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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Petal

college!sebastian stan x reader

masterlist

Summary; Your boyfriend Sebastian has been spending much time studying, hardly sparing himself a break. Finally, he sees the pros of taking one

Warnings; smut, oral sex (male and female receiving), penetrative sex, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, fluff

divider by @firefly-graphics

Sebastian was to be home any minute, he had been prolifically stressed from his classes regarding his law certification, and you had decided to exhibit him a well deserved distraction that would surely take his wired brain off from the course that was practically running through his veins at this point.

It seemed that at every waking moment, he was doing something to aid his studies, and whilst that was great that he was so dedicated to passing for this insane qualification, he did need to take breaks here and there. He wasn't the only one suffering from his late nights, and his resurrection from slumber at the crack of dawn, no. You were too, you missed him, despite being in the same apartment and room as him for the majority of his spare time.

He acted as though he had no time to spare, but you were well acquainted with his schedule, especially by now. The only difference was, that he had no occupation for a moment to relax with you, or by himself. His showers took five minutes every morning and evening, it was as though he were rushing to clean himself so that he could proceed to go back to putting his nose in a book, or searching specifics online.

But tonight, you were going to cut him off. If he didn't endure a moment of mindlessness, then you were sure to go mad yourself. You were keening for his touch, all you had received in the past few weeks were chaste kisses on both your lips and forehead, as well as verbalised 'I love you's. Perhaps it was selfish, he was striving towards a great achievement in his life, and you wanted a little bit of attention, but you knew he was holding himself from any relief also.

From the minimal time that he spent under the cold stream of the showerhead, he didn't have enough time to rub one out, and there was no fear that you had of him seeing another woman. Sebastian was not like that at all, and you had the clarity of him being in the kitchen half the time, typing away on his laptop, as he ran over some old notes and updated them.

Currently, he was out, he was in his lecture. There was a span of fifteen minutes from the time that he would be on the walk home, and you knew that was exactly how long that took in your shared student apartment, because you too endured your studies. But once more, your own were pushed to the side as you speculated your appearance in the silver tapestry of your mirror.

Your hand steadied on your right hip as you posed in front of it, twisting your waist to find the most attractive angle for you in your new wear. The underwear was tight, and not to mention, completely sheer. It's see through nature made wearing it practically pointless, but considering his current frustrations, it was only fair to give something to rip off of you.

Truthfully, you had to admit, you looked damned good. There was no way he would choose studying law over ravishing your body, a spark jolted through your body as the door behind you opened, and with a seductive bite to your lip, you turned around, only to scream and cover your body with your hands, or at least to the best of your ability. "Holy fuck, don't you know how to knock?!"

"I didn't think I'd have to because your human dildo isn't here!" Anthony defended himself, having turned around, as the image of you, one of his best friends, practically in the nude, burned behind his eye balls. The fact that he had seen you made you feel sick, this was not how you had intended the afternoon to go.

"Is there a reason that you burst into my room looking for me Mackie?" The question was indeed one that you wanted to know the answer to, you still felt so exposed, although he was not looking at you. That was certainly something that you were going to avoid telling Seb, that would definitely be a big distraction from his work.

And of course, alongside that, he would have an intent to possibly murder your flat mate, and whilst Chris would be laughing at that, there would be a heavy hotness to your face, as you watched them immaturely battle. Anthony cleared his throat thoroughly, directing towards the face that he was about to speak.

"Definitely not to see you like that." Retorted the math major, shrugging the shiver off his shiver as the memory tormented him once more. "But... me and Chris were going to meet with Scarlett, Takia and Brie, we were going to see if you and Seabass wanted to join, but as I saw against my own will, you have something already planned for your dinner."

“Um yeah, no, we’ll pass. Thanks tho buddy.” Oh god, to say you felt awkward was an understatement. If you were wearing clothes, or at least more socially appropriate ones, you’d go to him and give him a typical punch on the shoulder. Though, if you were clothed more body wear, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Only things like this happened in college flats, that was one thing that could be confirmed.

“Okay then. Good to know...” Anthony closed the door and proceeded to enter the kitchen. He went grab himself an apple, and realised then that it was an unfortunate consequence, but he had lost his appetite. There had been nothing wrong with your appearance - nothing at all - but you were his flat mate and friend! And, you had a boyfriend, whom was also a great reference of social interaction for him.

The sound of keys interlocking with the outside of the door echoed through the kitchen, someone was outside, and he’d be write in assuming that it was Sebastian. Chris was presently occupied by scouring the internet for ways to surprise the girl he was currently hanging with, and honestly by that, Anthony was scared to enter his room.

