#middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man joy

[quoththemaiden]

I hope everyone enjoyed the finale of @mrghostrat's Big Name Feelings Good Omens AU as much as I did. While ghostrat ended his story perfectly with a beautiful and realistic close to the part of their relationship we as an audience get to see, I had one more scene idea close to my heart and so I'm putting it out here because my heart still sings with love for this story and its characters.

These fanscenes now also appear on AO3. Along with the four I've already posted here (1, 2, 3, and 5), you can find a scene I kept off Tumblr ("Ch. 12"). You can read the final scene ("Ch. 17") below, but you can also find it on AO3, where it shows the text messages in graphical form.

Bilv, thank you once again for creating such an amazing story! I'm happy to say that my mind is no longer filled with your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems. Instead, please enjoy these 3k words of pure fluff.

—

Crowley dumped his bag on the hotel room floor and did a lazy spin to take in the space. "Not bad, eh?"

"It's very posh," Newt agreed, setting his bag down more gingerly. "You're sure we can't pitch in for it?"

"I'm not dealing with you setting your phone on fire trying to do a transfer." Crowley waved the offer off and flopped onto the couch. The hotel suite had two small bedrooms plus a nice little sitting area that would be perfect for board games. It was set up to mainly accommodate a family with kids, albeit a family that could afford to splash on a multi-room suite for the family vacation to Spain. Crowley stretched out, shamelessly taking up the whole couch in a bid to ease the stiffness in his hips. "Tell ya what, if you're feeling guilty, you can buy my drinks tonight."

Anathema laughed and gave Crowley a poke in the side, looking quite satisfied at his jerk and yelp. "Knowing you, that will end up being a fair deal. And I'll take care of renting the wheelbarrow to cart you back here."

Crowley rubbed his side dourly. "Maybe I preferred you on the other side of the ocean."

Anathema grinned at him, unrepentant. "If you want to stay at my place while I'm here, I'll lend you my keys." She ducked a thrown pillow with a laugh.

—

The weather was perfect for sipping cocktails outside, and their mutual agreement to all try drinks they'd never had before helped keep the night from slipping away from them too quickly. Being able to chat without the artificial framing of a webcam was a delight, too, but all of them were too continuously connected to be interested in a strict phones-down policy.

Anathema rolled her eyes and took another sip of her drink before answering the text that had just popped up on her screen.

Aziraphale: Are you certain he doesn't know I'm nearby? Anathema: I didn't tell him, Newt doesn't know, and he doesn't have a magical angel-detecting sense does he? Aziraphale: I'm not so sure about that last point. Some of his last texts seem awfully pointed. Anathema: You're being paranoid

Anathema slipped her phone away before leaning over to look at Crowley's phone screen, where he was lining up a very artistic shot of his drink, showcasing as much of the swanky beachfront seating area as possible. She blinked at him slowly. "Have you been sending Aziraphale 'wish you were here' texts?"

Crowley glanced at her sideways, his thumb paused over the shutter button. "Maybe."

Anathema sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Are you an adult who can handle a vacation with friends or are you going to pine after your boyfriend all night?"

"I'm here, aren't I? It's not like we're tied together at the hip."

Anathema shook her head in fond exasperation. "Getting these printed on postcards for him would be funnier than this text spam." Crowley barked out a laugh and sent Aziraphale his next promise to take him here sometime anyway.

Anathema pulled out her phone again, tapping out a quick message.

Anathema: He says he's a full-grown adult who can handle being away from you.

There was a pause before Aziraphale responded to her — probably due to dealing with a barrage of messages from Crowley.

Aziraphale: A very convincing claim.

Anathema looked up as Crowley put his phone away. "All done?"

"Yeah, he's taking an early night." Crowley took a languid sip from his drink.

"How have his workshops been going?" Newt asked, fiddling with a vibrant russet cocktail in a type of glass he couldn't name.

"Good!" Crowley's eyes lit up with excitement, his cheeks pink. "We polished his presentation before he left—"

"I heard about that!" Newt cut in. "He said it was more like beta-testing than beta-reading."

Crowley snorted. "If you want to see what happens when someone goes against the script, I'm your guy."

"The reception's been okay?" Anathema asked. "I know getting audience participation at workshops can be pulling teeth."

"Nahhh, it's different in the library world. Those weirdos actually care about their jobs."

"So do I, but it would be pulling teeth to get me to do a 'group active learning exercise.'"

"Fair." Crowley grinned. "They know how to talk like humans, then. And they really are interested in anyone with tips on how to break into digital spaces in an authentic way."

Newt hummed thoughtfully. "He's really okay with talking about his online presence at work like that? I'd be way too embarrassed."

"Nah, you stop caring about that stuff when you get older."

Anathema snorted. "I'm still saying it's pure luck you didn't chase him offline again with that con nonsense."

"Pfffft." Crowley made a sound that was all plosives and no vowels. "Never even close."

"Right," Anathema replied with tasteful sarcasm.

Crowley cut her teasing short by slapping a yellow canvas pouch down on the table. "C'mon. Let's play a game!"

"Oh, Bananagrams!" Anathema accepted the diversion and unzipped the banana-shaped bag, pouring the Scrabble tiles out between them. She deftly started flipping them letter side down. "I don't think Newt's played?"

Crowley nodded and waggled his fingers at the pile of tiles. "Rules are easy: Everyone's building their own board-free Scrabble grid. You start with 21 tiles. Say 'peel' when you've used yours up to make everyone take another tile from the stock. Say 'dump' to trade one of your tiles for three from the stock. The first person to say 'peel' without enough tiles left for everyone to take one wins. Simple, right?"

Newt nodded slowly, watching as Anathema divided the tiles out neatly. "So they're putting Scrabble in bananas these days."

—

Aziraphale: Is he up yet?

Crowley gestured Anathema towards the table where their phones sat in a cuddly pile of charging pads and wires. "You got a message while you were in the shower. From Aziraphale?"

Anathema kept her face carefully schooled as she sauntered over and picked up her phone, using the need to adjust her towel turban as an excuse for not making eye contact. "Mm." She picked it up and read the incriminating message, then snorted. "Bracing himself for when your wall of texts will start, I imagine."

"Nahhh, he loves it!" Crowley snagged the glasses cleaner out of his bag and sauntered into the bathroom. He'd be wearing them all day and he'd murder someone if he had to deal with the scummy film left by hotel soap.

"Whatever you say, lover boy." Anathema breathed a tired sigh.

Anathema: Yeah, and he saw this. We should be at the conservatory by 11

She should have just taken the phone into the bathroom with her, steam be damned.

—

The botanical conservatory was, frankly, gorgeous. The greenhouses were so large the ceilings weren't even noticeable, and the outdoor gardens were a riot of native plants. Crowley devoured the signs about plants he was unfamiliar with with gusto, and pointed out those he recognized with the enthusiasm of a man determined to prove he wasn't hungover. Newt listened with unfeigned interest, while Anathema wasn't shy about slowing them down to take photos of particularly artfully arranged displays.

They'd been there about half an hour when a patter of English broke through the background chatter of Spanish. "Could you spot me the entrance fee for the butterfly room?"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley immediately spun to his right, his whole face lighting up in delight before realizing that seeing him here was, in fact, quite odd. "What are you doing in Spain?"

"I left right after my last workshop. I thought it might make a nice surprise."

"It made the best surprise." Crowley pulled him into an ardent kiss that went on long enough for Anathema to cough something about public displays of affection. Crowley eventually relented on the kiss, as much for the sake of their breathing as anything else, but kept his arm slung firmly around Aziraphale's shoulders. "You're a bit of a bastard, you know that? I could've been looking forward to this the whole time."

"Only as much of a bastard as you deserve," Aziraphale teased right back with easy familiarity. His heart kept pounding hard anyway.

"Heh. What a way to butter me up while you're angling for a free ticket." Crowley snuck another kiss onto Aziraphale's cheek. Aziraphale laughed as he slipped his arm through Crowley's, relishing the contact after their weeks apart.

The butterfly room, when they got in, was a riot of fluttering wings. The promise of iridescence was enough to get Crowley to remove his sunglasses, and a quiet compliment on his eyes from Aziraphale was enough to get him tucking them into his pocket instead of putting them right back on afterwards.

They left the butterfly room — with some careful mutual inspections to make sure no one was harboring a stowaway, involving perhaps a bit more care in running fingers through another's hair than was strictly necessary for the task — and emerged near the exit to the rose garden. Crowley's hand moved towards his sunglasses but Aziraphale put his hand on his arm. "Just a couple more minutes? There's something I want you to see first." Aziraphale glanced over at Anathema, who nodded slightly but otherwise kept her expression carefully uninterested.

Crowley looked between them and shrugged. "Not exactly subtle as far as hangover tests go, but a'ight." Aziraphale laughed breathlessly and kept a firm grip on his arm, drawing him deeper into the garden.

The rose garden featured small offshoots to the main path where groups could sit for a little while to rest. It wasn't until the third one that they came upon an alcove that was empty, and Aziraphale promptly pulled Crowley aside, Anathema holding out her hand to keep Newt just outside it with her.

"Crowley—" Aziraphale began, his breath catching in his throat as he caught Crowley's full attention. "I, ah. I actually came here because there was something I wanted to say."

Crowley's hand twitched reflexively towards his glasses again, but this time he kept it down himself, even as his heart started to pound. "...yeah?"

"Yeah," Aziraphale breathed out as he sank to one knee, reaching into his pocket. His fingers were trembling, and his smile was nervous but so very adoring. "If I ask you something, will you promise to laugh?"

"—huh?" Crowley blinked in confusion, then stared as Aziraphale opened a jewelry box to reveal a simple ring.

"Anthony J. Crowley, would you be my snouse?"

It took a few seconds for Crowley to register any of the words Aziraphale had just said, but then he barked out a laugh as the last one hit him. "Really? That's how you ask?"

"You don't like it?"

"I just... I thought if you did it, you'd do a whole speech for it. You even brought us out to a rose garden!"

"I'll be honest, I had one of those planned. I just... couldn't quite seem to bring it to mind." Aziraphale had no idea how he was managing to talk even as much as he was around the tightness in his throat. "You haven't answered my question, dear."

"Pfft..." Crowley closed both his hands around Aziraphale's. "Yes. Yes, of course I'll be your... your whatever. Forever and always."

"Thank goodness." Aziraphale half rose and was instead greeted by Crowley also kneeling, both of them moving together for a kiss that was slow and deliberate. Aziraphale could feel the pounding of his own pulse against the tight hold Crowley had on his hands, and he could tell how Crowley's heartrate had risen to match his by the way their kiss kept shifting for quick intakes of air. Aziraphale finally broke the contact only so he could gently extricate his hands from Crowley's. It took every scrap of concentration he could scrape together to find Crowley's left hand and slip the ring onto his finger. "...it fit okay?"

"Nggh," Crowley replied before pulling him into another kiss.

They might have stayed there all day if Anathema hadn't cleared her throat — snapping another quick photo as they looked up at her, flushed and frazzled. "We are still in public, I'm afraid."

"Yeah," Crowley breathed.

"Huh..." Aziraphale added, just as coherently.

Newt shook his head at the unlikely prospect of them getting up anytime soon, and looked over at Anathema instead. "How were you so prepared?"

Anathema flashed him a smile. "I knew this was coming. Aziraphale asked me to take the photos."

"Is that why you're here?"

"It was the other way around," Anathema replied. "Aziraphale realized he could arrange his schedule to join our trip partway, and we worked out how to take advantage of the situation."

"Bastard," Crowley muttered in response to nothing and everything, pressing tender kisses to Aziraphale's left ring finger like he could imprint a ring there with his lips. "Did you measure my finger while I slept?"

Aziraphale smiled as he watched him, his heartrate finally settling closer to normal under Crowley's reassuring touches. "It's scarcely my fault you're so easy to send to sleep, dearest."

"You're ridiculous. Adorable. Incorrigible."

"Are those all synonyms in your mind?" Aziraphale leaned in to steal another kiss.

Crowley laughed breathlessly at how easily they'd returned to comfortable teasing and carefully pushed himself up. He tugged his clothing straighter and tried to pretend he was put-together as he glanced at Anathema, who was grinning unabashedly at them. "I'll want those pics for... for everything. All of them."

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley's arm for support as he straightened his own creaking knees. "I'm claiming Tumblr first, if you don't mind."

"Eh—" Crowley gave him his full attention again, not that it had strayed for more than a moment. "This will really get you notice, Angel."

"Good." Aziraphale took Crowley's hand and leaned in to kiss him. He rubbed his fingertip over the ring settled firmly onto a finger that had never borne one before. "Let them know who's claimed you."

Crowley snaked his arm around Aziraphale's neck, chasing down another kiss that went on long enough to have Anathema clucking behind them. "We're gonna get kicked out of the garden, Angel."

Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's lips. "Let them. The one we made is better."

—

Three bottles of wine sat open and mostly-drunk on the table, divided between four glasses that were using the remnants of the previous night's game of The Quiet Year as a coaster. ("We set it in an idyllic countryside and it all went downhill from there," Crowley had explained when Aziraphale came in and started examining the hand-drawn map. "I think the arrival of the dog was the real turning point to madness," Newt had chimed in. "It was doomed from the start," Anathema declared with a resigned sigh.) The red rings of wine stains could have added as much to the group narrative as anything they'd purposefully drawn.

"I came in like a wrecking ball~! I never hit so hard in love~!" Newt sang raucously, a broad grin on his face while Anathema laughed into her hand. Aziraphale tilted his head as he watched them, visibly processing the music.

"All the other kids with their pumped-up kicks, you better run—!" Anathema joined in as the tune jauntily transitioned to a new melody. Aziraphale's face froze into an expression of fond but intense confusion.

"Problem, Angel?" Crowley drawled, utterly amused as he watched the tableau.

"I'm fairly certain that isn't how those songs go. And isn't that polka?"

"Never heard of Weird Al? Bit bigger overseas, I s'pose." He gestured to Anathema's phone, which was supplying the impromptu karaoke party.

Aziraphale nodded, confusion dissolving and leaving just a hint of distaste in its place. "And a different generation, I suppose." He took another sip of his wine, a nice Syrah, as the melody shifted to a new and equally abrasive polka.

"I wear your granddad's clothes," the millennials continued singing, until one of them glanced at Aziraphale and started laughing and the other followed suit, wineglass held out in an attempt to insulate it from deep belly laughs. Crowley snagged it deftly and set it on the table, another drop of wine rolling down to stain the paper there. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, much more amused at their drunken good humor than offended.

Crowley patted Aziraphale's thigh. "Want to take the rest of that Syrah back to my room and leave the loverbirds to it?"

"It would still be rather noisy if we stayed here," Aziraphale replied with a tempting smile. "Why don't you come back to mine?"

Crowley leaned forward eagerly, only a fraction away from jumping up at the unexpected invitation. "Oh?"

"Well, the room may not wind up being quite as nice as the one you got, but I thought for our first night together as a formally promised couple..." Aziraphale's smile said everything.

"You're a genius." Crowley kissed his cheek and grabbed Aziraphale's hand to pull him up with him, then firmly refused to let it go despite the challenge of tucking a wine bottle under his arm while juggling a wine glass and his phone.

Aziraphale laughed. "We can take two trips, since you'll want your bag. Did you leave it packed?"

