgeous. How could someone doing something as simple as drinking be gorgeous? Spencer didn’t know, but he knew it was possible because you were sitting in front of him and drinking and being gorgeous.

Spencer kind of hoped someone would shoot him.

“So,” you set the wine back down, “How are things with you? I uh, I saw you took down the guy who killed your mentor- Gideon, right? Jason Gideon? It was in the news.”

Spencer tilted his head in confusion, “It was in the local news- and it got brief coverage from some national news broadcasters, but I don’t remember them covering it here.”

Your fingers tapped against the glass in your hands, “Well, I mean… that’s because they didn’t. I may have done a little bit of research on the case. And then on the BAU.”

“Really? You researched the investigation of a case that took place several states away from you?”

“It wasn’t just any case,” you took another sip of wine. You needed it, “It was your case.”

Spencer hoped again that some divine force would just strike him down, because you looked so pretty drinking wine- drinking wine and caring about him, holy shit.

“And then you researched a government agency that you despise? For fun?”

“For fun. For you. And I’ll admit, the BAU might be a special squad of government agents generally perpetuating a fucked up system and abusing their access to a gas-guzzling jet, but… sometimes you use your powers for good. Sometimes you use your powers for so much good that it doesn’t feel real, but…” you paused to drink, “I’m glad you caught the guy.”

Spencer’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard that it almost hurt.

“If you want me to, I think I can get the BAU to look into Frank’s assault,” he spoke so fast that you almost didn’t hear him.

“What? Is that a thing you guys can do? Just… investigate whatever crimes you want? I thought you needed to be invited by local police?”

“Usually we do, but if a case crosses state lines, we can take over- and I think this case might.”

“Fuck- really?” you turned to face him, eyes wide and fist tight around the neck of the bottle.

“I-” Spencer paused. He wasn’t sure what to say. He could’ve told you about the hitman network, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do that- and more than that, he didn’t want you to fear for your own safety.

He made up his mind, “Frank’s case sounds like a few others we’ve had recently. I think they could be connected.”

“Oh,” you sat up straight, “Fuck.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“So… you could look into this case? And you could find whoever hurt Frank and exonerate Adam?”

Honestly, Spencer couldn’t guarantee that. He also couldn’t say no to you.

“Yes.”

You took a deep breath, “Then do it. Please. A-and when you find whoever shot Frank, can you do something for me?”

Spencer resisted the urge to say “Anything” by staying quiet and nodding.

“Try not to kill them. Try to bring them to justice and send them to prison. Some people who kill can’t be helped, but some of them can. We… We won't know what has to be done until we know who did it, but please. Try for me.”

“I will.”

You reached down slowly, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it, “Thank you.”

The two of you sat in silence for another minute, you drinking, him leaning, and his hand still in yours. It was almost peaceful. Almost calm. And then you had to fuck up the silence with some batshit tomfuckery.

“Hey, if I ever went missing, what would you do?”

“I-” For like, the eightieth time in the last fifteen minutes, you stunned Spencer out of his words, “You’re not gonna go missing. I won’t let it happen.”

The certainty in his voice made you want to press your thighs together. So you did. Spencer didn’t notice. His eyes were on your face- the smile you shot him was fucking blinding, “That’s sweet, Spencer, but humour me. What would you do?”

Spencer took a deep breath, “I’d get my team to help me find you. I’d bring you home, and once I did, I’d make sure you’re okay, physically, mentally, emotionally,” he had you clinging to his every word, “And then I’d yell at you for going missing.”

“What?” You laughed out your shock at the sudden tonal change, “Do you think I’d just disappear for fun or something?”

He shrugged, “It wouldn't surprise me.”

“Good. It shouldn’t, and I might,” you took another sip- a deeper one, exposing your neck to Spencer again. He crossed his legs.

“But if I did vanish for fun, I would come back.”

“Would you?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded, “Nothing could keep me away.”