It could have been anything that he was searching, but to his contrasting luck, the last resident of their flat entered, creases firm on his brow, from thinking too hard. Sebastian was mulling over the lecture that his professor had given his class. Remember to take a break every now and then. Maybe he was right, a break couldn't postpone him from graduating him that much, could it.

Perhaps he was putting it all off, because after receiving his degree, the four of you would have to find somewhere else to live, and a part of Seb was inclined to ask you individually to move in with him. A one bedroom apartment would be cheaper than one with three rooms, and atop of that, he wouldn't have to be cautious of minor things like walking around the flat in little to no clothing, or fucking you on the kitchen counter.

They were all coupley things that he had wishes to do, but because there were another two men residing with you and him, albeit them being your friends, he didn't allow you to do so in anything less than one of his shirts that cascaded down your thighs, so that if you weren't wearing panties, everything would be concealed. Anthony gulped, remembering he had seen you in your surprise for this man, and gosh, did he want to keep quiet about his accidental peek.

Sebastian wasn’t the jealous type, it was rather refreshing how he found that to be an unappealing trait, however, it would still not settle well that someone saw his girl, in a compromising choice of wear that was supposed to be for his eyes only. He would surely make it clear that you were his, and thus the fucking in the kitchen that he dreamt about would be more than likely to unfold, as he rammed you against the cupboards, caring not if guests were due.

“Hey.” It was a breath of fresh air to speak to someone who was not on his course, it was as though he had become estranged from the people closest to him during this part of the term. Thus a striking pang of guilt landed in his chest as he wondered how you must have felt. He hadn’t touched you in any intimate sense in weeks, it certainly felt like years.

That truth gave him no pride, he dropped his items on the counter, planning on returning to them after he had tended to greeting you. A long kiss sounded nice, strung by a chord of untwined tongues that groomed the insides of your mouth, as you reciprocated. If he was very generous to himself, he’d perhaps lay down for a moment, and allow his pianist hands to wander for more than a moment, stroking them up and down your thighs, until he gave supple attention to your sweet delicacy, dipping down to kiss it and run his fingers over the beautiful gates that only he was allowed to surpass through.

Anthony muffled a reply to him, before shuffling out the room, casting him a weird side eye, but Sebastian thought little of it as his mind was preoccupied with something other than his studies. Oh, and how he didn't mind. The mental image of your nude portrait blessing his eyes was enough motivation to have him striding at a fast, yet considerable pace, towards the door to your shared bedroom.

He knew you must have been inside, he saw your lanyard hanging on the coat rack, that was literally a makeshift piece of wood that you had drunkenly returned with one night, along with a very much intoxicated Paul Rudd. There had been construction nearby, and you thought that it was possible to turned the sharp edged plank with nails sticking out as a bedframe. Least to say, Sebastian did not allow that to happen, knowing that one morning, you would end up spiking your scalp against one of the rusted nails.

People had gotten hurt by it from where it was already, there was that time that Tessa had tried to lean on it for a photo, that in retrospect was an applicant towards your photography course, but that didn't end well, you were pretty sure there was still a streak of her blood stained into one side. That may have been why Chris had turned its weight around after that. However, none of you had the money to spare to invest in a real rack, so for now it stayed.

It sure as hell wasn't coming with you guys when you moved out, that was one thing that Sebastian was going to ensure. If Anthony wanted it, then so be it, if all went to plan, the pair of you wouldn't be living with the lovable goof when the time came. Turning the knob to the room, Sebastian heard a gasp, and thus after he shut it, he saw you wrapped up in your robe, your head cocked to the side as you seductively tried to settle on your small double bed.

"You made me jump Sebba." No, he could tell that you had been taking a short nap, as though you had wanted to forget some details from your day. And that you did, and you hoped that Anthony did as well. "Have you got much work to do bubs?" You raised yourself on your elbows and shuffled towards him as he came to sit on the side of the mattress.

"Think I'm going to take a short hiatus from it for a few hours." Now that certainly sounded pleasant, you hummed at his words, stroking his shoulder, as you pressed a kiss to his hand that moved cup your cheek. "Have I been neglecting my little petal?" It was a name he used whenever he was seeking forgiveness, but this time, you shook your head, frowning, as you settled a small smile on your face.

"You've been understandably busy, I get that. I'm not going to go as far as to use that word babes, you've just had a little time to yourself and your schoolwork, and that is fine." He tapped your chin, cocking his head to the side, inviting you to straddle his lap. You'd have been stupid if you refused after all the time that you had spent mentally apart from him, so without another hint, you clambered over his thighs, a giddy expression corrupting your face.