"Like always." Crowley grinned. "Not going to rib on me for that ever again, huh?"

"One occasion of convenience is not worth the wrinkles, my dear," Aziraphale responded with all the primness he could muster around a wide grin.

Crowley laughed and took the opportunity of Aziraphale opening the hotel room door to crowd closer and steal an eager kiss that was just as eagerly given. "You really managed to hold in that you'd gotten us a room all day?"

"I kept the trip secret from you too, didn't I?"

"Age will not wither," Crowley chuckled and nipped Aziraphale's ear. "C'mon, let's see that room. Coming back for pyjamas optional."

The two of them left the hotel suite hand-in-hand, with everything they truly needed already right there with them.

[torajira]

nash i hope u know i love yakuza guy weed wednesday

[waltz-in-code]

Why are these kshows about football such a serotonin boost

[ghouljams]

reincarnated lovers soap and moon and thats why hes so clingy

God that would be something. I love a good reincarnation au, I love one character knowing and never being able to really say anything. The idea that Soap seeks out Moon every lifetime and hopes she'll remember him is delicious. Also Soap having to woo Moon again and again, knowing everything she likes and exactly how she works, but also knowing that she's a tough catch even when he knows her so well.

For the purpose of the Cowboy au as it stands now I'm going to say that Moon and Soap could have met when they were younger. It would have been probably while Moon was in college, or maybe fresh out of high school. Back when she was still trying to figure herself out, and working on her thorns. Maybe she booked herself a ticket to the UK with the limited funds she had and figured she'd have some fun in a country where no one knew her. Maybe she wound up in Scotland, at a pub that had too many SAS men crowded in it.

You sip your pint from the corner of the room, watch the raucous excitement of men celebrating something. You don't particularly care what, but it makes you smile. Their joy is infectious, you're not ashamed to admit that. There's a man in the middle of the crowd, --young, boyish, your age you'd bet-- who seems to be the man of the hour. His short cropped hair is ruffled, his shoulder is pat, he's given hard thumbs on the back, and his blue eyes sparkle with pride. You wonder what he's celebrating, you wonder if you've ever seen anyone smile that wide.

His eyes land on you and you look away quickly. You don't want to be accused of staring, not when you're alone in a foreign country. Americans already have a bad reputation without you helping it. When you glance back at him, he's focused on the crowd, talking and laughing with the other men. They push at him a little, urge him to the bar, and lean close to talk to him. You decide to stop staring before you really do get into trouble, tugging a journal free of your bag.

You're half way through your notes of the day when a fresh pint is set in front of you. You look up with a "thank you," and feel the words die on your tongue looking up at the man of the hour. Boyish wasn't quite the right word for him, you realize. He's well muscled in a way that speaks more to his masculinity than his youth, and his hands look worn from hard work when they slide off your fresh glass. It's his eyes that are young, his smile that makes you think he's fresher than he wants to give the impression of.

"Thank you," you smile back.

"My pleasure," His accent is thick, and his voice rumbles pleasantly. You wonder if he's lowering it for your benefit, or if that's his natural register. You blink when he pulls out the chair next to you and takes a seat. "What are ya workin' on?"

You glance at your journal, try to remember your exercises in self confidence. "I'm- it's a log of my trip," You tell him, sitting up a little straighter. His eyes drop to your chest as you move, brief but warm and appreciative before they meet your gaze again.

"Mind if I look?" He asks, holding out his hand. You hesitate before handing your journal over. Confidence, you tell yourself, it's not like you've got anything embarrassing written in there. You have your days written down, and a few thoughts on what you've done

The man flips through the lined pages, stopping near the front to read. You finish your first pint and start your second, watching his eyes move over the page. He flips to the next one carefully, his eyes still skimming. You didn't think you'd written that much about your days. Except that's your all around journal, you don't just have your daily notes in there, you have a few little stories in between the pressed flowers and ticket stubs. Embarrassment floods you. You reach a hand to grab for your journal and he pulls it away from you. Your heart sinks at the familiar gesture. He must see it on your face, because he freezes and closes the journal to hand back to you.

You pull it back quickly, and squeeze it tight between your fingers. "I dinnae get to finish that?" He hums, leaning with his elbows against the table.

"It's not good," You explain, he shrugs.

"Aye, but it's yours," somehow that doesn't hit you as insulting, there's a warmth in his voice, "makes it special, yeah?" You look at your journal and nod. You suppose that's one way to look at it. He tips his head to the side, studying you.

"What?" You ask when he's been staring a second too long.

"You are a beauty," He tells you his eyes never leaving yours, "you got a man back in the states, or are you lookin' for one here?" You can't help the smile that splits your face, or the heat that rises on your cheeks.

"You're a lot dude," You laugh.

"Dude," He parrots with a grin, "ya cannae call your future husband dude."

"It's my last night in town," You shrug, sip your drink, "I can call you whatever I want."

"John," He says, "can call me John."

"How about Johnny?" You compromise. Something in his eyes softens, melting like snow. His voice is just a touch lighter when he says,

"Aye, can call me Johnny."

You think maybe you should've gotten a longer visa. Only because Johnny swears you haven't seen the best Scotland has to offer. You run through your whole trip with him, and he scoffs at your route through the UK. He makes you laugh, like he's known you for years and not an hour. Future husband doesn't feel like such a stretch, or it wouldn't if you thought you'd ever see him again. You won't. Neither of you talk about where you're from, where you're going. There's a silent understanding, that this is it. The wrong person at the wrong time. You never understood star crossed lovers, but here you sit wishing the flame could burn just a little longer.

You only realize how late it's gotten when the bartender yells out for last call.

"Lemme see your book again love," Johnny holds out his hand, you curl your fingers against the cover protectively. He tugs a pen from his pocket, and holds it up to show you. "Just wanna give ya somethin' to remember me by."

You suppose you're amenable to that, sliding the journal over for him to flip to a fresh page. You hum quietly to yourself, watching the bar. It's nearly empty, you've been here longer than you planned to be and you have an early flight home. Johnny shuts your journal and slides it back over to you, clicking his pen shut.

"I'll finish it the next time I see you," He promises. You shake your head with a smile, and he grabs your chin to hold you still, leaning in and kissing you. It's soft and sweet, and melancholic. Your smile feels a little sadder when he pulls away. His doesn't seem to lose any brightness. "Next time," he assures you.

"Next time," You agree.

You take your time collecting your things, let Johnny jog to catch up with his buddies. They smack his back and give him thumbs up, pushing at his head when he blushes and grins. You flip your journal open to check what he left you. Your chest tight when you stare down the little sketch of your face, your penned in fingers tight around a glass, your eyes looking out at the blank page. It looks good, you don't know what he means about finishing it. You suppose it was just a good line.

-

Soap sorts through your bookshelf, waiting on you to finish getting ready for dinner. His eyes land on a red leather spine, and he carefully eases it out of its spot sandwiched between broken paperbacks. The cover is plastered with stickers, and the pages are warped. It's stuffed full of something other than notes, and held together by a piece of elastic across the cover. It's familiar enough for him to ease the elastic to the side and flip through the pages.

Ticket stubs, pressed flowers, pieces of wrappers and wrist bands are carefully pasted to the lined pages. He smiles at your handwriting, traces his fingers over dates and doodles. He stops on a largely blank page, carefully blank, save for the drawing in the corner of you at a bar in Scotland.

His heart clenches tight in his chest. Affection tugging at him, he can't believe you kept this. You never said anything, but he could never forget you. Soap glances around your room, and snags a pen off your desk, quickly but carefully sketching himself onto the page next to you. He loops a quick heart around the old and new sketch and scribbles a messy "I love you" underneath.

He get your journal slid back into place as you exit the bathroom, grumbling about not being able to clip your bracelet on.

"I hate weddings," You complain, when he grabs your wrist to secure the chain.

"Really?" He glances at your pout, "I was hoping to do something special for ours."

[neteyamssyulang]

Threesome

Day 19

Pairing: Neteyam aged up x Fem omaticaya reader x So’lek

Adult neteyam picture made by @cinetrix <3

Summary: You had two of the most finest mates in all of pandora, what more could you ask for?

Warnings: Sub reader, Dom Neteyam, Dom So’lek, Oral (M receiving), Semi bratty reader, Ass slapping, P in V.

Word count: 1207

Translation(s): Syulang -> Flower, Yawne -> Beloved.

A/N: Wow first So’lek fic and with none other than Neteyam, Not sure if I like this or not but Enjoy <3

Tags: @teyamsatan @pandoraslxna

Today was so boring, the olo’eyktan had instructed you and your mates along with a few others to decorate and put food out for tonight’s ceremony.

Neteyam and So’lek were in charge of setting the food along the wooden tables while you and Makeyo were doing the banner. Makeyo was a good warrior, he wasn’t as great as Neteyam but he still got plenty of women.

All of except for you, he was furious when you chose Neteyam and So’lek as your mates instead of him. Naturally he got over it but he still longed to have you sometimes.

“Y/n are you done? I’m already finished with this side” he shouts towards you. “Yes yes I’m done” annoyed you climb down from the tree and step back to look at your work. The banner is tied in the middle between two trees saying “Congratulations Entok and Kakalu”

Tonight’s ceremony was about them and you felt happy for Kakalu since you grew up alongside her. She was like a sister to you, you did everything together.

Sighing you glance around trying to find your mates but you don’t see them, confused you walk around calling their names but to no luck.

Giving up you decided to just go home till the ceremony started, as you were walking your ears suddenly perked up at the sound of laughter coming from Kakalu’s hut.

Curiosity consumes you as you make your way over there crouching behind a large bush. The flap was open so you could see directly inside but what you saw only hurt.

Kakalu was there but so were your mates.. they were in a circle drinking some coconut water while Kakalu was laughing but that wasn’t the reason why this hurt. The reason was that Kakalu had her hand on Neteyams thigh and he didn’t even move it.

Huffing you back away walking off, two can play at that game.

Once the ceremony had begun you made your way to sit next to Makeyo who was shocked that you weren’t sitting by your mates. Originally you were supposed to match with your men but still angry from earlier you went with your favorite blue beaded top that hung loosely around you along with a tewng that matched.

“You don’t mind if I sit here right?” Looking at the man innocently, he gulped and you could see a faint pink blush on his cheeks “No of course not, though shouldn’t you be with your mates?”

Don’t get him wrong he was happy you chose to sit with him but normally at these ceremonies your supposed to sit with your mate(s) if you have one.

Shrugging you turn to face where the olo’eyktan was “I’m not speaking with them at the moment.” Makeyo just nodded not really caring for the reason only caring that your letting him be this close to you when usually you’d push or shove him.

You feel both your mates gaze on you from across the way, smirking you take Makeyo’s hand and place it on your thigh feeling him gently squeeze it. Before your mates can get up though the ceremony starts.

Kakalu and Entok walk down the pathway towards Jake before standing infront of him, they say a few heartfelt vows before sharing a drink out of this large cup.

Everyone erupts with joy clapping and wishing good things for the couple. The feast begins shortly after and you stand up leaving Makeyo to walk back to your hut.

As your walking you swear you can hear footsteps approaching but as your turn there’s no one. Ugh why did you have to go the long way home, too caught up in cursing yourself you don’t notice the figure infront of you till you bump into their chest.

“Shit I’m so sorry I wasn’t lo-” you break into a full on sprint after seeing who it was, you don’t get far as now your tackled to the ground with your arms behind your back.

The figure tsks before ripping your loincloth off as well as your top, the cool breeze against your bare cunt makes you shiver. Another figure walks infront of you crouching down by your head, he lifts your face and you see it’s So’lek, so Neteyam is the one behind you.

“Oh yawne, you know the rules..” he says brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear, meanwhile you can feel Neteyam line his tip with your entrance. “Fuck both of you! I didn’t say anything when Kakalu had her hand on Neteyams thigh especially when he didn’t remove it!” You seeth squirming.

A harsh slap comes down on your ass making you yelp “You didn’t see the full thing syulang” Neteyam huffs slamming himself inside you. “I did push her hand off me, every *thrust* single *thrust* time *thrust*”

So’lek moved back to untie his loincloth throwing it next to yours, as he moved back him and Neteyam shared a glance before Neteyam grabbed you by your hair forcing you up enough for So’lek to rub the tip of his cock along your lips.

Your lips parted allowing him entry which he gladly took, his cock slid into your mouth eventually hitting the back of your throat “Good girl” he purrs.

So’lek took control now replacing Neteyams hands with his own, Neteyam moved his hands back to yours holding them tightly as he fucked into you harshly now. His movements pushing you forward and forcing you to take more of So’leks cock down your throat.

Muffled whimpers could be heard from you but your mates didn’t care, not after what they saw. Neteyam hissed as he set a pace that made you clench tightly.

So’lek threw his head back feeling your throat constricting around him, he began thrusting into your mouth matching Neteyams pace.

“You wanna act like a slut we’ll treat you like one yawne” So’lek murmured feeling his orgasm approaching, it was cute actually. Whenever you gave him head he wouldn’t last long.

Neteyam could also feel his but held back wanting to still teach you a lesson. His balls slapped against your clit making you scream around So’leks cock. The vibrations going through him making him whimper “Ah! Sh-shit!” He held your head pulling your face flush against his pelvis as he came down your throat. “You better swallow all of it baby.”

Obeying you gulped down his sweet warm cum, So’lek hummed as he pulled out of your mouth with a pop. He then sat back and watched as Neteyam kept pounding into you.

“Ma’Teyamur please..” you mewl raspy from So’lek fucking your throat raw. “No, now shut up and take this dick syulang” he smacks your ass again leaving a handprint.

Slowly So’lek started pumping his once again hardened cock watching his mates. You move your gaze to him “Ma’Lek..” almost pleading for him to help you.

He chuckles “You got yourself into this yawne, I can not help you.” Not being able to hold back anymore Neteyam pulls out of your dripping pussy groaning as his cum spills on your ass.

Before you have a chance to ask he answers almost reading your mind “Only good girls get to be filled syulang.”

[bloodblanks]

the cadence within [il dottore x reader] — chapter i.

As the daughter of a moderately wealthy businessman, you lived a comfortable but solitary life. You never thought to leave your peaceful refuge, not until one of your father’s associates—who was also your only friend—made an unexpectedly tempting offer.

co-written with noodsies, however, they’re shy and wish to stay anonymous! ♡

author's note: this fanfiction will contain mature content, including explicit sexual acts, violence, dottore himself, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

<- previous chapter

Power presents itself in many different forms. Most often, those with power are thought to possess strength, intelligence, wealth, or status. However, you were not exceptionally talented in any of the above. Instead, you found yourself gifted with something much less conventional—charisma.

—

“Pantalone!” You opened the door, beaming at the raven haired man who stood before you. “Lovely seeing you here today.” You stepped back and held the door for him.

“Y/N,” Pantalone returned the smile, thick eyelashes fluttering as his eyes crinkled with joy. “The pleasure is all mine.”

He walked inside before pausing, waiting for you to push the dense mahogany door into place, making sure it locked shut. Your home was in a rather secluded location where few people passed by—much less dare intrude. Secrecy was invaluable to all of your father’s guests.