There was a soft pause in the conversation. You looked at Spencer. He looked at you. You looked at the wine. Spencer kept looking at you because he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“So, if I got murdered-”

“(Y/N),” he said your name like a warning. You just laughed and leaned into his side.

“Humour me! Humour me. If I got murdered, what would you do? And there is a right answer to this one, so be careful.”

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, your phone buzzed. You picked it up and unlocked it, all with his eyes on you.

A bright smile overtook your face.

“Frank’s awake!” You squeezed Spencer’s hand just as he squeezed yours. That adorable moment went unnoticed by both of you in all the excitement, “Missy’s with him at the hospital now. It sounds like he’s going to be okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

♥ Tags: @icarusignite, @usuallyunlikelyfox, @maraudersforlife2005, @fictionalcomforts, @morgthemagpie, @iiheartbowie, @digitalhearts, @corpsebridenightamare, @ghostatrixx, @reiding-writing, @mywellspringoflife, @80katie, @ms-ks-world, if you asked to be tagged and i forgot, pls let me know!! if you would like to be tagged and aren't, also let me know!!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #x reader #nightmare academia

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moonferry · 2 months

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hii guys i decided to try my hand at writing for shane.

title: just trust me, you'll be fine.

word count: 2741

genre: fluff? emotional hurt/comfort

warnings: depression, suicidal thoughts, alcohol use, depressive thoughts, shane's cliff scene.

pairing: shane x gn!reader / shane x player / shane x gn!farmer

summary: shane begins to have depressive thoughts & even brings himself to the cliffside. he is soon greeted by the farmer and is reminded of everything he's grateful for

Everyday had begun to seem exactly the same for Shane: wake up at noon, go to his soulless job, drink at the saloon until ungodly hours of the night and then pass out at two in the morning. Even the lush plant life seemed to take on an air of gray whenever Shane was around. Nothing seemed colorful anymore - like the whole world was a painful reflection of his mental state. Occasionally, he’d “spice it up” and throw in some concerning thoughts about his life situation. Not like he particularly enjoyed these, but they added some variety into his drab life. Not good variety, but variety nonetheless.

Shane glanced at the ceiling with a loud sigh. It seemed like tonight would not be a good one. He glanced over at the small, broken alarm clock on his nightstand. 3:00 A.M. the small LED lights flashed. “Great,” Shane mumbled to himself, “Just great.” He hoisted himself into a sitting position before burying his face into his palms. He heaved another sigh as he rubbed what little sleep from his eyes. Shane knew something like this would happen.

“This is why I don’t take naps,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed with himself. Today was one of the rarer days, well, yesterday, considering the time. Shane had been given the day off - courtesy of a “Joja family bonding day” where all employees were required to attend a short “employee appreciation” ceremony. All they received was a cup of lousy coffee and a stale cookie - and the knowledge that they would not be paid for this time off. Not like Shane was making that much, anyway. He gladly took the day off and intended to spend it doing his favorite thing: absolutely nothing. Of course, he hadn’t intended on sleeping, but his body was begging for a break, so Shane decided to “rest his eyes” at 4 p.m. the previous afternoon. Now, at 3 in the morning, Shane was reaping the consequences. Usually, he would have enough alcohol in his system to help him sleep through the night, but it’s typically frowned upon to drink before 5 pm.

Shane dangled his legs across the side of his small mattress before letting his socked feet thump against the hardwood floor. He slipped on the nearest pair of shoes - a worn pair of green slippers with barely enough tread left on the bottom to keep him from tripping. They would have to do. It’s not like Shane had enough to buy new ones, or that he wanted to, anyway. He glanced around at the messy state of his bedroom and felt immensely guilty. How could he do this? He thought to himself. Marnie had let him live here, had rented him this room for the lowest amount of money humanly possible, and Shane couldn’t even keep his room clean. He felt awful.