"This is why I love you. So open minded, and not to mention, that mind of yours has had me doing some thinking." Nodding in a current to prompt him to continue, his hands eased their lodging onto your bare thighs, stroking the skin with large soothing swipes, making any hair on your body stand on edge, as he averted his eyesight to the split of your gown that crisscrossed around your chest. It wasn't a sexual focus however, it was more so as though he feared a rejection of one kind.

"Hope you're not gonna propose us having a kid or something, because now is certainly not the time." At your humour, he sincerely laughed, causing a calm to wash over you and him, as he finally looked you in the face. “Unless you mean buying a plant, our last one died, and now you use the old pot to stub out your blunts." You could see the improvisational container as you turned your head to the side, seeing its white exterior be a gradient of light to shielded grey.

"I want you to move in with me." Sebastian responded straightly, bracing his slightly nervous palms to the divot of your waist, as he grasped the skin below your ribs, swirling the pads of his thumbs across your skin, caressing each nimble pore on that part of your body. His breath captured the side of your neck, as he licked a sweet line across a vein that he specifically picked out using his

"We already live together silly. Unless we're gonna move to mars." As you spoke, your brows optimistically raised, as your forearms found a home around the back of his neck, as you pressed tentative kisses to his clean jaw. A series of giggles evicted from you as you darted your tongue out to taste his sharp skin, your hand slipping down to control his own, trailing his touch beneath your gown so that the tips of his fingers were brushing the mesh of your underwear that was poised in a curve upon your hipbone.

"As much as the space nerd in me would love that, and not to mention you would make one foxy astronaut, I meant, after this, and here, we find a place for just you and me. I get if you don’t-“ you pressed your left forefinger to his lips, humming with a smile as he shared a gentle kiss upon your skin. He took the digit into his mouth, sucking the skin and swirling his tongue around the crescent of your nail.

“That sounds... perfect.” Ushering your finger from out past his lips, and the barrier of his nipping teeth, you languidly stroked his bottom lip, spreading the small extent of saliva that had coated your finger. “I’m so happy you’re taking a break Sebba, you deserve it. There’s something I want to show you baby, I know you’re going to like it.”

“Is it under this robe by any chance?” Obliging his answer with a supporting action, you allowed his hands to remain beneath the sleek material, as you untied the thick strand that tied the two sides together around your body. Pushing the dark silk from your shoulders, you revealed the design of petals that prompted through the thin material of your undergarments, everything exposed through the sultry and intimate pieces.

“Do you like it?” You seemed to have forgotten about Anthony seeing you in the internal wear, and from Sebastian’s honed gazing at your full breasts, your nipples sternly grew hard, telling him without need for word that he was silently turning you on. A sigh escaped from him, as he plucked at the seam of your panties, tugging lightly at the side to drag the material up your slit, grasping a light moan from your intimately affected lungs.

“My lovely petal, like is an understatement. You do all this for me, I don’t think I’m going to know how much this was, especially where we’re supposed to be budgeting.” Seb quirked his unbrushed brow, pressing his lips against the column of your throat, intaking the smell and pungent taste of your floral perfume. “But I’m not going to complain, because seeing you like this is certainly worth a fine penny. Is it ungrateful for me to want it off of you though?”

“Wait.” You instructed him, pressing your tongue into the divot of his chin, swiping a line of saliva through the bone structure. “I think we should get my money’s worth. First, I want to get my fill of your appreciation, and then maybe, maybe then I’ll allow you to discard piece by piece from my skin.” Your dominant hand pressed against his growing bulge as a you slid off his lap, running your nose along his thighs, as you fiddled with the purchase of his jeans, him helping you tug the denim off, and down his thick thighs.

“You’re so good to me.” He leaned back, curling his fists into the sheets, as he watched you enduringly pat him over his boxers, drawing a spot of precum to seep out onto the white cotton. “My beautiful petal, hungry for my cock, you want it, don’t you? Want to suck my hard cock, practically starving for it, ain’t ya?” Profusely nodding, you drooled as he twitched, and pushed down his underwear, revealing his uncut, and growing cock.

“Holy shit.” Escaped you as a breathy conjunction of two words, your palm reaching out to rotate his foreskin in your hand, pushing the layer back gently to reveal his hidden slit. Your tongue darted out over the flushed head, suckling on the sensitive portion, spoiling yourself with the salty taste of his aroused skin. “You have such a pretty cock baby.” Pressing a kiss along the length, you dragged your tongue up his shaft, before returning to the tip, swallowing down his cock in your throat.