“Unfortunately,” you began, “my father is running late today, which I apologize for. But please do come in and make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”

Your father was a busy man with a full schedule, one he went out of his way to readjust for the impromptu meeting request. It would have been unreasonable to expect perfect punctuality, and the apology wasn’t necessary.

Still, you had one job, and it was to be nice.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Pantalone replied. “Your generous hospitality more than compensates for it.”

While being cordial was more of a chore with the often unpleasant and impatient businessmen your father associated with, you found Pantalone’s company an effortless task.

You weren’t sure of the exact reasons behind it, but your home was often used as a place for meetings and negotiations relating to your father’s work. You weren’t present for the discussions themselves, but you did greet and welcome every guest—something your dad was not fond of doing himself.

For someone who worked a job where conversation was important, talking was not one of your father’s strengths. Though he managed just fine when it came to business, small talk and pleasantries were burdensome activities for him, which is why you handled them instead.

It wasn’t like you particularly enjoyed talking about the weather which never deviated from cold, or listening to middle aged men complain about joint pain, but you disliked it significantly less than your dad did. If anything, you had a tendency to avoid matters of actual significance, preferring your meaningless exchanges over accountability.

Pantalone was just another one of your father’s many associates, but he visibly stood out from the rest. You didn’t know much about them, but you were confident that everyone you’ve greeted was in some way or another, a powerful dignitary.

But they were no Harbinger.

That fact alone was enough to separate Pantalone from every other person you’ve ever interacted with throughout your approximately two decades of lifespan. You didn’t know for sure, but you knew well enough that his wealth and power surpassed that of all your father’s clientele combined.

But that wasn’t what truly made him different.

Pantalone was a striking contrast to your father’s other associate; not just because he was a Harbinger, but rather he was the sole person you could consider a friend.

You hadn’t bothered making new friends after moving to Snezhnaya. There wasn’t any particular reason for it. Although confidentiality could qualify, you found yourself either occupied with your own hobbies or keeping your father company when he was actually home and not busy with work. Anything you desired was delivered directly to your residence, so you had no need to venture into the city and make small talk with the shopkeepers.

This meant your interactions were limited to your father and his associates, all of whom were as pruned and grey as him. The only exception was Pantalone, and though you didn’t know exactly how old he was—it would be rude to ask—he didn’t seem significantly older than you, both in appearance and mannerisms. At the very least, he didn’t possess the wrinkles and bitterness the others did.

At some point, you began looking forward to your interactions, which both preceded and succeeded Pantalone’s business meetings with your dad. While you still maintained an air of professionalism with you, your amity went beyond mere pleasantries.

As you led him down the wide hallways and cavernous rooms, you couldn’t help but ask the question that had been nagging at you since yesterday.

“Pantalone,” you broke the silence, “may I ask a question?”

“Of course, dear,” he replied.

“Today’s a Monday,” you stated, “and you were just here last Tuesday.” For as long as you remembered, Pantalone had a very specific schedule. Once every other week, every Tuesday, he’d visit. As far as you knew, never had he strayed from that schedule—not until now.

“Ah, as observant as ever, Y/N,” Pantalone remarked.

“And on such short notice too...” you continued, letting your words trail off before asking him directly, “Is something the matter?”

You stopped in front of your father’s study, turning the doorknob and allowing Pantalone in, before you let the door leisurely shut on its own behind you both.

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s just that business can be unpredictable at times—I’m sure you understand.” His tone was as carefree and relaxed as ever, but you were certain this was no trivial matter. However, it wasn’t your business, so you set aside your curiosity and didn’t push any further.

“You’re right,” you agreed. “I was just a bit worried that something was up. I’m glad to hear that everything’s fine.”

‘Worried’ was an exaggeration. While you did care about Pantalone, you had no reason to fret over his well being. It was unlikely that anyone or anything could pose a serious threat to him, ever—he was a Harbinger. Perhaps it was disingenuous for you to feign concern, but you thought it was a polite sentiment regardless.

All of your dad’s meetings, with all of his associates, were held in this room. It was furnished with this intent in mind; a well-lit room with a coffee table flanked by two sofas near the centre, encircled by a desk, a few china cabinets, and most importantly, a kitchenette.

“I didn’t know you cared so much, Y/N.” A teasing remark, as you should have expected. You watched as Pantalone sat down on the sofa with a smirk.

“Do I seem that heartless to you?” you prodded back.

“Quite the opposite. If anything, you have too much heart.” Your eyes widened ever so slightly, Pantalone’s reply catching you off guard—you didn’t expect him to answer so sincerely.

Despite your familiarity with conversation and flattery, you were usually the one to give compliments, not receive them.

“You’re flattering me. I’m not doing anything special,” you brushed it off awkwardly. You quickly turned towards the kitchenette to escape the topic. “Earl grey tea with cream and two sugar cubes?”

“Why, I’m flattered that you remember how I take my tea,” Pantalone said. You filled the kettle, waiting for the water to boil as you took out a teacup and saucer from the cabinet above you, along with tea leaves and an infuser. You opened the refrigerator beside you, retrieving a glass bottle of cream.

You weren’t sure how or when exactly it started, but you always had a fondness for tea. The shrubs themselves, the processing of the leaves, the plethora of varieties and tastes, the simple act of brewing tea—you adored it all. When you still lived in Fontaine, where the weather was warmer and vegetation was abundant, you would often tend to your imported Chenyu shrubs and curate the leaves yourself; something Snezhnaya’s harsh, frigid climate didn’t allow for.

Though you missed the extensiveness of your tea hobby in Fontaine, you found other ways to keep yourself occupied. The time you would have otherwise spent on picking leaves was now dedicated to baking. It was something your mother taught you from an early age, a craft you now spent time perfecting. After all, freshly baked goods were a perfect accompaniment to tea, and your father’s clients appreciated the assortment of delicacies.

It was an excuse to bake batches of pastries that you otherwise wouldn’t be able to finish if anything, but it was something everyone was happy with. The guests enjoyed your confectioneries, your father evaded vapid chit chat, and you baked to your heart’s content.

“I’ve made you tea every other week, ever since we’ve moved here,” you pointed out. “So about two and a half years. It’d be awfully rude if I didn’t remember your preferences by now.”

You earned a soft chuckle from Pantalone.

“Well, now I’m curious. What else do you remember about me?” he asked, the question making you gulp.

You did not have a good memory, and you were especially uncomfortable with being put on the spot, your brain oftentimes turning blank, forcing you to blurt out any nonsense to try and salvage whatever situation you were being put in. You tried to think of something to say so it wouldn’t be obvious that you couldn’t recall; that would be rude.

“Only your darkest secrets.” You fumbled with placing the dried leaves in the infuser.

“So you know her name then?” he interrogated, and of course you didn’t.

“Of course,” you declared with utmost confidence. “Full name, date of birth, medical records, everything.” You knew you were just digging yourself a deeper pit, but you had just poured the water and the tea wasn’t done steeping yet.

“And what about her death certificate?” he continued. You stirred the tea rapidly, pouring in just the right amount of cream alongside two sugar cubes, before picking it up and serving it with the plate of madeleines you had baked earlier.

“That’s included in the medical records.” You placed the tea down on the coffee table a bit too hard. You made sure to place the plate down more gently, as if to absolve yourself of embarrassment. “Here’s your tea. And of course, some madeleines I baked this morning.”

You sat down on the sofa across from him, awaiting his expression as he brought the teacup to his lips, sipping the beverage with elegance.

“It appears you really are as observant as ever,” he smiled with visible satisfaction.

“I’m observant when people are interesting,” you noted, relieved that the conversation had finally shifted.

“Is that so?” Pantalone put down the teacup. “Y/N, what about me do you find interesting?”

There were a plethora of things you found interesting about him, and you wondered if some of them would be too intrusive or direct to point out given his status, but promptly discarded the consideration.

“Well, for starters,” you said, “you’re a Harbinger.”

“Oh my,” Pantalone spoke with feigned surprise. “I nearly forgot!” He reached towards the plate, picking up one of your madeleines and taking a bite. You watched his face hungrily for validation, awaiting his judgement of your madeleines. Even though your confectioneries were never worse than satisfactory, you often liked to try new variations or entirely different recipes, taking note of any feedback from guests to further improve your skills.

“Wonderful baking as always, Y/N.” Pantalone’s words seemed to align with the pleased expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but grin, feeling proud of yourself.

“You know,” Pantalone started, bringing your attention back to the conversation, “such status can be quite cumbersome. People behave rather differently around you. It becomes hard to tell when such pleasantries and favours are coming from a place of genuine kindness, or somewhere else.”

The atmosphere suddenly dropped to a more solemn tone, startling you.

“Be that as it may, I’ve always felt at ease in your company. Contrary to popular opinion... us Harbingers aren’t all that different from everyone else, and I feel refreshingly ordinary in your presence.”

You listened to him attentively, musing over his sentences in your head to carefully formulate a response.

“Refreshingly ordinary...” you muttered. “I didn’t expect to hear that. If anything, you’re quite special to me. Regardless, I’m happy to hear that I’ve been pleasant company for you. The feeling is mutual.”

You finished speaking, a wistful smile on your face as you glanced downwards, the focus slipping from your gaze. While you and Pantalone had many conversations over the years, they primarily consisted of playful banter and idle chatter. Rarely would you be as pensive as you were now, and while sentimentality usually made you uncomfortable, you found yourself not minding it right now. Perhaps you were more lonely than you had originally considered, but you realized your words held more truth than expected.

Pantalone was someone special to you. There used to be others, too. When you still lived in Fontaine, you had close friends; people you deeply valued and cared for. But distance does not make the heart grow fonder. Distance simply meant the space between, and the space from Snezhnaya to Fontaine would parallel the growing disconnect between you and the ones you used to hold dear.

Everything in Teyvat had a limit to its elasticity, tangible or not. Things can only be stretched so far before the tension eventually causes it to sever. Emotional connection was no exception to that. Despite your agreements to continue writing one another and keep in contact, eventually the letters became fewer and longer between. The last time you had received a letter was about seven months ago.

People separate. People move on. It was only natural, and you had come to accept it. You had no idea what your former friends were doing now, but you were probably nothing more than a passing thought in their heads every once in a blue moon.

You didn’t often reminisce about them, either. But when you did, you would naturally ponder the idea of making new friends. Even though it would be wise to make an effort, you didn’t want to. Meeting new people, getting to know them, becoming as close to them as you were with your former friends—it was exhausting just to think about. You didn’t want to bother yourself with something so tedious.

But since Pantalone had been routinely visiting for the past few years, your attachment to him inevitably grew without you even realizing it.

Your rumination was interrupted by the sound of heavy, pounding footsteps rapidly approaching.

“Oh,” you said, “it seems like my father’s—”

“—Oh, Lord Pantalone, please forgive the delay!” The door flung wide open, your father rushing into the room. “Such tardiness in the face of a Harbinger is unacceptable and—”

“—Please, it’s all right, F/N,” Pantalone tried to calm your very much frantic father. “I was enjoying a lovely conversation over tea with your daughter just now and—”

“—No, no, no! This will not do!” your father declared. “You must be impossibly busy with work! We should discuss business as soon as possible—Y/N, you may take your leave now while we discuss urgent matters!”

You were halfway through getting up when Pantalone spoke.

“Well, actually, F/N, the reason I requested this meeting was because I wanted to speak with you regarding your daughter.”

What?

Your head snapped towards Pantalone, the rest of your body still frozen in an awkward motion between standing and sitting, your eyes wide with shock and mild horror.

You weren’t sure if you had heard him right or not. But judging by the similarly surprised look on your dad’s face, you likely heard him correctly.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought of Pantalone as attractive. His elegantly styled black hair was smooth and silky—or at least it appeared so, you never ran your fingers through it—and his skin was radiant, fair as porcelain, his amethyst irises embellished with full sets of ebony lashes, sitting behind intricate silver glasses that framed his gracefully poised face just right.

However, you had never thought of anything beyond that. Not only were you unsure about how old he was—he could be twice your age, for Archons’s sakes—he was also your dad’s business associate, and you weren’t sure how your dad would feel about that, though you supposed you’d find out soon.

“Uh,” your dad stumbled over his own words, “Lord Pantalone... are you sure you want to, uh, discuss such matters with Y/N present?”

“Why, of course, F/N,” Pantalone replied, completely nonchalant. Your eyes darted between him and your father, the two of them wearing completely opposite expressions.

“Uhh,” your dad gibbered awkwardly, “are you sure you want to discuss such matters with me present?” You could see that he, too, was looking back and forth at the both of you in a futile attempt to grasp the situation. He was presumably contemplating the prospect of anything having happened between the two of you. The thought alone was enough to fluster you, and you were just thinking of how to explain that no, you were not and had not been sleeping with his business partner, when Pantalone spoke again.

“Oh, Archons, no, it’s nothing like that, please don’t misunderstand!” he exclaimed, his statement sending you into a brand new state of confusion. “I merely want your daughter to spy on Dottore.”

“I’m sorry, what?” you interjected, evident disbelief in your voice. You didn’t need to look at your dad to know he was even more disturbed than you, considering how he was at a loss for words.

“You see, it has recently come to my attention that Dottore is plotting something rather unfavourable to the Tsaritsa,” Pantalone elaborated, though you weren’t sure whether his explanation was helping or worsening the situation. “As a Harbinger, it is my duty to ensure her safety, and as Dottore’s closest associate, I’m in a most advantageous position to do so. Alas, I am but one man, so some assistance would be incredibly helpful.”

While the initial misconception was already difficult to process, the clarification was even more incomprehensible. You were stunned, unable to formulate any coherent thoughts until your dad managed to snap out of his stupor.

“You want my daughter to spy on Il Dottore? Forgive me, Lord Pantalone, but are you daft? How the hell is she supposed to do that? She is a child!” Despite its irrelevance to the situation, you couldn’t help a spark of irritation rising up at his words. You scowled, but put your annoyance aside for now, for there were more pressing matters at hand. Your father was becoming agitated, so you made an attempt to assuage the tension.

“...It’s fine,” you said, straightening up as you turned towards the Harbinger. “Pantalone, could you please elaborate?”

“Well, you see, I need someone whom I know and trust, that Dottore doesn’t know, but can come to trust,” he asserted. “I need someone new, unassuming, but not entirely unfamiliar. Someone who can keep a secret and find a secret. Who better than the daughter of the magnificent F/N?”

From an outside perspective, it was easy to make the assumption that you were knowingly assisting your father in keeping his clandestine activities concealed. Most people likely thought that, but it’d be incorrect.

Truthfully, your role in your father’s work was limited to greeting associates and serving them tea, along with any freshly baked goods you had made. Of course, you knew that your father wasn’t the most noble of men, considering his clientele—the Harbinger on your sofa being a perfect example—but that was the extent of your knowledge, and you preferred to keep it that way. You knew it made you apathetically recreant, but it was much easier to stay unaware and turn a blind eye to his questionable doings. You would keep yourself uninvolved in his business, hiding under your security blanket of willful ignorance.

The exact shelter that Pantalone was trying to coax you out of.

“Well, okay, sure, but—” your dad tried to protest.