“Ungrateful piece of shit,” Shane mumbled to himself as he felt small pinpricks of tears well in his eyes, “That’s all I am, really.” No matter what his mind screamed at him, Shane could not make himself move to clean the mess. It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed the mess, he could just never find the motivation to clean it. Shane could barely find the motivation for anything, anymore. That worried him. He had often had thoughts about what others' lives would be without him and ultimately decided they would not be much different {or if they were, it would be for the better}. It was these thoughts that ultimately led to him leaving the small farm house and walking towards the edge of a cliff. Shane crouched down and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“Why do I even try anymore?” Shane wondered as he glanced over the rocky ledge beneath his feet. He reached down and grabbed the nearest can - a cheap, Joja brand beer with the expiration date smudged off. He slipped his fingers beneath the pull tab and heard the familiar crisp hiss as the can eased open. Shane brought the cool aluminum to his lips before taking a hefty swig. The bitter liquid, which had normally been his friend, decided to burn his throat as he swallowed.

“This shit’s awful,” he gagged out, nearly becoming a sputtering mess as the foam continued trailing down his esophagus. Shane took another sip anyway. He soon emptied the can and looked at it disdainfully. This was supposed to be making him feel better, not worse, so why could he not stop thinking. His mind began racing with every decision he had ever made - most of them far from great, other’s mediocre at best.

When he looked at his problems, it seemed there was only one common denominator: himself, or that’s how he saw it at least. Others would try and make him feel better by insisting “it’s just your circumstances,” or that it was some ethereal force with a plan, like Shane believed any of it. If someone really had a plan for his life, why had it all gone to shit? He could never figure that one out.

“God, I’m a failure,” Shane spoke, his voice breaking as a small sob choked him. He inched himself closer to the rocky ledge and looked down once again, the familiar yet horrible thoughts seeping into his brain once again. His heart ached with the weight of his emotions and another sob bubbled in his chest. Shane opened yet another can and took a drink - desperate to feel anything other than the waterfall of unprocessed emotions that threatened to drown him. No, he didn’t want to feel “anything,” he wanted to feel nothing. To become numb. To seep into the grayness around him just to experience a color other than the violent blue hues that formed his aura. To feel something other than unjustified rage at the wrong people. Shane couldn’t count how many times he had lashed out at Marnie or the new farmer.

Shane felt his breathing catch in his throat. He was suddenly unable to think clearly. He was overcome with a large wave of regret and guilt as he watched the waves crash against the rocks beneath the cliffside. Shane dangled his legs over but some small force in the back of his mind kept him from moving any further. Another force spat terrible things at him and told him he should stop being a coward, that no one would even notice one small, insignificant speck removed from the vast universe. He remained unmoving - each voice desperately trying to get their pleas heard throughout the turmoil inside his head.

It was all too much, so Shane did what he did best. He did nothing. While Shane was debating with himself, a small downpour had started and he was currently getting drenched. The rain was deafeningly loud and Shane felt a kinship. His thoughts blared inside his brain and he was once again overwhelmed with emotions. Shane buried his face inside the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on his thighs. Salty tears streamed down his cheeks.

Shane didn’t seem to notice the soft crunch of footsteps behind him or squelch of mud as someone sat beside him. He only looked up when he felt the soft pressure of a hand against his shoulder.

“Are you okay, Shane?” A quiet voice spoke. It was the new farmer. That damned, incessant farmer. No matter how rude to them Shane was, they kept coming back. They kept talking to him, of all people. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they managed to stumble upon him at his lowest.

“What? Here to make fun of me?” Shane spat back, the familiar anger seeping into his voice. Though he had reacted with hostility, Shane was glad the farmer had approached. Whenever they were around, Shane’s mind seemed to find something else to focus on.

“No,” They spoke, an unusual gentleness in their words. They surveyed the scene before them: Shane with a nearly empty 6-pack, maybe a foot at most from the cliff edge, completely drenched. “I was on my way home, then I saw you.”

“It’s nothing,” Shane lied. When he was met with silence, it was clear to him that the farmer didn’t believe him. Shane sighed and gave a small nod. “Fine,” he confessed, “it is something.”