“Fuck.” Your boyfriend revelled in the pleasure, one of his hands capturing your hair in its hold, running his fingers through your locks as you bobbed your head. Gargled sounds choked out from your easing throat, as you continued your administrations, making Seb squeeze his eyes shut, as he endured the pleasure that you pledged him with. “Baby...”

You moaned around his cock, your glazed irises peeking up at him, before pulling off, a strand of saliva connecting you to his hung length. “Say it.” Was his demand as his hand pressed the cheeks of your face together, forcing your lips into an exaggerated pout. It was a notion of past experiences that reminded you of what he was speaking of, you blinked your lashes innocently towards him, steadily breathing through your nose as he patiently awaited for you to carry out his order.

“I’m your cockslut.” You mumbled out, spit pooling out of your mouth and rolling down the cleavage of your lips, descending onto your chin, and slipping to be a river down your chest, playing hide and seek in the cups of your sheer bra. “Love your fat cock, and your large balls, and the way your mouth exhibits complete bliss over my pussy.” He tilted your head to the side, as he leaned down, his spare hand reaching behind you to remove your bra, leaving it hanging loosely off from your shoulders.

“How about I eat your cunt, huh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you petal?” A whine slipped from your lips as you shouldered off the floral laced bra, discarding it on the bedroom floor, as you waded your legs about so that you could do the same with the slim lined panties. “Come on then, get up on the bed pretty girl, let me at that pussy.” Doing as he said, you clambered onto the mattress, your front against the sheets as you tried to position yourself. A slap rumbled off your ass cheek, as Sebastian struck down on the globe of fat, straggling a surprised moan from your lips.

It seemed like he wanted you to remain on your stomach, and so you did as he breathed a swab of cool air upon your clenching lips, swiping his tongue from your heavy clit to your soaking entrance. “Sebs, do something, please.” You collapsed your face into the bed, wiggling your ass towards his face, earning yourself another spank to your behind. It stung, but it was a hot heat that granted you a minor bit of relief; it was certainly better than nothing.

And then, his tongue probed at your entrance, test tasting your cunt as his muscle flicked deliriously over your clit, his forefinger prying at your slit, and slipping without struggle inside of your walls, evoking a withering moan to collapse out from your chest. Another digit slunk through your folds, filling your further, as his pace increased, his mouth surrounding your clit, and rolling the bud around with his instigating tongue. “Petal, pass me the lube.”

With a light head, you blindly reached your hand across to on top of his bedside table, locating the bottle with your fiddling hands, tossing it back towards him. A thump indicates that it did not land on the mattress as planned, instead the container of lubricant hit him in the forehead. A frown covered his face as he shook his head, removing his fingers from your folds, as he grasped the bottle, splurging some of the clear and slippery liquid onto his fingertips.

Seb spread it around his fingers, rubbing it onto his skin, as he applied a little onto your tight hole, prying at your puckered entrance with his lubricated digits. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You gently rubbed your face against the sheets as Sebastian entered his fingers into your ass, quickly thrusting them in and out of you. “Feels so good Sebby, shit.” He continued his administrations with a clenched wrist, evicting pleasure upon you as you practically sobbed onto your shared bed. “No, no-“

He removed his fingers, as well as his own shirt that was still covering his chest. Seb clambered off the bed for a moment, locating a condom, as he gave his cock a couple of jerks, rolling the avast protection onto his length, as he positioned himself on his knees behind you. He entered you swiftly, returning his fingers back into your tighter hole, as he began to thrust into both of your entrances. Sounds of pleasure were compelled out from your lungs, as you half screamed his name; there were tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endured wafts pleasure from both intimate angles.

He curled his fingers within you, picking up his pace as his hips profusely clashed against your own. He was chasing a high, whilst simultaneously reducing you to nothing but a racer to your own. “So fucking tight; in both holes.” His teeth clenched as he moaned at the sensation of your walls clenching harshly around him, as he filled the condom with his white and warm seed. He remained inside of you as he brought one hand down to your cunt, playing with your clit, as he sternly thrusted his fingers into your ass.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your peak, cumming around his softened cock, and mewling into your own wrist. Sebastian extracted his tender cock from within you, also removing his fingers, as he swiped off the condom, tying to open side so that no cum would spill out, and then discarding it in the bin. “Shit, I was wanting some attention from you, but I didn’t know I was going to get that.” You laughed lightly, feeling a little hazy and drunk from your numbing orgasm.

In turn, your boyfriend laughed too, grabbing his shirt from off the ground, and lightly pulling you up, helping you into the baggy material. He pressed a sweet kiss upon your forehead as he rolled to be laid beside you, bringing your sweaty body into his matching side, watching through appeased lids at how you curled yourself into him. “I love you darling.”