“—And as a token of my gratitude,” Pantalone furthered,

“I would bring M/N back to life.”

next chapter soon... any interactions are appreciated (´･ω･`) thank you very much for supporting my work! ♡

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

BOY SCOUT CLARK SAYING FUCK TO BRUCE IS SENDING ME I LOVE THIS

(Also hi I’m still here lurking, just general life chaos keeping me offline rn)

I just like seeing Bruce squirm sometimes

Clark MIGHT have gotten his feelings hurt seeing his Ma so star-struck at the edge of the ice rink at the park but- even in jeans and a flannel, it was hard NOT to see the artistry at work.

And tried hard not to feel guilty. He'd egged his Ma on about it. And helped her cajole you into it. And now that there was a crowd. And pictures and videos being taken, he understood WHY you didn't skate in public. The whole damn town had turned out to watch. The local paper would be writing about it for days. Videos and little think pieces would be flying around on social media. Your every move would be scrutinized. And you didn't have an Alter Ego to hide behind until the heat died down if anything went wrong.

So now, instead of going around and looking at new curtains with his Ma, you'd have to spend a chunk of your day signing autographs and answering some (sometimes invasive) questions.

"Oh dear," Martha muttered, "Clark-"

"It's alright, Ma," Clark sighed. "She knew it was coming. She just didn't want to sound conceited about it."

"She should have," Martha huffed.

"This is partly why Bruce just built an ice rink," Clark snorted, watching you give a wave to the crowd and a stage bow before turning to mouth an apology.

"Lord give her strength," Martha sighed, "her come the gossips."

Clark refrained from asking which group with effort and instead watched you sign pictures and shirts for a group of little girls who were practically catatonic with joy. And then pointedly ignore a middle-aged man who had elbowed his way in front of a mousy little high school junior who wanted to do a little piece for the school paper and kindly answer her questions. He smiled a little. You knew what you were doing. And you knew how to work a crowd. Even without security and barricades. Though- in Smallville, no one was likely to trample you or anything. Just talk your ear off at the grocery store.

Still. It took a good while and Clark decided they'd better edge closer. Making their way nearer to you to try and help. Turns out, It didn't. But. At least he had the satisfaction of being close to you and keeping other men from trying to hit on you. And making sure you didn't get cold. You'd only planned to be out there long enough to let his Ma see you skate up close- not do a whole meet and greet and the wind was biting. Hot Chocolate would only go so far and he didn't like the thought of you not being taken care of. Or uncomfortable. It made him feel weird. Sick. Sad. It made him want to fix it. And if blocking he wind and keeping you close to him made that feeling go away, then so be it. Let the think pieces think about that.

[samkiszkasfacialhair]

Rollin’ and Tumblin’ Chapter 1

Rollin’ and Tumblin’ Chapter 1

Pairing: Jake Kiszka and Female Reader

Summary: You’ve lived a sheltered and privileged life, only learning what it truly means to live and love after meeting Jake, a young man of unusual western sorts who was hired to work on your father’s farm.

Warnings: Cowboy Jake, hunger in relation to unhealthy eating habits, knives.

Word Count: 3.1k

April 1903

It was the spring of your twenty third year. The day started off like any other day would. However, you were dreading the events that were scheduled for later in the day- a dinner party where you would be matched off with a wealthy man your father and mother had chosen for you to marry, William Drayton. His family, much like yours, did not care for anyone who did not live up to their standards of wealth and class. The Draytons had monopolized the oil business in the south and southwest portions of the nation, which guaranteed generations of wealth, something your father more than anyone was particularly keen on.

It was all politics. No one cared about true love or real happiness. You had never even met the man and you were expected to, from this night forward, spend the rest of your life with him. And you didn’t have any other choice. Most girls you knew were paired off with men between ages seventeen and nineteen. Not twenty three. Time was ticking and your parents were not allowing you to waste any more of it after years of you protesting marriage against their wishes.

All you’ve known your entire life is etiquette and poise. You were taught, or should we say trained to be meek and mild because men like that. To have thoughts and opinions of your own may as well be a sin, and even the thought of speaking up or out of turn would send you on a train with a one way ticket to Hell. Manners were shoved down your throat and you didn’t have a single memory of not looking and acting perfect every day of your life. You were a prisoner in your own body. But this was your life and there was no way out of it. 

The corset bounding your torso felt like a million pins sticking into you from every direction, pushing in harder each time you inhaled. The pink ribbon tying it together was pulled tight, keeping you painfully caged inside it, which seemed to be a physical representation of how you felt living your actual life. 

You sat in the parlor room of your home with your mother for breakfast. As you raised your glass to your lips, the familiar sound of your father’s voice began in the kitchen and echoed through the rest of the house. Along with his voice was another, a deeper, smooth voice that you couldn’t recognize. 

His footsteps along with the sound of another pair of feet got louder as he walked down the hallway and toward the parlor room to greet you. 

You turned your head as he appeared in the doorway and wished you a good morning.

“Good morning, Daddy,” you replied.

“I have someone to introduce to you both.”

With his words, came another man through the doorway. 

“This is Jacob. I’ve hired him as our farmhand. He’ll be in charge of things so you’ll see him around quite a lot,” he explained.

This wasn’t unusual. You were used to people around the house and on the land outside. You had your lady’s maids, cooks, house maids, and a few farmers who took care of your father’s pride and joy, the crops and cattle. 

But what was unusual, was Jacob himself. 

First of all, he was around your age, which was unlikely. Typically your father hired men well into middle age to be in charge of things related to the farm. Anyone your age, much like yourself, was typically treated as your father’s inferior. 

Second, he wasn’t the typical farmer you’d seen around before. He had more of a western look. Something you’d only ever seen in books or heard about through word of mouth. He wore a hat and a brown leather jacket which covered a blue denim shirt. His pants were denim as well, ripped and dirty, and you were surprised your father would let him into your home in that state. Lastly, the boots as well as the chaps he wore led to the conclusion that he dabbled in horse riding.

He took his hat off and held it over his chest to bow his head at you and Mother.

Upon taking it off, light brown wavy hair that was tangled and clumped together in every direction tumbled down to his shoulders. He had streaks of blonde in it, seemingly from being out in the sun. It was dirty and messy- yet incredibly fascinating. You had never seen that length of hair on a man. Ever. 

His face was that of someone you figured would only ever be a figment of your imagination. He had tanned skin and deep eyes that were a light shade of brown. His nose was prominent and strong. His lips naturally curved up into a smile with just a touch of facial hair surrounding them.

The only word that came to mind was handsome. And that didn’t even begin to cover it. 

You smiled at him and before you knew it, he was on his was out the door following close behind your father. The sound of their voices heading down the hallway were silenced with the shutting of the back door and you sat there for a minute just looking at the now empty doorway he once stood in. 

You pulled yourself out of your daydream to continue your breakfast and idle chat with your mother before finishing and heading to your room to get ready for the night’s festivities. 

The next few hours were spent in your room with your lady’s maids. Pulling at your hair to get it to curl perfectly, pushing and pinching at your face to color your lips and blush your cheeks, and the most dreaded of all but the expected, corset. 

Once in your gown for the night, you were accompanied downstairs where your home had transformed into a party that was already in full swing. You put on your best smile, a false one, but a smile nonetheless, and began the night. 

After just a bit of time, your father, dressed in his best tuxedo, found you, linked his arm in yours and led you to the dining area to meet your future husband. 

Your heart dropped into your stomach with dread as you followed him to your doom and could see exactly who he was leading you to at the head of the table. You wouldn’t say he was particularly ugly, so to speak. But he wasn’t exactly what you would deem to be good looking, or even average looking for that matter. 

“Daddy,” you whispered, “I really don’t want to do this.”

You could feel your eyebrows furrowing and your face dropping as nothing but anxiety and dread flowed through your blood.

He tugged on your arm with his, pulling you closer to him in a harsh manner. He smiled and spoke to you firmly through his teeth.

“You will do this and you will do it with a smile on your face. You are twenty three years old. Do you know how difficult it was for me to find someone even willing to marry you? You should be thankful his time in the army set him just as far back as you. His time at least was well spent. Now, I should not have to remind you how to act tonight. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Sir,” you replied through a shaky breath, feeling absolutely defeated.

Before he could even reply, you were at arms distance with your future husband- meeting him, smiling, and sitting down next to him for dinner.

Dinner was a nightmare. The only topics discussed were politics, stocks, and money- none of which you understood a word of. You just smiled and nodded throughout dinner. Desperately wishing your corset would rip at the seams if you took a deep enough breath or ate enough food, both of which would be wildly inappropriate actions on your part. 

So you sat there, uncomfortable and on the verge of tears for the night, all hid under a smile which falsely showed your eagerness to be there and to be wed. 

After dessert, the women excused themselves to bed as the men began getting ready for rounds of cigars and brandy. Your father and now fiancé bid you goodnight with kisses to your hand. A hand with, much to your dismay, showed off a newly placed diamond on your ring finger. 

Your lady’s maids met you at the base of the stairs to return to your bedroom to undress for the night but you took a turn and headed for the kitchen. 

You walked through, grabbing an untouched piece of peach pie off a plate and headed out the backdoor. 

Darkness surrounded you as you walked through the fields and down to the swing you used to play on as a little girl. You picked up the piece of pie and brought it to your mouth, taking a massive bite. You continued eating, fully letting yourself enjoy food for once.

Once the feeling of hunger was satisfied within you, there was no stopping the tears that flooded your eyes. They had become two waterfalls, and your lap had become soaked with the tears that had fallen onto it.

Your future was being chosen for you. You’d tried to fight it for so long and now, you’d finally lost the fight. 

One by one, you watched your friends marry off into wealth and start families of their own to continue the toxic cycle, knowing eventually, it would have to be you. And now, the time had come. It was you. There was no escape from it. No way out. Not even a glimmer of hope. 

You looked down at your left hand to see the ring placed there against your will earlier that night and sobbed harder. 

You should be grateful. You should be happy. You were born into wealth and were guaranteed to have it for life. You knew there were so many people out there that had it worse. So many people that deserved everything you had just been handed. You were lucky. Yet, despite everything you had, you felt every terrible feeling one could ever feel. 

The sound of footsteps in the grass behind you caused you to sit up straight and wipe your eyes and mouth.

“You alright, Miss?” you heard a deep voice speak softly from behind you. 

You turned around to see Jacob there with a knapsack slung over his shoulder.

“I’m fine, thank you, Jacob,” you replied as you turned your head back to look down at your tear soaked dress.

It was silent for a moment. The sounds of crickets and cicadas filled their air until his voice broke through the sounds of them.

“Well,” he began, “have a good night then.”

You heard his boots crunch down on the grass underneath them as he began to walk away when all of sudden, the words tumbled out from your mouth without any hesitation.

“Do you ever just feel like you’re trapped? Like you’re on a train that is going full speed into a mountain with no tunnel to go through and if there was a tunnel, no light at the end of that tunnel to save you? Like, you’re going to crash and explode into flames and all you can do is sit there and wait for your inevitable death?” 

Instantly, a sense of relief washed over you as the words you’d been holding in for so long had finally been released.

However, the instant regret of revealing your feelings to a stranger who now wasn’t speaking had begun to bubble inside you.

“I think that corset may be a little too tight, Miss. S’messin’ with your brain,'' he laughed. His voice was deep and had the tiniest twang that held onto the ends of his words. Not a lot, but just enough.

You huffed out a laugh and turned around to him again to see him smiling, with his teeth, glowing bright in the moonlight.

You reached under your dress and behind your back for the ribbon that was keeping you painfully locked in.

“There’s this, this stupid bow that I can’t get undone on it,” you said as you bit your bottom lip in concentration.

“I, I could hel-help you. If you, uh, if that’s what you want?” he asked hesitantly.

“Would you? This thing is terrible uncomfortable.”

You took your arms out of the sleeves of your dress and pushed it down, exposing the laced up piece of undergarments to him. 

Was ripping the top of your dress off your arms in front of a man you hardly knew against everything you’d ever been taught was lady-like and proper? Absolutely. 

Was wearing a ring against your will to be wed to a man who you hardly knew against everything you’d ever wanted in life? Absolutely.

It had evened itself out in your head and that was good enough for you. 

You pulled your hair in front of you and turned your head back to face forward as he walked closer to you.

“Woah,” he whispered, “I don’t want to cause any harm or disrespect, Miss. But this, this is a job for someone who… isn’t me,” he said as his eyes grew wide at the sight of the ring on your finger. 

“If you’re talking about my…” you paused and closed your eyes, “fiancé,” you continued after choking out the word, “I’ve said more words to you tonight than I’ve ever even said to him. But if you wont help me, I’ll, I’ll just do it myself,” you huffed as you reached for the satin bow behind you. 

Your fingers toyed with it, as you struggled to get it to come loose when you felt the warmth of his hands on top of yours. 

You stilled your hands as his rested on top of yours for a minute. They were big, and rough and the feeling of them was completely foreign to you.

Defeat was a familiar feeling to you so what was one more round of it? You dropped your hands back down and rested them on your lap, letting him take the lead to free you.

He pulled and tugged at the strings for a while.

“Who the hell tied this thing?” he laughed.

“My lady’s maid, Katherine started it. But my mother finished it off.”

“Jesus,” he whispered as his fingers unsuccessfully fought against the light pink ribbon for release. 

He stopped for a moment and you turned your head again to get a good look at him.

He bent down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a knife and taking the cover off it to reveal a sharp, silver blade.

You swallowed hard at the sight of a knife just inches away from your body, and someone who was practically a stranger to you holding onto it.

“Now, don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurtcha,” he said calmly as he brought the knife to the tie and began cutting his way through it.

The tearing of the satin fabric was music to your ears and with one tug of the now cut strings from Jacob behind you, you were free.

You breathed in and out hard now that you actually could and hunched over to relax your neck and back for the first time in hours. 

“Thank you,” you breathed out. 

After a few seconds of relaxing your once stiff muscles, you stood up from the swing and turned to face him.

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, “And I’m, uh, sorry about the ribbon. I can pay your father to replace it,” he reasoned as he put the knife back in his pocket.

“No. No it’s fine I have dozens of others, Jacob.”

“Jake,” he said bluntly.

You stared at him for a second, confused, before he continued again, “M’names Jacob. But my friends call me Jake.” 

Jake. You liked the sound of that.

You nodded your head and peered past him to see your mother in the doorway, looking out at you. 

“Well, Jake, again, I thank you kindly for your help. But I believe it’s time that I bid you goodnight,” you said, smiling at him.

“Goodnight,” he replied, lifting your right hand and bringing it to his lips.

He held eye contact with you as he placed a soft kiss to the top of your hand. 

Instantly, you felt your body light up from the inside. Your heart began racing. Your stomach began fluttering with what felt like thousands of little butterflies inside it.

The feeling of a man's lips on your hand had been felt by you before-from your father and from William just minutes earlier. However, when they did it, you felt nothing but misery and disgust. But when Jake did it, you felt the complete opposite.

He lowered your hand a bit but held onto it as he continued speaking, “If you ever need any help again, you know where to find me,” he said, lifting his chin to gesture to the barn in the direction he had come from. 

A soft smile and nod were given to him in return before you walked past him and toward your house. 

You were but a few feet past him when you heard him call out your name. 

Your head turned around to see him biting his lip and holding back a smile.

“You might wanna,” he said as he gestured for you to put your dress back over your chest and arms, “before you go inside, back to your party.”