“Tell me,” The farmer urged. They propped themself up and gave Shane their full attention, “If you want to, I mean. I’m not going to force you to.”

Shane inhaled deeply, his cheeks puffing up as he took the air into his lungs. Where to even begin? He wondered. So much had been on his mind, he didn’t even know where to start. Shane simply shrugged before speaking, “Do you ever feel like you’re not good enough? No matter how hard you try?”

The farmer stayed silent as they listened intently.

“I mean, for months now, it’s been the same shit, different day.” Shane confided, he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped an arm around them. He thought for a moment before thinking again, “Nothing seems to be getting better, or worse. It’s just… stagnant. Like I’m living in the world’s worst fuckin’ time loop.”

“Nothing has meaning anymore, Farmer,” He huffed before emptying another can in one gulp, “and it makes me wonder, what’s the fucking point? Why should I live to experience the same day on repeat?”

The farmer glanced at Shane before silently scooting closer to him. They rested their hand on Shane’s shoulder once again.

“Tell me. Tell me what the point is,” Shane pleaded. Emotion coated his voice once again. Shane sniffled and glanced down at the ground beneath him.

“Well, I’m not an expert,” The farmer started, rubbing the back of their neck with an awkward noise, “But I think that’s something you need to answer, Shane. What is the reason you’re still here?” They hesitated a bit before adding, “Something obviously keeps you here, even if you don’t realize it.”

Shane went silent. He hadn’t thought about it before. Obviously, something had stopped him, or he would have “left” a long time ago. Was it guilt? Or maybe the responsibility he felt for Jas? Shane wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was a culmination of multiple things: all the small joys he encountered on a day-to-day basis, like frozen pizza or the way he feels when helping with Marnie’s chickens. Shane couldn’t help but feel like he was forgetting something. He glanced over at the Farmer and noticed how the rain made their hair stick to the sides of their cheeks. Shane began to realize it wasn’t things that kept him here, it was people. Maybe he couldn’t see it at times, but he was surrounded by a town full of people who tolerated him - some more than others. This farmer, from the day they moved to Pelican town, had made the conscious effort to speak to Shane - no matter how awful he had been to them.

“I think,” Shane started, his deep frown slowly forming into a thin line, “I think I know what it is.”

“Oh?” The Farmer asked. They tilted their head curiously and waited for Shane’s answer.

“People.” He replied with a small nod. “I have never been surrounded by so much life and whimsy. You can’t help but get pulled in. When I sit here, at the edge of these cliffs, I think about how different their lives would be without me. Some evil voice tells me they wouldn’t even notice – and then I remember the warm atmosphere of the saloon and how everyone warmly greets me when I enter.” A small, but heartfelt smile begins to creep onto Shane’s features. He fills his chest swell with adoration of his friends. Those people couldn’t fathom just how much they’ve changed Shane’s life, even if he does complain and grumble at them.

“You know,” Shane started. He sat down the can nestled in his fingers and turned to look at the farmer. He saw the way the moonlight bounced off of the rain and perfectly framed their face. His breath hitched as he realized just how ethereal they looked. “There’s another thing…”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” The farmer asked. They readjusted once again and a hopeful look spread across their features.

Shane’s cheeks lightly flushed. He took in their features: the perfect shape of their lips, the light dusting of dirt spread across their right cheek, the way their soaked clothing sagged and clung to their arms. “Um,” Shane hesitated. He shook his head and let out a small sigh, “Nothing.” Shane mentally facepalmed. He glanced back down at his lap. He could be imagining it, but out of the corner of his eye, a small flicker of disappointment seemed to flash across the Farmer’s features. Shane wasn’t sure, as it was gone in an instant.

The farmer hesitated before moving their hand down and gently resting it on the backside of Shane’s hand. Shane looked up at them with a small look of confusion.

“If you ever need me, I’ll be there, Shane. I don’t want to lose you,” They said. The farmer gently squeezed Shane’s hand and began to stand.