“I love you too Seb.” You replied, pressing a kiss to his soft nipple, as his arms locked adoringly around you. “And I’m so proud of you for putting your all into your course.” Your nails stroked down his stomach, as the two of you laid upon the sheets, rather than underneath them.

“Of course I would, it’s for our future in the long term of things.” He stated, brushing any loose strands of hair out from your face. “But I guess it’s okay to take a break sometimes. And that, well that was certainly worth the time away from studying, it always is with you.”

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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Special Delivery

Warnings: Language, because well, Colton Ritter’s mouth.

Summary: Colton Ritter hates birthdays. Always has, and was determined he always would. His wife, however, cheeky with her newlywed bright ideas, makes it her mission to change his mind with a special birthday delivery.

A/N: I swear to you, the second part of The Grind-A Wedding is coming! But, sense it doesn't seem to be falling into place as quickly as I would like, I wanted to try and spread a little reward for my readers and their patience!

(gif not mine)

Colton Ritter was a bear about birthdays.

Was it the bitter swallow of becoming another year older? The fear that with age, would come the fizzle of his talents and abilities inside the cage? Was his ego simply weak to the thoughts of balding?

The reason a mystery, the fact a definitive reality regardless.

He wouldn’t eat cake because of a convenient ‘intermittent fasting’ that I wasn’t aware of until there was suddenly birthday cake involved. I tempted him with ice cream, his favorite, from the grocery store on 5th, and nothing broke his resisting stance.

This year, with a wedding, and a current pregnant under my belt, I was inflexibly determined make him appreciate the joys of a birthday. Knowing going after his sweet tooth was a bust, I let my brain storm, and mull over other ways to get him to finally smile on the 8th of September.

His belly may have been a dead end, but I knew one thirst that Colton could never truly quench.

Me.

One avenue of enjoyment that Colt always enjoyed exploring lie between my hips, and there was no amount of fight he could put up, and win, against it.

The day arrived, and I tested the waters at breakfast with a muffin and a candle for the occasion, only for it to be disregarded altogether when he strolled straight to kiss my neck as I poured his coffee. His pouty, gorilla grunts concluded his still present resentment towards the particular day of the year. I made a call-in to the bakery near the Pilot office before he woke, asking them to wait on standby with my order for a chocolate layered cake had things turned out different at this morning.

He trucked through the front door, gym clothes and a birthday card tucked away inside his duffle, not forgetting our routine morning game of ‘grab-ass’ before he left me to ready for heading into the office.

We could argue about the singing hallmark surprise over dinner tonight. While he nagged and grumbled about the balloon I planned to pick up on my way home.

I ended the call to the delivery service as I stepped into a hot shower, reiterating that his special birthday gift would be distributed today at 11:00 sharp, right before Colton was due to begin his kickboxing class. I was feeling less than desirable these with the stretches of our baby girl spanning over my belly, and swelling my tender breasts. Newlyweds, we were. And instead of leather garter-belts, and edible underwear, poor Colt was sleeping next to an oversized, less than new t-shirt I refused to let him throw out. He’d never go a day without asserting in every way possible that no matter what condition, my body only furthermore secured my goddess-status in his opinion. The lovemaking was, is, it’s, well clearly, there aren’t enough inappropriate words to illustrate what he does to me beneath the sheets of our bed. But, if a woman doesn’t see it, feel it herself that she’s marvelous, no amount of fervent praises can suffice.

So, this year, I’d give a gift to my newly crowned husband, with every intent to reinvent a love for birthdays, and maybe remind myself that I was fierce. The fiercest in all the land, and the fiend starring Colton Ritter’s wet dreams for the next 75 years.

I twiddled through the copy of an office memo brought to my desk this morning at least 32 times, never absorbing a single line of its contents. Rattling with the clock on my desk, I fiddled with the big hand, checking that it wasn’t indeed frozen in time for the last hour of work. I couldn’t get anything done, eager and dizzy with the apprehensive exhilaration for 11 o’clock to arrive, and Colton’s gift fall into his hands. I reminded the lady from my call this morning repeatedly that only Colton Ritter be responsible, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Colton

I hated these fuckin’ birthdays, damn it. I didn’t have a reason. It wasn’t about some suppressed scarring from my childhood because my parents never threw parties, or got me presents. As a matter of fact, Ma went all out with the stupid streamers, and the singing middle-aged men dressed in superhero costumes smelling like vodka. Something in me just hated the reminder that my life was drawing closer to an end. Especially now, since I actually liked the one I had. The one with Livvy, and little my Livvy, due in a few months.