Immediately you felt all the blood in your body rush to your cheeks and you were thankful he wouldn’t be able to see the embarrassment on  your face in the darkness of the night. 

An involuntary giggle left your lips and he let out a laugh with you. 

You lifted your dress back up over the undone corset and back over your arms, turned to face your house, and walked quickly through the grass and back inside where you fought back a smile as you snuck upstairs.

A few moments later, you entered your bedroom and peeked out your window onto the gravel street below. Sitting tall on the back of a brown horse was Jake. 

He looked up to your window and you gave him a small wave. He tipped the brim of his hat at you before giving his horse a gentle kick underneath him and trotting off into the night. 

You watched him leave with a full smile on your face and a few more butterflies in your stomach. You turned around once he was out of sight only to be met with your mother standing in the doorway of your bedroom with a straight face, staring back at you. 

[gaybananabread]

Hey! Could I get a ATSV fic, with lee!miguel, and ler!peter b, with a side of cherries? Could I also get a receipt? (/j)

Fruit(s): Cherries

Oooooh these two! Tired “old�� men club time! I’m gonna be entirely honest, a pic on Pinterest inspired this entire thing. Got an idea and abselutely ran with it aghshrara… YEAh I’m not running off much sleep but eh. Sorry for any characterization goofs; my brain is fighting existence. Thank you for requesting, and I hope you Enjoy!

Lee: Miguel

Lers: Peter B. Parker, brief Mayday

Summary: Peter brings Mayday to the base for the twenty-millionth time, letting her wander around Miguel’s office. Turns out the beefcake is her favorite thing to climb on. When the young spider girl reminds him of one of Miguel’s quirks, Peter makes sure the grumpy old man has a laugh. 

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

If there was one thing Peter did that got on Miguel’s nerves, it was when he let his kid wander everywhere like she owned the place. He had already made sure it was fine for him to bring the toddler around, but the solemn man never could’ve predicted just how often that would be. As in, he never saw the middle-aged spider without a baby carrier strapped to his chest.

Besides the obvious safety hazards, it tugged at Miguel’s heart strings to see the little girl running around. She was so happy, so care-free, so full of life… He couldn’t help but reminisce. For anyone who doesn’t know Miguel, let me explain: when he reminisced, he was a grumpy, angsty bastard.

That day was one of many where Peter brought Mayday to the base, the red-headed toddler zipping and twipping around Miguel’s office. The boisterous father greeted Miguel, a wide smile on his face as he showed Miguel many repetitive pictures of the kid that was literally two feet away from him. Still, he managed to bite his tongue, only looking down at the phone with an unamused frown.

“Oh, oh, you’ve gotta see this one; she’s so focused! I knew she’d love those- uh… Miguel, c’mon. You look like I’m holding you at gunpoint to watch paint dry.” 

Peter lowered the phone, his hand moving to rest on his hip as he viewed Miguel’s tired face. He just scoffed, giving Peter a look that said “I’m so done with you” to the max. “Peter, the kid is right there. I don’t need the digital scrapbook experience.”

Mayday chose that moment to swing over to the two men, landing on Miguel’s shoulder and swinging her tiny feet. His heart both filled and squeezed at the sweet action. 

Rolling his eyes, Peter put his phone completely away. Scrapbook… He’d have to remember that one, even if it was just sarcasm. 

“I’m not asking you to jump for joy at every photo. Just crack a smile or two, ya grump!” He tried poking Miguel’s side, only to get his wrist snatched and a deathly glare shot at him. Peter quickly retracted his hand, holding both up in surrender. Mayday giggled at the silly exchange, her beanie sliding as she wiggled about.

The toddler used her powers to stick to Miguel, crawling across him because she could; toddler logic doesn’t need to make sense. She was just having fun! The tot shivered, the cool air of the office sending goosebumps across her skin. Mayday grabbed onto his side, snuggling into the warm crook of his arm.

Miguel huffed when he felt the small girl on his side, trying not to smile as he grabbed for her. She whined, using her powers to stay stuck on him. Not wanting to hurt Mayday, he sighed and turned back to Peter. He motioned towards his side, a restrained look on his face. “Little help here?”

Peter chuckled, seeing his daughter snuggle up to Miguel. “Nah, you seem all good. She’s just snuggling with you, what’s up?”

He glared at his friend, though there wasn’t much he could say. There was no way he was gonna admit that her small hands were tickling him; Peter would never let him live it down. He scowled, instead choosing the “be an asshole” route. “I don’t want your kid climbing on me. You have a baby carrier for a reason; use it.”

Seriously? Peter rolled his eyes, looking at his daughter. She seemed so peaceful, all cozy against Miguel’s side; he felt bad moving her. Still, he had to respect Miguel’s wishes, even if they were cruel. “Fine, fine! Don’t get your fangs in a twist…” 

Walking over to the grumpy spider-man, Peter reached out to grab his daughter. She whined, clinging tighter to Miguel’s side and nuzzling her fuzzy head against his ribs. 

A short huff escaped the stoic man, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. He squirmed, finally grabbing onto the small child and trying to tug her off. “Maldita sea- Peter, grab her!” 

“Hey, language!” His voice sounded…giddy? What was…oh. Mayday was tickling him. She was grabbing his side and brushing his ribs. “Awwww, Miggy! Is little Mayday-”

“Don’t.” Miguel gave Peter the fiercest glare he could manage, though it was put off by the ghost of a smile on his lips. There was no way in hell Peter was gonna back off after that. 

Shooting forwards, Peter grabbed Miguel’s arrm, shooting a web up and restraining it. The big man would’ve thrashed and reversed their positions, but he didn’t want to risk hurting Mayday; he was pretty much screwed.

Peter wasted no time; if Miguel gained his footing, Peter was so done for. The man grabbed Miguel’s side, spidering his fingers against Miguel’s stomach. The man bit his lip, trying both to keep Mayday secure and hold in his giggles at the same time. 

“P-Peter, I swehear- GYAH!” Miguel jolted as he felt a squeeze to his hip, almost dropping his hold on Mayday. Peter smirked, leaning forwards and continuing to mess with Miguel’s hips. “Oh, sorry Miguel. Did that tickle~?”

That little… Peter was so dead when he got out of that. Much to his dismay, he could feel a red hue burning on his cheeks as he laughed. “PEHETER! IHI’M GONNA- MIERDA!” Trying to keep a steady hold on Mauday while having his hips squeezed was a lot harder than he thought it would be…

“Miguel, c’mon. There’s a kid right here, watch your mouth.” Peter was only half-faking his exasperation. True, he was kinda being a jerk, but Mayday didn’t need to learn how to cuss in any more languages.

Mayday giggled, feeling Miguel’s chest shake as he laughed. She was used to her dad being silly, but Miguel? Never, ever had she heard him laugh like that. Wanting to join in on the fun, she copied her dad, squeezing and scribbling on his ribs.

While there was barely any pressure, her tiny hands still tickled. Miguel jerked, losing his grip on the girl in surprise. Mayday wasn’t even phased; she just hung on with her powers, Mayday giggled at his squirming, thoroughly enjoying herself in the silliness.

Peter kept watch of his daughter in the corner of his eye, making sure she wouldn’t fall. Miguel probably wouldn’t kill him. It was all in good fun, and he neecded a laugh anyway. Sure, his revenge would be…interesting, but it was worth it.

“Wow, look how red you are! I thought Miles was resident tomato face, but looks like you’re givin’ him a run for his money~” Peter continued to tease his friend, knowing his comments would get to the man. It was too easy to tease Miguel like this; later was what most people worried about. Peter had no fears, though; Miguel wouldn’t kill him…probably.

“SHUHUT UHUP!” Miguel twisted and tugged at the webs, nearly breaking through them. He could only take so much of the other man’s silliness. “PEHEHETER! GEHET OHOFF MEHEHE!”

While he could tell Miguel was getting sick of him, Peter wasn’t quite ready to stop. The blush on Miguel’s face was quite endearing, only egging the father on. True, he couldn’t control it, but eh. “I think I just got a new favorite color! Miguel’s-blush red~” 

The angsty spider growled through his laughter, already plotting his revenge in his head. Mayday laughed, deciding she’d played around enough for one day. The girl climbed off of Miguel, using her small webshooter to sit on a ledge and watch the goofy old men interact.

The moment Mayday was safely off him, Miguel turned the tables. He yanked his wrist free from the webbing, grabbing Peter and pinning him to the wall. It was almost scary how fast that man could recover… Peter went to make a joke, though it died in his throat. “Hey, at least…buy me…ehe. Uh, truce?” He gulped, looking at Miguel’s smirk and determined eyes. Eugh boi… Still blushing, though.

“Es hora de morir, Peter~” Before Peter could protest any further, Miguel dug his claws into the man’s stomach, squeezing and scratching the squishy flesh. Peter shrieked, not at all prepared for his due penance.

Mayday watched as they messed around, giggling and tilting her head. She had grabbed her dad’s discarded robe, snuggling up into it and getting warm. Those two would likely be at it for a while, and she was more than happy to watch the two laugh. Silly boys…

[sleepynegress]

Like I said zawe is lucky and Tom hiddleston is the best and hes sexy you need glasses

Ahhh them. I'm gonna answer this nicely in hopes of maybe helping with growth? Love isn't "luck". What is initially physically attractive to many? Is often determined by what society tells you is.

I've been fortunate enough to have lived long enough to see "beauty standards" change. I remember when people didn't want BBLs or curves. I've seen the cute TikToks where moms would show their teen daughters the "hot guys" from back in the day and the girls would just go "Eww!". Figuring out what you really want, or don't, often comes with experience; the variety of people you get to be around and care for in life, and how open you are. Often "pretty" people become ugly through their actions, vice versa, and everything in between...

It's a whole package thing. In my deep MCU days, Tom didn't cross my radar because he came off as feeding on the attention and fame. I mean he was cute back then but in a twinky way, IMO. Boyishness makes me want to mother you, not think you're hot. But for the younguns I get it. The housewives? My lip is curling up and I'm side-eyeing a bit... at least for back then. Plus his fandom came off like too many I've encountered that treat white men and their characters like they are infallible, but need protecting somehow?.... Again it added to that little boy sense of him. Since then, (in my parasocial speculations), he's acquired some wrinkles and wisdom and learned that what he thought he had in all that Hollywood attention, wasn't "real" and now he actually does seem attractive because he's a grown man, now. Now, it's if Gene WIlder and Lee Pace could have a middle-aged baby, it would be Tom. All those things that drew such a following back then came off as performative and people-pleasing to me. The lack of boundaries, the talking over people, and going on and on... My grandma would have said he was smelling his upper lip. He was academically intelligent but often came off as socially naive, IMO, and I think most could infer the most naive stumbles he made in that era...*ahem* Zawe was one of many Black women from before I knew of Tom who I rooted for in the industry. ... Many of whom, you don't see much anymore, sadly. But the difference in their journey IMO & her accomplishments w/o the money, gender, and racial privileges her partner has, says a lot about the kind of character Zawe possesses. Again, parasocial! ... but I see a man who encountered a grown woman not enamored by or deeply entangled in the industry but had carved out her own path despite lacking all those things the industry demands you have to have, to succeed. A smart person would be impressed by that and her authentic kindness, sense of humor, intelligence, and joy in what she does...on top of being what he likes physically (we not gonna act like that man does not always ping or have the best onset chemistry when a leggy woman is around).

He's a leg-locked king (apologies or you're welcome for the imagery). He seems to be a gentleman and Zawe is not one of his little fangirls. They come across as equally enamored, and grown, and I would like to think they have a healthy loving partnership. Which makes them both extremely lucky.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Recently, in a large city in France, a poster featuring a young, thin, and tan woman appeared in the window of a gym.It read: “This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?”?

A middle-aged woman, whose physical characteristics did not match those of the woman pictured on the poster, responded publicly to the question posed by the gym. She had a whale of a lot to say:

“To Whom It May Concern,?

Whales are always surrounded by friends: dolphins, sea lions, and curious humans. They have an active sex life, get pregnant, and have adorable baby whales. They enjoy stuffing themselves with shrimp, playing and swimming in the sea, and visiting wonderful places like Patagonia, the Bering Sea, and the coral reefs of Polynesia.

Whales are wonderful singers and have even recorded CDs. ?They are incredible creatures and virtually have no predators other than humans.They are loved, protected, and admired by almost everyone in the world.?

Mermaids don’t exist.If they did exist, they would be lining up outside the offices of psychoanalysts due to their identity crisis. Fish or human would prove quite a quandary for even the most skilled of therapists.

They don’t have a sex life because they kill men who get close to them, not to mention how could they have sex? Just look at them … where is IT? Therefore, they don’t have kids either. Not to mention, who wants to get close to a girl who smells like a fish store??

P.S. We are in an age when the media attempts to convince us that only skinny people are beautiful. I prefer to enjoy ice cream with my kids, a good dinner with a man who makes me shiver, and good chocolate with my friends. With time, we gain weight because we accumulate so much information and wisdom in our heads that when there is no more room, it distributes out to the rest of our bodies. So we aren’t heavy, we are enormously cultured, educated, and happy.?

(A World Full of Joy and Laughter)

[thee-horny-thicky]

Jammin'

Some weeks ago I did a headcanon of what I thought all the members of Taskforce 141 would listen to, and found myself choosing R&B as the genre of choice for them. So, I decided to turn my ending paragraph into a short one-shot :)

Note: I've never played Call of Duty and know nothing about the military. I'm merely a simp with some knowledge about the characters.

When you were first recruited by the 141, you didn’t know what to expect. The elite task force, though legendary, was shrouded in mystery. All you knew is that they always got the job done and left a trail of destruction and bloodshed in their wake. You were positive that some of their methods violated the Geneva Conventions. But, seeing as those they hurt often targeted innocent civilians, you didn’t feel much pity for those on the receiving end of the task force’s wrath.

You did, however, feel anxious when you were sent on your first mission, one the entirety of the 141 had to deal with. You knew the threat had to be massive for all five of you to go. Seeing as it dealt with bombs and crime families, you were right. Weeks of hard work later, you all were finally able to say the threat was eliminated.

Weeks of working without rest left you exhausted, but you were ecstatic that the job was finally done, and thankful that none of the team had been seriously injured. Everything had gone well, putting you in a jovial mood despite your tiredness.

The boys must’ve felt the same way, because the ride back to base was cheerier than expected. So cheery, that Soap had even begun to play music. You were out of enemy territory and in the sky, so the extra noise wasn’t that big of a deal, allowing you to focus on the choice of music. You couldn’t help but laugh as Soldier by Destiny’s Child echoed throughout the space.

Fitting.

“Nice choice,” you mused, tapping your fingers to the beat.

Destiny’s Child was a staple in your household growing up, and your love for the band remained even decades after their separation.

Soap shot you a grin, and started to belt out the lyrics, pulling another giggle from you. His Scottish accent was still prominent, and hearing the way he pronounced southern slang was more amusing than it should’ve been. You were soon sent into a fit when Gaz began to join in, though he was more subdued than the Scot.

They had too much energy considering the grueling mission you all were subjected to, but seeing them so carefree was a nice sight. To be able to kick back and listen to music with the men you were beginning to regard as your brothers brought you joy.

Soon enough, you were dancing in your seat, your tiredness fading as the beat reverberated through the plane. The team was the only passengers, so you didn’t have to worry about disturbing other guests.