“Farmer, wait,” Shane called out. He reached his hand out and grabbed their wrist. He stood up and approached them– careful not to slip on a stray rock and go tumbling into the ravine below.

Once he had reached them, Shane took a deep breath before speaking. “I’ve been an absolute asshole to you lately. I mean, talk about a mega dick.” Shane glanced down at the muddy ground beneath the two of them. “You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m sorry. For some reason you decided to stick around – despite everything. So, thanks… for that.”

“Of course, Shane. I mean, what are friends for?” The farmer replied, a small, humorless chuckle leaving their lips.

“That’s the thing, Farmer. No one else has done something like that for me,” Shane confessed. He stammered over the next words as a small flush crept into his cheeks once again “It.. It really means a lot.” Shane gulped and met their eyes once again. He gently took their hand in his before adding, “You mean a lot to me.”

The farmer smiled softly before scooting themself closer to Shane and placing a gentle peck on Shane’s cheek. Shane had never been more glad to be a coward. He was grateful to whatever force kept him from the edge.

That was a year ago. Now, at another dreadful hour of the night, Shane lies awake in bed. However, he isn’t alone this time. He glances over and sees the farmer: they lay facing Shane, the soft curtains of sleep surrounding their face. He reached out and gently brushed a stray hair behind their ear.

The farmer stirs awake at the soft touch and sleepily looks at Shane.

“Everything okay, honey?” They murmur, a small yawn interrupting their speech.

“It will be.” Shane replied. He rested his hand against their cheek and felt his heart swell with gratitude. Had it not been for the farmer, Shane would have never been inspired to pursue the help he needed.

The farmer hadn’t “saved” or “fixed” him, they simply showed him that he could still be loved, despite the horrors of living. Shane still experienced bad days, but it helped to know that he wasn’t alone. He had a whole support system: his lovely spouse, his Aunt Marnie, Jas, hell, even Harvey. So many people who would happily help him up if he stumbled and never judge him for falling. It was quite nice. If you were to tell Shane from a year ago how his life would turn around if he learned to rely on other people, he likely would have spat in your face. He had always assumed he could handle it himself, but some things are easier if you ask for help.

The farmer nodded and began to drift back to sleep. Shane watched them lovingly, a small smile forming across his features.

“I love you,” Shane whispered. When he received no response, it was clear his spouse had fallen back asleep. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss onto their forehead before resting his own forehead against theirs.

“Thank you for never giving up on me,” Shane spoke quietly, his words being lost to the night as he began to drift off.

AN: i hope you all enjoyed this. i wanted to try my hand at writing for shane. as someone who has experiences with depressive thoughts, i relate to shane's experiences a bit. if you find yourself in a similar situation or you also experience depressive or suicidal thoughts, i want you to know that despite what your brain may be telling you: you are not alone. it will get better. these things take time, so keep at it. please reach out to someone - preferably a mental health professional - and receive the resources you need. i know not everyone will have the luxury, so if you are unable to find a professional, reach out to family or friends. it's important to note that you are not alone. so many people care about you - even me, a random stranger on the internet whom you've never met. the world will not be the same without you. i love you, you've got this. <3

#stardew valley #sdv #stardew #sdv shane #sdv shane x farmer #sdv shane x reader #stardew valley shane #shane stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #shane fanfic #sdv shane fanfic #stardew valley fanfiction #tw depressing thoughts #ollie's rambles #tw depression #shane hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort

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harkthorn · 3 months

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Getting to grips with the new black dragon design in D&D

-2741

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boinkingbattlemechs · 21 days

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King Crab

Designed by Cosara Weaponries in 2741 at the request of General Aleksandr Kerensky for an assault 'Mech that could "cripple or destroy another 'Mech in one salvo," the King Crab is one of the most fearsome BattleMechs to have ever existed. Its primary weapons, super-heavy autocannons mounted in its arms, can strip the armor off of any 'Mech in a few bursts. Its secondary weapons give the slow King Crab the firepower to see off attackers attempting to pick it off at range, and while not sporting the heaviest armor of any assault 'Mech, there are absolutely no weak points to its protection. If there is a drawback to the King Crab, it's the reliance on ammunition for the autocannons, an aspect to consider on extended campaigns with no guarantee of resupply. If it runs out of ammo, most King Crab pilots will withdraw from the field, making it vulnerable to enemy attacks. The only reliable way to destroy a King Crab is with overwhelming numbers of heavy and assault 'Mechs, and casualties will be suffered in the attempt.