And of course, the evil little minx had to go and remind everyone down at 21 Punches what today was, including Mac who led the stupid birthday song before the door had even shut behind me this morning.

Liv had been a little deflated this morning when I brushed off her subtle hints that she wanted to celebrate the day for me, and the more I stewed on it, the bigger my head grew into a dick. Maybe with her at my side, now as my wife, I should give this whole thing I try? I never want to be the reason her sideways smile fades again.

Just as I was about to tuck my phone into my desk drawer after sending her an apology text for the less-than-grateful behavior earlier, someone rapped a knock on my unlatched office door. I pulled the handle to, confused at the sight of a post-man standing in waiting, and even more confused at the large package tucked under his arm.

“Hey man. You could’ve left that at the front desk, no need for you to carry this shit across the building,” I signed his chipped clipboard.

“Special orders that this be delivered solely into your possession, Mr. Ritter. Have a good one, sir.”

I felt along the hard edges of the package, gently molding my hand around its shape to make sure it wasn’t some gag from one of the fighters on roster for my birthday. There was a tag dangling off the red bow, and I pulled the paper loose, careful to close the door behind me before I opened what was inside.

Happy Birthday, old man.

You only get better with age, my love!

Just a little something for you to look at….

Liv

Beautiful, stubborn, and persistent, she was.

I smiled, the way I always do when Liv wrangles me by the balls and just does whatever she damn well pleases whether I like it or not. The crisp paper was neatly creased at the four corners, secured with too much scotch tape for my patience, or lack thereof. So, I simply tore through the middle, short on time, and short on amusement with whatever Liv was playing at.

The image seemed abstract, or obscured initially, but I thought somewhere hidden in the black and white mess I saw long, blonde hair… Shifting the canvas, and tossing the paper in the can of trash beside my desk, my teeth gnawed suddenly.

My eyes instantly alert, and aware at the image before me, and my cock seeming to bust up in and all out hard-on without warning. The slight haze from sunshine beating through the window she looked to, made her glow. White light snuck into every curve of her body, except for the round, need-to-be-bitten curve of her perfect backside, barely covered by the taut lace of her bodysuit lingerie. Her veil grazed the silken, flushed flesh of her arms, and her hair at perfect length hid her angelic face. I touched the picture, wishing I could brush it back and see the soft look of slight, bashful pink on her cheeks, and that heart-shaped gap between her swollen lips. She was an angel caught in front of a lens, with every intention to drag me to the sinful, tight darkness between her thighs.

This, is how I want to always remember her. Draped in white, goosebumps mounting across her rose-smelling skin, bare. The image captured the essence of where every light in my life came from.

I was moved by the innocence of her sweet, almost timid, oblivious sexiness in front of me. But, the way she was mounted on both of her knees, eyes down like she was waiting to be taken by a dangerous, lethal storm like myself, motivated my insides to painfully pump. Refusing to turn loose of the picture, I searched blindly inside my desk for my cell.

“Hey, birthday boy…” She impishly chided. As if her intent to drive me off the fucking wall with this little delivery of hers wasn’t already clear, the way I could hear her biting her lip as she fiddled with her keyboard secured my assumptions.

“Hey yourself, you little troublemaker.”

Fuck. The giggles… Her laugh was connected with every muscle of control over my dick.

“Troublemaker? I have no absolute idea what you could possibly be referring to, husband of mine.”

“No? So, some other delicious blonde in Pittsburgh with ass for days sent over this glorious fuckin’ photo sitting on my desk right now?”

I heard her gasp as if someone could eavesdrop on the awful things I said to her.

“Okay. Maybe I had a little something to do with that.”

“Oh, I know that for certain, baby. I’ve seen those hands wrapped around me enough to recognize ‘em.”

“Colton Ritter! You know, they say the baby can hear inside the womb. Your poor daughter...” Liv squealed, words on the cusp of a whisper.

“Then I suggest we buy some ear buffs to put over your little belly tonight. I wouldn’t want our girl to hear all the awful things I’m going to have her mommy screamin’.”

“Happy birthday, you sex-crazed pig.”

“I can’t help it my wife is smokin’. And Livvy?” I questioned to her.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. This birthday thing may not be so bad after all now that you’re around.”

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @torialeysha @mollybegger-blog @eap1935 @littleluna98

#Tom Hardy #tomhardy #tomhardyfanfiction #tomhardyfanfic #thegrind #Elizabeth Olsen

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charlottecarterbcu · 4 years

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0 notes

queercondensed · 7 years

Photo

[Image Description: a one-page document formatted so both sides are visible as two pages. It is titled “DypsohiAid Packing Sheet v1.0″ and is all black text on a white background. The full text can be read under the readmore of this post.]