While you expected Gaz and Soap to be bright and breezy—they almost always were—it was a surprise to see Captain Price bobbing his head to the beat, with as much rhythm as a middle-aged British man could muster. Even more shocking was that the notoriously stoic Ghost was tapping his foot against the floor.

You paused, the sight taking you aback enough for a disbelieving laugh to escape. You were feeling particularly giggly, your relief and tiredness making everything funnier than it really was.

Ghost froze when he noticed you staring, and you’d bet he was lifting a brow under his mask. “What?”

You just smiled and looked away. He continued to stare but didn’t press the issue further. And when No Scrubs by TLC started to play, it was forgotten completely.

The fact that those big, burly men were jamming out to R&B classics after a taxing mission amused you to no end. It was utterly absurd and seemed like something out of a sitcom. But despite the absurdity, it only made them even more endearing to you and solidified that the 141 was where you belonged.

[malebodyexhibit]

Proving a Point (a Next Door Boy tale)

“You proved your point, can we switch back now?” My friend texted. I swiped his message and watched it clear from my notifications.

We had switched bodies through the Next Door Boy agency a month ago. We had occasionally rented ourselves out for petty cash, but when my white friend told me that racism wasn’t such a huge deal anymore, the agency provided a solution to our disagreement.

“Live one week as me and let’s see if you change your tone,” I taunted. We were both college age and fit, but we differed in our upbringing. He was white and rich. I was black and middle class.

“One week? Give me a challenge at least. Make it a month!” He leaned back like he always did during our study sessions. We had became friends after majoring in the same field, but he had the confidence not to stress about the course. I stressed. I got in through scholarships and I don’t have the easy charm developed by assured acceptance. “What makes you think this place is racist?”

I stopped my typing at my essay and glared at him. “It’s just this place but everywhere. Have you ever felt the need to wait a hundred feet away from a someone at night so they don’t assume you’ll attack them? Or trying to get people comfortable talking to you? Don’t mention my dating life before I met Dave. I’m so lucky to find him. Dating as a gay black man was a stream of rejections.”

Dave, my boyfriend for over a year, was a joy in college. We were both black men who found solace in our shared experience. I tried dating, but black was a preference not everyone had. I won’t lie. I wanted to date white guys. But unlike my friend, I didn’t have the pleasure to whore myself out. He brought home a new guy every night. His dating profile was a shirtless pic and that was enough.

So when we switched bodies, the first thing I did was look at what I was missing out on. Starting with my friend’s body. I looked at his body, now mine, in the mirror of his apartment. I stripped off my shirt. I ran my hand over my new white skin. I tickled my nipple and felt my arms. The corded muscle beneath my hands as I flexed. His abs. The thing that attracted men of all ages, I strummed it like a guitar. I listened to the washboard sound from my new sculpted stomach.

My friend called me while I was investigated his white cock. “Hey, dude. This is a bit weird. I had no idea what you were packing.” He said.

“Yeah, well I’m more impressed with what you have,” I sneered. I stroked his member while holding my phone in the other hand. “What was our rules on hook ups?”

He paused and said, “It’s okay, just be protected. Are you really going to test drive my body with hook ups?” He sounded incredulously but with good humor intended. “Guess I have no choice but to do the same.”

That night, I merely had to check the dating app and found a daddy to plow me. It felt so good having a guy so intensely attracted to my body. He wrapped his hands around me and called me by my friend’s name, Ethan. After a while, I began moaning Ethan’s name and slowly felt it become more and more me.

The next morning, Ethan in my old body told me in frustration that he spent the night trying to find guys to hook up with, but kept getting rejected. “Those racist fucks,” he blurted. “It’s just goddamn sex, why are they so picky?”

Of course, he’d think that way. He had his choice.

Over the following weeks, he got in trouble when he tried to strike up conversation with other students while walking back from class at night. Soon he began to withdraw into silence as he felt the world begin to judge him. “This is getting difficult,” he told me a week ago. “I just keep trying not to make other people think I’m weird but it’s awful.”

I, on the other hand, just merely acted like myself and… wait that’s a lie. I just acted more like him. Confident and easy going. I didn’t need to filter myself and people enjoyed my presence anyway. I was finally becoming part of the class.

Things got a bit complicated when Dave approached me. He knew about the swap but he was feeling betrayed. He assumed I was cheating on him and I told him he was right. I didn’t see any reason to be with him any more. I finally felt like I could be myself. Ethan reproached me asking why I did that to the man I loved a month ago. I asked him point blank, “Did you find him attractive when you were in your old body?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I finally see that I settled for some guy that wanted me and that made me desperate to make a relationship work. But as you, I feel I can finally find someone who loves me for me.” I smiled. He looked horrified. I picked up my bag and headed to class.

“You proved your point, can we switch back now?” My friend texted me. I wasn’t sure how to react to his message. In my heart and mind I feel that I had already made my choice. I finally felt like Ethan and that Ethan was someone I was always supposed to be.

“Counter offer. I stay as Ethan and you can be me.” I texted back.

“NO. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. We’re supposed to switch back. This is bulls-“ he texted. He didn’t even finish the word before he called me. But I ended things immediately that night when I approached him and worked the ol’ Ethan charm. I smiled and melted his defenses. I ran my hand over his cheek. I did everything I wanted Ethan to do to me in my old body. I said the words I always wanted to hear from Ethan. But now that I was Ethan, I felt but kindness to my old body. To bring small relief to the way it was harmed. To help my friend, now Josh, live with this cruel world.

He let himself get plowed by me. This black jock who intimated most people was on his back, moaning and screaming as I, with my rich boy body, thrusted into him. We both knew how to satisfy our old bodies. Eventually he accepted being Josh and I Ethan. Now officially a couple, it was a kindness for me to introduce him to my circle of friends.

With my family’s money, I take us on trips. For our spring break, we went to a rocky beach in Mexico. He might not offer much with money, but I’m glad to help him see the larger world.

[gemsofgreece]

Some thoughts on the Homeric Age and the Early Archaic Period

Based on my reading of the Iliad and the Odyssey in the original Homeric Greek text and a fairly loyal Modern Greek rendering

I had read these in middle school but, you know, fewer things stick with you when you do them as a chore. I was interested in reading them again, not so much for the already familiar stories, but for what I could take from them and conclude about the Greek society more than 2800 years ago! I must note that it is unclear how accurately the poet(s?) - let’s say Homer - portrays the Homeric Age and events that supposedly took place more than four centuries before his time. The question is, are we truly getting a picture of the Homeric age or at least an archaic Greek society? My opinion is that the epics must have been a reflection of some early Greek era indeed and not be entirely imaginary. Most historians believe Homer does a fairly decent job at preserving cultural and social elements of an age long gone even for him, although it’s undoubtable there is a lot of infiltration with elements of his own times too.

Peace and War

It is interesting that even though the Iliad is a war themed epic and graphic violence and gore are not missed in the Odyssey either, both the characters of the epics (who are famed warriors more often than not) and the poet - narrator acknowledge war as a great evil that causes a lot of pain to people. Even the victors pillaging and taking slaves have total awareness and understanding that a slave or a defeated enemy are suffering a lot. It seems it is a man’s duty to confront that great evil and be decently prepared and trained for it, however it is not a situation that most have a special yearning for. Most men agree that there is nothing like having peace and enjoying your companies and families, however it was a great shame for a man to step back once war broke out. A war or a fight or any argument would be ignited usually by acts of injustice or great offence that should be obligatorily punished immediately, even if the offended would deep inside rather stay at home. As an example, Odysseus murders violently all of Penelope’s suitors and twelve girl slaves who betrayed his wife and slept willingly with them. He does not waver at all, despite the pleas for mercy. When his oldest servant and nanny sees the gruesome scene with all the dead, she rejoices and cheers. Odysseus then scolds her, for “anybody’s death should never be a reason for joy”. So we have this somewhat contradictory stance in a society which proclaims itself peaceful and fair yet it takes too little to outrage and urge at acts of vengeance and violence. Violence and war are seen as measures that must be taken and that one must not recoil from but there is wide acknowledgment that war and death brought to others should not be desired or enjoyed. It was definitely not among cultures that viewed war or conquest as some sort of sacred destiny or pride. But it also did not take much for them to find excuses for a war or a fight.

Religion

Despite misconceptions that Ancient Greeks were always very anthropocentric and put logic and the potency of the human mind above all else, it is certain that at least up to the Archaic period this was not the case. Ancient Greeks of those early eras were very religious and attributed almost everything to their deities. The fate of a person is sealed from the beginning and the gods are well aware of it. Even the achievements or mistakes of great people are viewed as interventions by the gods. Although Odysseus is repeatedly praised for his intelligence and resourcefulness, it is almost always a god (Athena) who enlightens him on how to act or what to say. Misfortune is also entirely attributed to the gods - if a character suffers great misfortune, it is not so much because of their own misjudgment, the elements of nature or ill luck, but because some god is angered with them or has a special liking for their enemy.

Behavioural patterns

The most notable pattern in the behaviour of characters in the epics is that it is temperamental with plenty of mood swings. Granted, we should always keep into account that they are just ancient poems and maybe the care for gradual character development or realistic character consistency was not one of the priorities for ancient poets. If we do however still attempt to draw any conclusions, we observe people who are quick to judge, offend, get angry, praise, admire, get emotional, forgive. Some of these mood swings happen in minutes. Certainly this must not be realistic but it may be a sign the Ancient Greek people were that temperamental, quick to hate and quick to love. Another crucial observation, maybe a trademark trait of the Greek ethnos, it is apparent throughout the epics that the Greeks are people who love to talk a lot, they are argumentative and they enjoy discourse. Characters unfold their thoughts and feelings extensively and they do not shy away from being vulnerable. Furthermore, their speeches are bold and often candid; they can use strong language for the flaws of people they love and they add praises even in speeches against their enemies! In other words, they generally call it what it is - they are upfront about the flaws and the virtues of those they speak to. One last observation, they tend to be suspicious of others. There is an ongoing theme of trying, testing old friends and loved ones even when this is distressing to the other person and even though the events alone prove those people’s love and testing them really is superfluous and just shows a very suspicious, disbelieving nature. Of course, testing your loved ones is a huge recurring theme in international literary work ever since, therefore once again it would be reasonable to consider that even if those tendencies existed, they were exaggerated for the sake of the poems and the prolonged entertainment of the audience.

Objectivity

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of reading the Homeric epics for me is how the author is largely removed from taking sides. Homer does like Odysseus, that is evident, however as a narrator he almost never speaks ill of any character. Any accusations are only made by characters against other characters. The narrator himself acknowledges positive traits in most characters or at the very least remains neutral. Even more interestingly, this expands to an ethnic level. Even though the epics are written by a Greek for the Greeks, there is resolutely no hatred or prejudice against any other culture mentioned. Trojans, Thracians, Aethiopians and many others are all acknowledged for their own virtues each and the narrator does not resent any for fighting against the Greeks. It is clear that at the time, discrimination and hate speech against other nations and cultures had not yet gotten to people’s minds that much. I found it very wonderful and interesting that a war text from 800 BC could master more objectivity and level-headedness than 99% of texts written in the 19th century around the world.

Women

[This part is a little longer so I am putting the rest of the post under a cut]

Classical Greece is notorious for how oppressed its women were, however either things were better for them a few centuries prior or the truth was more nuanced. Of course, we are undoubtedly talking about a deeply patriarchal society in which women were expected to restrict themselves in their own rooms and have little concern besides their kids and weaving. In spite of this, the poems are full of considerations and respect towards numerous women and seem to have them in a type of regard that is rarely mentioned in historians’ documentations. Women are portrayed with diverse personalities and the vast majority are presented as positive role models. In fact, there is only one woman who is mentioned in a downright negative way and that is Clytemnestra, but it’s only her husband who does this as well. Other than her, there is rarely if ever negative talk against other women. Even Helen is never treated badly by anybody; Helen is only ever criticised by herself. When she returns to Sparta, her people, Menelaus and visitors such as Telemachus seem to honour her as if nothing ever happened. Helen joins them in their festivities, is portrayed as more perceptible than Menelaus and always voices her thoughts in the overwhelmingly masculine company. Arete and Nausicaa are also significant female characters and they are more crucial to the safe return of Odysseus than King Alcinous. Penelope is one of the leading characters; her thoughts, feelings and turmoil interest the poet (and apparently the ancient audience) in a large part of the Odyssey, no less than the feelings of Odysseus himself. The input of women is often welcomed and considered - it is not taken into account usually when it gets in the way of plans that have to do with war and fighting or when the position of a male might be challenged in front of others. For example, Telemachus evidently loves and respects his mother but he eventually feels ashamed that he is becoming a grown man, the future king, that cannot get rid of his mother’s suitors and he often scolds her when she takes decisions regarding these matters in his and the suitors’ presence. Other than that, mothers in general are viewed as sacred and respectable. Odysseus, a mature manly warrior, is seen yearning for his mother’s embrace.

In Nausicaa we see that perhaps women could also go outdoors and have fun when accompanied by their maids. Nausicaa and her maids wash the clothes close to the shore and in the meantime they entertain themselves by playing with a ball until the sunset, with the permission of her parents.

The pain and turmoil of slave girls is seen and understood. Odysseus kills twelve of his fifty slave women because they betrayed him. The rest who remained loyal to the family rush to welcome him back - Odysseus hugs them all and weeps. This scene is beautiful because there is nothing resolutely sexual implied - it is clear that his relationship to them was more genuine than that of a master and his servants, they were also his protégées. He cared enough to weep for meeting again his female servants - this shows that even an unfree working girl could be impactful enough to a powerful man’s life without this necessarily involving sex. The slaves he killed received a shameful death but even so Telemachus explains to them why such a death is chosen for them as if he tries to excuse it. Meanwhile, there is not any hint of apologism when it comes to the gruesome amputation and murder of the male traitor. It seems it was viewed as more dubious for a man to kill a woman, whereas a man killing a man was viewed as a punishment or as a heroic act, depending on the context.

Goddesses are portrayed totally unapologetic; they clearly have the freedom to do morally questionable deeds without being judged by the mortals’ standards.

One very interesting detail is that when men converse with women, which happens a LOT in the Odyssey and not just between married couples, men often refer to gods as husbands of goddesses. For example, when Odysseus talks to Nausicaa or Penelope, he addresses Zeus as “Hera’s Zeus”. This is clearly a subtle attempt at honouring the woman the man is talking to - it stresses that even a god belongs to a goddess, even the father of all gods, is Hera’s man. This is not to question Zeus’ leadership among the gods or portray males as possessions of females but it is a way to respect the woman opposite them by acknowledging their own influence and importance. “Even Zeus is Hera’s Zeus, therefore I have the highest regard for you, my lady.” I believe this was the spirit and I thought it was a wonderfully subtle way to show regard for a woman.