While an excellent close-range combatant, the King Crab proved to be less versatile as a command vehicle, a role eventually filled by the Atlas. Later production models eventually had the state-of-the-art communications systems swapped out for common systems more suited for the brawling nature of the King Crab. At the start of the Amaris Civil War in 2767 Cosara's Mars factory was destroyed by Republican forces, although its factory on Northwind managed to escape unscathed. When General Kerensky and the majority of the Star League Defense Force left the Inner Sphere on their Exodus, they brought with them most of the initial production run of King Crabs, including all of the prototype KGC-010 models. The number of remaining King Crabs was further reduced when the Northwind factory was destroyed in 2786, one of the early casualties of the First Succession War. Since the design used few Lostech parts, it was easier to repair than other Star League era 'Mechs. Still, by the end of the Third Succession War a mere handful of King Crabs were still in active service with the Great Houses.

When ComStar initiated the takeover of the Terra system, they were able to repair the King Crab factory on Mars, mothball it, and secretly secure a number of King Crabs in storage. By the dawn of the thirty-first century ComStar contracted Cosara Weaponries to resume production in order to restock their supply, which had begun to degrade with age and was later used to outfit the Com Guards. For the pivotal Battle of Tukayyid the King Crab was among a number of designs upgraded to meet the challenge of the Clans, the so-called "Clanbusters." The success of the KGC-001 model was such that ComStar allowed Cosara to begin general production from their Mars and Northwind factories and sell it on the open market in exchange for a share of the profits.

The Word of Blake brought about a radical shift in King Crab production, first by their own conquest of Terra, then a few years later when they blockaded Northwind, infiltrated and took over the factory in 3069. New variants of the King Crab were now being produced and shipped to the Word of Blake and its Protectorate, forcing ComStar to attempt something unusual for the once-secretive organization. They hired a small mercenary team specialized in corporate espionage and inserted them into the Northwind factory to steal the plans for these new 'Mechs. With the technical information in hand they then went to StarCorps Industries and offered them the chance to begin production of the new KGC-007 models. The company was thrilled at the prospect and accepted, building new King Crabs out of Son Hoa not just for ComStar but the Federated Suns and Lyran Alliance as well.

The King Crab's primary weapons are two massive Deathgiver Autocannon/20s, among the most powerful BattleMech weapons ever created. Each arm carries one of these massive weapons, and they are fed by two tons of ammo split between the side torsos. The firepower of these weapons is enough to destroy a medium 'Mech in one salvo. To protect the autocannons in combat, engineers designed the King Crab with simple hand actuators. In appearance and movement, the actuators are very similar to pincers or claws found on real crabs, a contributing factor to the 'Mech's name. To back up the autocannons, and provide some long-range capabilities, the King Crab carries a Simpson-15 LRM-15 launcher, mounted in the left torso and fed by one ton of reloads in the same location, and an Exostar Large Laser in the right torso. While not the most heavily armored 'Mech, the King Crab is still tough to crack, with sixteen tons of ferro-fibrous armor and CASE protecting its ammunition stores; however, the arms are probably the most susceptible area to receive damage and an internal hit is likely to knock an autocannon out of the fight. The 'Mech is also slow, with a cruising speed of 32 km/h and top speed of 54 km/h, and has been described as a "notorious hangar queen".

#battletech #mechwarrior #battletech smash or pass #mecha #tumblr polls

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