Packing Guide v1.0

This is the second guide I’ve developed for DysphoriAid, a project meant to create simple and printable guides for transgender people on the topic of dysphoria-relieving items. This packing guide includes basics, where to buy packers, making your own, Do’s and Don’ts, and additional information. It was developed with the help of a coworker and friend Richard Cole.

Click here to find the link to download the most recent version of this resource and the other documents Queer Condensed has to offer.

As always, the original files may be requested for modification via an ask to this blog. If you download, please reblog!

The text can be read below the readmore, formatted in the intended reading order.

First / Front Page

DysphoriAid Packer Sheet Online v1.0

Trusted Companies - Make Your Own - Do’s and Don’ts - Further Info

The Basics, What to Keep in Mind, and Where to Buy

A packer is an item used to replicate a bulge and occasionally other features associated with having a penis for those born without one. There are multiple reasons why someone would choose to pack, including lessening dysphoria, improving body image, and increasing personal safety in public places and for people who are expected to “pass” as a non-transgender man. Making the choice to pack can be very personal and not everyone who “could” pack will or wants to. Discomfort with or a lack of a need to pack doesn’t make anyone any less transgender or nonbinary, nor does packing make anyone more transgender or nonbinary.

The decision to pack starts with the decision of one’s price range and what one would like from a packer. There are three main times of packers: soft packers, pack n plays (packers that can also be used for sex via an insertable rod), and pack, play, and pees (packers that can be used for both sex and for peeing in a standing position). Usually, the ones with more uses are more expensive. Packers come in many different materials, sizes, and colors as well. Packers made from porous material and can easily soak up bacteria and dirt, which can cause urinary tract infections and skin problems, but can be more comfortable for the wearer. Silicone packers are more durable but still need to be cared for. When it comes to size, bigger is not always better. There are definitely large packers, as there are definitely people with large penises, but smaller packers give a more realistic look and are often more comfortable to wear. Finally, most packer companies offer a range of skin colors, but finding one to match your exact skin tone if desired may make the search for a packer take more time. It is possible to recolor some packers, look for a link in “Additional Information.”

Most people who own packers own a variety of accessories as well. Packers, especially the lower-end ones, do not stay in place well. Harnesses and special underwear can be used to keep them from falling out. Pack and plays cannot be used for the “play” function without a harness. Most packers can be cleaned with soap and water, but some companies and some materials warrant special cleaning solutions. Going to websites listed in the next paragraph and the “Additional Information” section can help you make an informed decision and show you what else you need along with a packer.

If everything written here sounds confusing and convoluted to you, there’s good news - transgender and nonbinary people have been packing for decades and companies are more than willing to help you understand their products. The Tool Shed (toolshedtoys.com) is an LGBT-owned business that focuses on sex positivity and safety and offers a good selection of packers in a clean layout, including the popular first-time-packer line Mr. Limpy / Softie. TranZwear (tranzwear.net) is a transgender-owned business that focuses mostly on packers and packer accessories. A note for TranZwear however: the site may be difficult or impossible to navigate for those with reading or sensory difficulties due to the general uncleanliness of the design. For the extreme end of quality and price, look at the transgender-owned Transthetics (transthetics.com).

Make Your Own / Packing Without a Packer

Sometimes, purchasing a packer is not feasible for any number of reasons. So, here are some alternatives! All the rules to regular packing - found in the “Do’s and Don’ts” section - should be followed even when not wearing an official packer. These methods are often helped by the use of the specialized underwear made for packers.

NOTE: Never ever use tape or adhesive to secure a packer of any type. Surgical glue is used in some cases, but only for prosthetic packers and only by trained medical professionals.

Second / Back Page

Option #2: Fill an unlubricated condom about halfway with some sort of gel, like hair gel, and tie it off tightly at the desired length. Place within another unlubricated condom or two, typing those off as well. Cover with a sock or other sleeve to reduce tugging and catching. Place in a jock strap or tight-fitting underwear. Watch for tearing and leakage, replace often.

Option #1: Roll a pair of socks into itself to create an oval-ish shape, manipulating the socks until a desirable bulge is achieved. Stick the faux-bulge into your underwear, securing it with safety pins if there’s concern of it falling out or losing its shape. Not always realistic-looking, but cheap and easy. Use thin socks to reduce heat.