Love, lust and sex

What I found the most interesting regarding romantic relationships is the impression I got that emotional connection and respect seemed to be more telling of someone’s devotion than physical intimacy. It seems that married men could get away with having sex with slave girls (not free women) as long as they did not sleep in the same bed or maintain a deeper emotional relationship with them. For Helen, it seems it was worse that she followed Paris away rather than that her being with him included having sex together. There is also totally the concept of casual sex of which goddesses seem to have a good understanding. Mortal women on the other hand can openly voice their sexual desire and take the initiative to have and enjoy sex but only when it is with their husband, but they are sometimes depicted to have willingly casual relationships (Odysseus’ working girls with the suitors), which is however a choice that is fatally punished by the master once he returns. However, it wasn’t so much the act of casual sex they got executed for but more so that it was with the suitors who were exploiting Odysseus’ riches and loved ones. There is a distinction in the Odyssey between women who eagerly entered sexual relationships with the suitors and others who were raped by them. I don’t claim it was entirely clear but to my understanding, the latter welcome Odysseus back and are not punished. Another interesting fact is that although Penelope is admired for her loyalty to Odysseus, she was not in fact socially obligated to grieve him for so long. Telemachus himself declares he is happy his mother is so loyal to her husband, however he would also be okay with her marrying somebody once he became of age. (It would also be convenient as the suitors would finally leave him alone.) Both Telemachus and the suitors repeatedly leave it to Penelope herself to pick whomever she fancies best, with the optional advice of her father. There is a small part that suggests some people would still gossip negatively if she took a new husband, however it was clearly totally acceptable for her to do so. Just like Penelope, Nausicaa, a maiden, is always concerned about what people will think, however when alone with Odysseus or her maids, she makes her attraction to him discreetly clear. I also found the men’s approach to love and sex very interesting. Men are depicted equally as capable of sexual desire, abstinence, indifference or even being sexually coerced. By the standards of the era, Odysseus is really as loyal to Penelope as she is to him, given that his infidelity was with two goddesses, one with a notorious love for potions and another who clearly kept him her prisoner.

When he returns to Ithaca, he keeps up a stone-faced fake identity for too long but when he reveals himself, he gradually becomes frustrated with Penelope’s cold and doubtful reception. We are told that apparently Odysseus was very invested in his marriage with Penelope, given the strenuous work he willingly did with his own hands to build and decorate their bedroom. When the couple reunites, Athena literally has to prolong the night for them to just weep together, cuddle, tell their sufferings (and have sex) enough. It just gives us a picture of a mutually respectful marriage where the wife is just as invaluable to the husband. Men are also depicted to have shame for their nudity, which is something that might seem surprising given the classical obsession with the body. Odysseus feels it is shameful, vulnerable and inappropriate to be seen, touched or washed by female servants, especially when he is significantly older than them. He also feels embarrassed for his looks under the female eyes. Lastly, in the Homeric epics women are ultimately the object of men’s desire. There is actually no mention of homosexual attraction. The only questionable moment, on which the entirety of the later speculations were founded, is when Achilles has a dream of deceased Patroclus and he express his wish to die and be buried together. Other than that, having sexual desire is exclusively expressed for women or, interestingly, by women in these two epics.

Other types of love such as friendships and familial relationships are full of vulnerability and expression as well. Men, fathers, sons, friends hug, cry and narrate their misfortunes openly and vulnerably. Grown men are still recipients of beautiful kind words as Thetis does with Achilles and as Penelope and even the swineherd Eumaeus, who operates as a paternal figure, do with Telemachus (both call him “sweet light”). (As a sidenote, it is clearly viewed as the right thing for a noble person to be close, caring and accessible to his servants and slaves.) Arete and Alcinous also treasure their daughter Nausicaa.

The most moving part of all, Odyssey might be the first text noting the literally undying love, devotion and wisdom of dogs. While Odysseus at the moment is in disguise and can’t show much affection or then grieve his dog Argos, it is clear that Homer wouldn’t bother adding that part if the Greek people hadn’t already started forming loving bonds with pets.

Stools

Boy they loved stools.

Conclusion

If there is any accuracy in Homer’s epics, then the late Homeric / early Archaic society was a society that generally tried to be peaceful and always measured the profit and cost from a war expedition but the equilibrium was really fragile and very often disturbed. People were religious, opinionated, argumentative, talkative and temperamental but they also valued loyalty, honour, hospitality, patience and bravery. They loved dearly and were fearlessly expressive, however they were also quick to anger and suspicion. It was a very patriarchal society, however women had their own way of being respected and reckoned. Sexual desire was seen as natural and expected in both sexes, however there were limitations to how upfront or open it could be in its expression. These limitations affected both women and men, but to different degrees or ways.

BONUS!

An examination of similarities and differences between this society and later / current stages of Greek society:

Some obvious similarities are that Greeks have indeed always been temperamental with considerable mood swings and a tendency for suspicion. There are hints of cryptical behaviour in the epics though and I would say that later and current Greeks are also notable for this (contrary to popular belief). Modern Greeks are less capable of objectivity or seeing the virtues of an enemy. The double, often contradictory approach to sex, where promiscuity and modesty collide, are an eternal trait of the Greek people. While it might be on the lower end of the western world spectrum on the matter, it is needless to say the woman’s status in the society has improved hugely. However, there is this common pattern that historically Greek women were often able to be much more influential or assertive than the laws or the “norms” expected them to be. Greeks have always loved their families fiercely. The next might come as a surprise but I firmly believe modern Christian Greeks are much less GENUINELY religious than Homeric and Archaic pagan Greeks were. Later Greeks (probably starting since late classical period and ever since) do not attribute nowhere near as much of their achievements and failures to a deity. The Greek approach to Christianity however is similar in the sense that there is an expectation of an immediate godly payback involved just like ancient people expected the favour of the gods with their sacrifices or appropriate behaviour. As time passed, Greeks became distinctly less and less interested in war and fights, despite always remaining argumentative. Modern Greece is a genuinely peaceful society that avoids confrontation but has some basic standards of good defensive preparation in case of bad need, while the ancient society was violating its own boundaries of peace very often and much more readily.

[mrwavellswaps]

Wavell Bios!

Note: mild spoilers in the post for events that happen throughout the Wavell storyline. This post is subject to changes and updates in the future so I’ll try and keep you all informed if it happens. That may simply be extra details I want to add in most of the time however I’m also planning on adding a full Mr Wavell Timeline in the near future to make it easy to read all the Wavell stories in chronological order. I’ll probably make a post about that when I get around to it but for now enjoy the extra info I’ve given here on the different forms of Mr Wavell!

———

Name - Mr Wavell

Also know as - Wavell, Christopher, Chris, Kyle, Oliver, The Warlock

Origins

Mr Wavell is a being who originated from a universe where magic is the foundation. There are Wizards and Warlock’s all around and he’s one of them. Only he’s a little different. Unlike most magic users he was born with magic capabilities that were god-like. Light years ahead of any other warlock. Because of this he was feared greatly as a child and teen by all that knew of his power. After 18 years worth attempts to keep him locked up, he escaped to another universe by using his immense power to open a dimensional hole. Despite that his original body was still decaying due to not being able to handle his overwhelming magic. It would’ve only been a matter of time before his own power consumed him whether he liked it or not. That is until he stumbled across a body that was perfectly synced with his magic...

Wavell goes slightly more in depth about his past and where he comes from in ‘Mr Wavell - Origin’ and ‘Transforming the Teacher’

Oliver Wavell - Former Body

A body that originally belonged to an middle aged man working as a teacher at a local high school. After feeling a certain connection his magic had to the teacher’s body, the young warlock took the first opportunity he and stole Oliver’s body after absorbing the older man’s soul. After that he decided to let go of his former life and take on the name of Oliver Wavell instead. Now with this new healthy and stable body, Wavell is capable of using his powers to their fullest extent and in theory could even now be immortal. After this Wavell would go on to create a separate pocket dimension for himself which at first was an empty void until he created a huge mansion to sit in said void. A place he would hence forth call his home.

This is the very first version of Mr Wavell readers are introduced to. His existence is first eluded to in the story ‘Toby Wished’ and is formally introduced with a much bigger spotlight in ‘Adam and Mr Wavell’. It’s here you’ll get your first glimpse into who Oliver Wavell is. He’s an incredibly powerful entity who loves inserting himself into the lives of unsuspecting men for the sake of his own entertainment. He tends to seek out men who have some sort of deep seated desire to change in some way and Wavell is happy to bring those desires to life (usually) free of charge. He demonstrates to abilities to effortless transform the bodies and minds of those around while also being able to alter their perceptions of reality. He can even freely move souls from one body to another and so much more. Why? Well when he took the body of Oliver Wavell he adored the sensation of becoming someone totally new. So much so he became obsessed with the idea and would soon find an endless thrill in doing the same to other men.

In this form Wavell can be see wearing business casual attire and tends to come off as polite and somewhat charismatic, traits he absorbed from the original Oliver. He’s very generous towards those he uses his magic on, often giving them a body they’ve always desired. However on the odd occasion his actions of helping on individual may leave another in peril. Once again the first example of this being ‘Adam and Mr Wavell’. This fact doesn’t seem to bother Wavell all that much as he’s more focused and bringing joy and pleasure to his initial chosen target. It is unspecified how much time Wavell spends in this form. One can assume years but given the absorption of Oliver’s mental age and maturity, it’s hard to say for sure.

Sexually this version of Wavell is very versatile. After taking Oliver’s body, Wavell slightly enhanced his cock by making it incredibly fat and girthy while also increasing this size of his ass slightly to make it nice and pert. He thoroughly enjoys gay sex of any kind whether he’s getting fucked or doing the fucking. He just loves cock and ass at the end of the day.

Later down the line however, without spoiling too much, Wavell is convinced by his new boyfriend (who first appears in ‘Transforming the Teacher’) to consider looking for a new body that’s just as in tune with his magic and soul as Oliver’s is. Just in case there may be something out there that’s even more his taste than the beautiful Oliver. Wavell accepts this and eventually finds himself not just one but two new bodies. Chris and Kyle.

Find out more about this in ‘Wavell’s Birthday Surprise’ and ‘A Warlock’s Duality’

Chris Wavell - Current Body (main)

Also known as Christopher. A body that belonged to a man of a similar age to Oliver whose original name was Christopher Malroy. He’s adorns short silver hair that’s always immaculately styled as well as salt and pepper designer stubble. He was the owner of a large and well renowned art museum and was known for both his incredible taste in art and fashion. After it was discovered that he was a match for Wavell, the warlock wasted no time kidnapping Chris and taking him back to the mansion where he, alongside Kyle (more info below) were both absorbed by Wavell in a splendid display. After this, Wavell has access to both bodies. He could effortlessly transform into either Chris or Kyle at will.

As Chris he almost completely adopts the attitude of the man whose body he’d taken. This comes with many of the traits he had as Oliver only further amplified. He speaks and thinks in a very intelligent and calculated manner the majority of the time while also exuding an almost irresistible level of charisma that could charm almost anybody. This goes well with his exceptional patience and willingness to do things in very meticulous fashion. He’s confident and driven but also has begun to develop a bit of a superiority complex due to how air headed the original Chris could be. This frequently leads this version of Wavell to believe that he’s simply above those around him and doesn’t often think of the people he experiments on as anything besides his playthings. He will however try his best to come off as humble and caring to hide his true nature a little and will fake caring about his subjects more than his actually does. All that said however he does still have a very real and genuine love for his boyfriend that isn’t dampened by his feelings superiority even if he does occasionally think of his boyfriend to be lucky for having him.

It also becomes very apparent that Wavell seems to adopt Chris’ sense of style whenever he’s using this form. Chris was a man of very expensive taste so in turn Wavell became the same. Always wanting to wear most designer looking clothes that are perfectly tailored to his body shape no matter the occasion. Either that or gorgeous looking and perfectly fitted suits that make him stand out in a crowd. When he’s not out changing unsuspecting men for fun he can frequently be found roaming the streets in some of his most fancy clothings just so people can admire him. His newfound sense of narcissism that came with the body seems to enjoy it when strangers on the street check him out and compliment him on his looks and fashion sense. He deserved it after all. It’s also worth noting that Wavell decided to grow out Chris’ stubble in this form in favour of a short and well groomed beard that he takes a lot of pride in.

As a lover this version of Wavell can be far more dominant than his previous self. When having sex with his boyfriend Dane he insists on being the top about 80% of the time because he loves to be in control and to feel as though he’s superior sexually as he shoves his cock inside the other man. However it isn’t too uncommon for Dane to convince this version of Wavell to bottom for him from time to time. The two do also have sex outside their relationship with other men and in these cases Wavell almost never bottoms. In almost every case outside of Dane, Chris Wavell is the one getting his dick sucked or slamming it into another guy. However there may be an extremely rare occasion here and there where he might consider bottoming for the right guy.

Between the two forms that Wavell gains from Chris and Kyle, he tends to be seen more often using Chris as his main body. He feels as though Chris is a slightly closer representation of who he truly is.

Kyle Wavell - Current Body (casual)

Unlike the other bodies Wavell has taken host to, this body is much younger. Only being around 27 years old as opposed to Chris and Oliver who were both in their 40’s before being taken over by Wavell. The original owner was Kyle Malroy, a passionate IFBB Pro who spent half his life in the gym trying to get as huge as possible. A goal he was certainly achieving with how gigantic he’d gotten over the years. Just like Chris however it was soon discovered that Kyle was in fact another match for the powerful warlock. And just like Chris he too was kidnapped by Wavell where he was taken back to the mansion and absorbed alongside Chris.

As previously mentioned Wavell can switch freely between looking like Chris or Kyle but when he does so his personality changes dramatically to fit whichever form he’s deciding to use. When he becomes Kyle, Wavell adopts more of a bro-like attitude that’s far less formal than his previously mentioned forms. Even though deep down he’s still very intelligent, he can’t help acting like a total meathead half the time. Despite this he doesn’t lose an inch of his charisma and is able to charm people just as easily as Chris. However, partly due to his more youthful personality, Kyle Wavell can often be very impulsive, brash and impatient. This can sometimes lead to him going a little overboard with his experiments or making small mistakes when casting spells that can leave unintended results. This is demonstrated very clearly for the first time in ‘The Homo Bomb’ series. He is however just as confident as ever in this form but doesn’t have quite as much of a superiority complex as Chris does and frequently enjoys being seen as a normal dude when he’s out and about. He may also come off as a little more playful and/or immature than Chris at times.

It’s most common to find this version of Wavell wearing some kind of gym attire such as shorts, joggers, a tank top, a tight fitted t-shirt or anything else perfect for working out in. This is partially for comfort as unlike his other forms he does like to wear fancy or formal clothing and partially due to him spending a ridiculous amount of time working out in this body. It isn’t even something he has to do as his magic can prevent his muscle from getting any smaller but he still gets this burning desire to lift that he just can’t ignore whether it be in the home gym he contrasted in the mansion or out in a real world gym. He enjoys going to real world gyms a lot of the time however because he just can’t help showing off his massive bulging muscles in this form. He’s just as much of a narcissist for his good looks in this form as he is when he’s Chris only he’s a lot less subtle about it when he’s Kyle. Always flexing his gargantuan biceps in the gym for all to see. Taking off his tank top mid workout so those around him could admire his perfect physique. Bouncing his pecs with giving a wink to anyone that stops to look. Total fucking meathead.

Like his other variations, Kyle Wavell loves sex and he can be a total muscle slut when it comes down to it. He’s more like Oliver in the sense that he’s completely versatile. A big hunky himbo that just loves to fuck. His narcissism does seep through a little however when he’s constantly showing off during sex and telling whoever he’s fucking to grope and admire his muscles both before, during and after sex. Being told he’s a hulking muscle god gets him going like nothing else. He loves slamming his thick cock into any hot hole he can find, especially Dane’s, just as much as he loves tempting another cock into jackhammering his own big muscle butt. Because he knows they can’t resist him.

As mentioned Wavell doesn’t use Kyle as frequently as he does Chris. He views Kyle as being more of an escape to his usual self. A way to break free and be something a little different. To really enjoy embodying the idea of being young, dumb and full of cum. Especially considering his Chris form is so much more mature. It’s just nice for Wavell to switch to a more youthful and much beefier body from time to time where he can let himself be a little more relaxed.

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[actual-bill-potts]

Talking with the Hobbits who had come to live on Tol Eressëa, Finrod found, was often a delight, always interesting, occasionally discomfiting.

Take for instance his fairly mild assertion that the noble cabbage, as a vegetable, could be improved upon. He was met with twin glares so fierce he was surprised he didn’t burn to ash then and there, and had to surreptitiously check his hair for burnt ends. Then he was plied with recipes that prominently featured cabbage, and not allowed to speak on any other subject until he had meekly promised to try at least five separate dishes which the Hobbits promised to prepare with their own hands.

So he had that to look forward to.

But they were very wise in the way mortals were wise, practiced in the art of letting go, embracing the joy of impermanence. Sitting with them, hearing the histories and legends of their people, was a rare pleasure; and hearing the tales of his own people from their mouths brought new meaning to the old, old words. The Tale of Fingon and Maedhros, for instance, was not tainted for them by knowledge of future horrors. It was simply a love story. Bilbo had written a poem about it; and when he recited it in his quavering voice, Finrod was moved to tears twice over: in admiration for a love that had - however briefly - conquered all evil, and for his cousins who had been so long dead.

When Bilbo came to the end of the poem, Frodo let out a long sigh. “I love that story,” he said in his light high voice. “It was my favorite when I was a tween.”

Bilbo looked at him in surprise. “It was? You never mentioned.”

A tinge of color touched Frodo’s cheeks. “No, well, I suppose I wouldn’t have at that,” he said. “It took several years after I had passed my majority for me to admit why I loved the story so much - and by then you were off in Rivendell, bothering Elrond with your impudent poetry no doubt!”

“Impudent!” said Bilbo laughing. “Well, perhaps; but he never said a word about it. That was all his stuffy advisors; and Estel of course - but he teased me for everything. Talk of impudence! I could not remark on the sun’s rising but he must say his piece about how Hobbits are so near the ground they must see the dawn well before Men and Elves, or some such rot.”

Finrod joined them in laughter. “Who was Estel?” he asked curiously. “He sounds very like Elros. For all his majesty, he could not resist offering me a step-stool whenever I greeted him, that I might look him in the eye - and I was a mere hand-span shorter than him! He took far too much delight in being taller than an Elda.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You’re more right than you know, lad; Estel is none other than Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, your - I suppose he would be grand-nephew-in-law? - and King of Gondor and Arnor in Middle-earth.”

“Really?” Finrod said in surprise. “Why was he called Estel?”

Bilbo blinked. “Has Elrond not told you?”

“I doubt Elrond has wished to speak of those days much, while the grief is so near,” Frodo said gently.

Bilbo nodded. “True enough; well then, I will tell the story,” and he told the tale of how Arathorn son of Arador had been cruelly slain when his son Aragorn was yet young, and all that followed. Some of it Finrod had heard from Elrond, and others who had come from Rivendell; but other parts of the story, such as Gilraen’s words to Elrond, were new and moved him greatly.

“High is the valor of the Edain!” he said when Bilbo had finished speaking. “They have proven it in every Age; and the Edenith no less than the Edain.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo dryly, “there are many poems to that effect, I believe. I have even composed one myself - if you count Eärendil as a Man, of course. Accounts differ.” He turned to Frodo. “But you, my lad, have not yet explained why you loved the Tale of Fingon and Maedhros so much!”

Frodo met his eyes. “Can you not guess, Uncle?”

Bilbo held his gaze for a moment; then he chuckled. “I suppose I can, at that! What a very eligible bachelor you were, for far too many years. Ah, I am sorry, Nephew.”

Frodo laughed; then sighed. “No need to apologize! How were you to know, when I did not see it myself for so long? In any case, it would not have made a difference. The Ring took all of that from me. Perhaps it was better that I was not encouraged -” he stopped. “Well! Never mind.” He looked over at Finrod. “I am sorry, Zir; we are getting into personal matters. I will leave off the reminiscing, and we will talk of happier things.”

(That was another thing that delighted Finrod about the Hobbits: they had given him another name! They called him Zir, the Wise - or so he was assured - in their own tongue. “We cannot let the Men and Dwarves get ahead of us,” Bilbo had said, upon being introduced to Finrod, “may I call you Zir? That way you can complete the set, and be called wise in every tongue.”

“Besides, he is at least twice the size of our Samwise,” Frodo had added, laughing; and although Finrod did not quite understand the connection between Samwise and Zir he was too delighted by the name to inquire further.)

But his friend was not laughing now. Finrod said gently, “You need not, if your heart is troubled. I am happy to listen.”

“Well - perhaps not now,” Frodo said, glancing slightly at his uncle; and Finrod nodded. He did not wish to grieve the old Hobbit; and he turned the conversation down happier paths with the ease of one who had once sat between Elu Thingol and Angrod at table.

But later, when he was getting up to leave, he looked into Frodo’s eyes which were so sad and tired for all their wisdom, and said on impulse, “Frodo, would you like to look at the stars with me for awhile? And Bilbo too, of course,” he added, for politeness’ sake; but Bilbo looked at the both of them from under his white brows and said, “I am too old for such Elvish nonsense! You go on, and I shall stay beside my cozy fire,” and if his eyes were full of rue they were also laughing in the way of mortals.

Finrod offered his arm to Frodo; and they went out through the little gate and settled upon a bench. Frodo tipped his head back and gazed at the Valacirca, face solemn. There were not yet many threads of silver in his hair; but the stars caught the edges of his curls and crowned him with such light that he could have been silhouetted against the vessel of Tilion.

Finrod sat quietly beside him, feeling the stars kiss his own forehead; and after a moment Frodo spoke.

“I have come into the uttermost West,” he said, “and I have been healed in body; but not even the Valar can remove the touch of the Shadow.”

“Yes,” said Finrod sadly. “If they could, much evil might have been undone.”

“Or not!” Frodo said. “Perhaps greater evil might have come from such absolute power. Or so I tell myself, anyway.”

Finrod nodded; then he asked, “Was it frowned upon, to be - as you were - in your homeland?”

Frodo laughed a little. “To look upon lads with desire, rather than lasses? It was not frowned upon, exactly; but it was not mentioned in polite company either. I was considered strange enough already without adding to my list of peculiarities!”

Puzzled, Finrod asked, “Why should you be considered strange?”

Frodo looked at him, seeming a little bemused. “You do not hesitate to place your finger on the center of a sore, do you?”

“I am sorry!” Finrod exclaimed. “I have been scolded for that since before the Sun rose; and yet I continue to - “ he paused - “put my nose where it is not wanted, as I am told they say in the Shire.”

Frodo chuckled. “It is quite alright! I was mostly teasing you; you are extraordinarily blunt for one of the Eldar.”

“I am told it is very charming,” said Finrod, hoping it was true.

“Well - perhaps! But anyway, you might as well ask why I was not considered odd; the list would be shorter. I was an orphan, and raised mostly by the Brandybucks - who are quite the wild family - and then by Bilbo, who was an eccentric old bachelor who loved to tell stories and was rumored to have bags upon bags of gold in his hobbit-hole.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Finrod said sincerely. “It is difficult to lose a parent.”

“Thank you!” said Frodo. “I miss them every day, though I have not seen them since I was a faunt; my mother loved poetry, though she did not often write it, and my father loved to listen to her - or so I am told…but I am losing the thread. Scholars and scribes are not looked upon with particular favor in the Shire; and I was both! Besides which, I went on far too many walks, and did not eat enough, and was rather sickly as a child.”

Finrod blinked at the list. “Your homeland sounds a bit peculiar,” he remarked.

“Peculiar you might say; close-minded is another word,” said Frodo, “or simple, even. But I loved it all the same.”

“I can understand that,” said Finrod, thinking of the foolish Elves who had once dueled in the streets of Tirion in the days before the Darkening, and how he had mourned its shining walls and soaring towers for so long.

“Sauron got his hands on it before the end,” Frodo continued, “or rather Saruman did; and much of its innocence is gone, and with it a great deal of the prejudice that has long plagued it. I am - not sure I prefer it so. I had rather be laughed at, than treated so gravely; muttered about than reverenced; particularly so when I did not do much to deserve it.”

“Did you not?” said Finrod, thinking of a laita te, laita te at the end of Frodo of the Nine Fingers - for Galadriel had given him the music at once.

“I bore the Ring of Sauron,” said Frodo, “for eighteen years. Perhaps the greatest claim to heroics I have is that for seventeen of those years, while the Ring only stirred in its sleep, I behaved - decently. But the Lay does not sing of that!” He sighed. “It was wholly evil. It sought only to dominate, to grasp and whatever it might lay hands on. My hands. I thought - for so long, I thought - I am terribly depraved, I am wicked, I must be careful - I could not see a lovely lad, or even a lass, without wanting to devour them whole, I could not catch the glint of coin without thinking that ought to be mine: and I did not give in, but the evil seeped in anyway. So you see I did not really win.”

“I don’t see how you didn’t,” said Finrod; but only half his mind was on his words. The rest was thinking, in horrified fascination, of what it must have been to hold Sauron’s soul close for seventeen years. How had Frodo not gone mad?

Frodo must have seen some of what passed in his thought, for he said, “My - friends were always there. They lifted me up; reminded me what it was to laugh. Without them I would have been lost. Merry, and Pippin, and above all Sam.”

Finrod was silent; and after a moment Frodo continued, “It was almost a relief, when I was stabbed upon Weathertop; for I felt the chill of Sauron’s hand on me and it was familiar. The evil had not come from me, after all - or at least not wholly.

“And yet, with all this experience - wise by experience, my name means - I looked upon the Ring of Sauron, there in the wasteland that was Mordor, and I desired it. I still do; and its shadow lies upon my heart. I lost so utterly that there could be no recovery. Yet it is of this moment that the bards sing.”

Finrod said, “I know a little of having one’s greatest failure memorialized in song; but I cannot see failure in your actions. It seems to me,” he continued, “that a great violation was visited upon you, and that despite this terrible wound you traveled to the Dread Lands; and that by daring to set your strength against an Enemy who could have crushed you with a thought you won the freedom of all peoples. No Fingolfin are you, with mighty Ringil! Yet you came to the Black Gates nonetheless.”

He was a little in awe. Seventeen years! Of course Sauron had not been at his full strength then; but Finrod had spent only a month in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and he had been weary and sick at heart when he arrived in the Halls. And Sauron had not brought his full strength to bear against him anyway, after that one moment when their Songs clashed and Sauron’s had proven the greater.

Frodo had looked up sharply when Finrod began to speak. He said, “A failure! You would consider your part in the Lay of Leithian a failure?”

“My part,” said Finrod, observing the Lay with an academic eye, “narratively speaking, is to represent someone who died in chains. A fine contrast to Beren and Lúthien, no doubt!”

“You broke your chains,” Frodo pointed out.

“Ah! The shackles of immortality; those are what remained. It is even mentioned in the Lay, I believe; Finrod walks with his father Finarfin…well, I do! I cannot deny it! And in doing so, I am the anti-Lúthien: the one who did not break his chains after all.”

“Is that how you interpret it?” Frodo exclaimed. His academic nature was clearly getting the better of him. “I have always thought that you were free, at the end: free of your Oath, and the literal chains that bound you.” Then he blushed. “I am sorry! It is easy to forget that the Lay is not only a legend! It is not right to speak so.”

Finrod was slightly amused, and deeply touched. “That is very kind of you! But I do not mind it; King Felagund, who lived under the hills, is long gone. He belongs to the singers and the poets. I remember my friends Beren and Lúthien, who were young and kind; and I am glad they are loved by so many.”

“That is very strange to me!” Frodo said, “I cannot quite regard my own Lay with that kind of detached interest.”

“Yours was not written two Ages ago,” said Finrod, thinking of the first time he had heard Release from Bondage. It had - hurt. He had been glad for the chance to accord Beren and Lúthien honor; but would have happily cut himself out of the song altogether.

He grew serious. “But it was a failure. If you wish to see what true failure looks like, Cormacolindo, look to the Lay! My people rejected me; then I set my strength against Gorthaur, there in the tower I had built, and lost; if I broke free, it was too late to save any but Beren; and I - I died with my hands yet bound.”

Frodo’s face was filled with compassion; and his gaze was far away. “Sauron’s strength is great,” he whispered, “and his will is all in dominion.” Then he seemed to come back to himself. “You know,” he said, meeting Finrod’s gaze now, “I thought of you often in the Black Lands. I did not know you, of course; but I thought of the golden Elven-king who had battled Sauron and fell. It was a - comfort, of sorts. If I fell to the Ring at last, I would be in illustrious company. And then I did; it took me, body and soul.”

Finrod felt something approaching rage fill him at the thought of Sauron laying a hand on this mortal, who was so frail and small. Then Frodo smiled, seeming to catch the thought. Those bottomless eyes glinted; and as through a glass inverted, Finrod saw a strength of will so fierce and indomitable it took his breath away. Defeated this one had been at the last; but he had not come to the fight unarmed.

Frodo looked away, up to the stars again. “I still long for it,” he said quietly. “I gave up the world for it once, and I know in my heart that if it were before me again my hand would reach out, whether by my will or no. The Shadow is on me.”

“That may be,” said Finrod, “but it was not your fault that you were - violated in such a way. I know a little of such,” he added very softly.

Frodo shrugged. “My fault or no, I will carry it until I die. But the burden is perhaps lighter shared.” 

His eyes were tired; they reflected the stars. He smiled suddenly. “I thank you, you who have been named Nóm by Men, Angolodh by Elves, Zir by Hobbits! My heart becomes merry in your company.”

“I am glad,” said Finrod, “for mine is certainly in yours! I am told this is a common side effect of Hobbits!”

Frodo laughed. “Gandalf did not tell you that, surely? He is of the opinion that we are the primary cause of head-aches in Middle-earth, I believe.”

“No,” said Finrod smiling, “it was Elrond. He is quite fond of you.”

“He is quite fond of Bilbo, you mean,” said Frodo. “I cannot imagine why!”

“Can you not?” said Finrod, amused. “Elrond is quite fond of ingrates, I have noticed.”

Frodo swung around in shock, grinning. “Why, Zir, that was quite unkind of you! An insult worthy of a Hobbit Common-room! I had not imagined you had it in you.”

“I am full of surprises,” said Finrod. “You ought to invite me over for tea more often.”

“I think I will!” said Frodo. He rose slowly. “And now I think I had better get to bed. The stars cannot sustain me as they do you - to my everlasting regret!”

Hobbit and Elf parted at the gate, Frodo to bed and Finrod to the winding path down the hill. He took the path to the shoreline, seeing as he did so the light of Eärendil shining upon the ocean.

He was singing as he walked.