The Do’s and Don’ts of Packing

Wash your packer every day after wearing it with at least soap and water

Try out different placements and ways of securing your packer to find out what fits and feels comfortable

Look at examples of cisgender men and other packing transgender people online for placement reference, like underwear models

Listen to your body and make sure your packer isn’t overheating or hurting your genital region

Replace your packer if it becomes damaged, worn out, or cannot be cleaned properly

Look up reviews and videos on packing and specific packers and accessories before buying

Dust non-hommade packers with cornstarch before wearing to lessen the dirt and hair they pick up

Experiment if resources permit you to

Don’t

Leave your packer in a damp area or where bacteria is likely to flourish

Expect other transgender people to always feel comfortable talking about their packing experiences

Place tape or adhesive anywhere near your genital area

Trade your packers with other transgender people, especially if they are pack and plays or pack, play, and pees.

Feel discouraged if a popular packer isn’t right for you

Boil silicone / cyberskin / thermal gel packers, as they will melt

Ignore the directions of the manufacturer or seller - they know best!

Use non-skin-safe cleaning materials on your packer

Force yourself to pack even if you identify as a trans male or trans masculine

Additional Information

Online*:

A Guide to Packers for Transmen (http://ftm-guide.com/guide-to-packers-for-transmen/)

Hudson’s FTM Resource Guide (http://www.ftmguide.org/packing.html)

Making your own Stand to Pee (http://www.wikihow.com/Make-an-Easy-StP-(Stand-to-Pee)-Device)

Reviews on packing harnesses (http://transguys.com/features/packing-harness-roundup)

How to recolor your packer (http://toysfortransmen.tumblr.com/post/36054626438/how-to-recoloring-your-packer)

*While this info sheet includes both binary and nonbinary transgender people, a great deal of the online resources available for packing only includes language about transgender men. The information is still good for nonbinary people, but readers should be aware of this. Additionally, online guides and resources often include pictures of packers, many of which are very realistic. Keep this in mind when searching on a non-private computer, browsing in public, or if you are adverse to images of penises.

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DysphoriAid

Updated as of May 18th, 2017

Queer Condensed (QueerCondensed.tumblr.com)

Free for non-commercial use. For editing, contact Queer Condensed for original word document

A huge thank-you to Richard Cole for helping out with the research and links for this information sheet

#queer condensed #packing #transgender #nonbinary #ftm #Tranzwear #The Tool Shed #guides #other materials

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bestproductsbuy-blog · 5 years

Text

Best Panis Cock Rings Buy Online

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WHY USE COCK RINGS FOR PANIS ERECTICLE DYSFUNCTION?A cock ring or cockring may be a ring worn round the penis, usually at the bottom . the first purpose of wearing a cock ring is to limit the flow of blood from the erect penis so as to supply a stronger erection or to take care of an erection for a extended period of your time . Genital adornment is another purpose, as is repositioning the genitals to supply an enhanced appearance.

Cock rings also are called C rings, penis rings or shaft rings. When utilized in cases of male/Boys erecticle dysfunction, they're known by so many various other names, like erection rings and tension rings.Cock rings worn just behind the corona of the glans of the penis are referred to as glans rings, head rings or cock crowns.

HOW TO USE COCK RING IN PANIS AND EFFECT?

A ring that's worn round the penis and scrotum is additionally usually called a cock ring, but is usually mentioned as a cock and ball ring.Rings that are worn just round the scrotum, so as to carry the testicles, are usually called testicle cuffs or ball stretchers.

Medical

A man may wear an erection ring because he has male erecticle dysfunction. When used cock rings for erecticle dysfunction, a purpose-designed air pump is employed to supply an erection by simple mechanical and hydrodynamical action in spite of vascular or nerve damage, and therefore the ring is slid off the pump's cylinder onto the bottom of the penis to take care of the erection before it's lost. The testicles aren't ringed during this case.

Recreational

A cock ring could also be used during sex or masturbation to prolong or enhance erections, delay orgasm, or for the feeling of tightness and engorgement that wearing one produces; vibrating models apply vibration to the bottom of the user's penis and to their partner. they will be worn as sex toys or for aesthetic reasons.

Use

A cock ring and "

Panis ball stretcher

" in use

The purpose of a cock ring is to trap blood inside the penis so as to take care of an erection, or encourage a stronger erection. so as to try to to this, it must be placed at the bottom of the penis.

A cock ring made from stretchy material is just stretched over the men penis (and optionally also the scrotum, except when used with a pump for impotence) and situated against the body. cock rings are used differently- first each testicle is fed through the ring and therefore the entire scrotum is pulled through, then the flaccid penis is pushed through the ring and situated against the body.When used with a pump, a lubricating gel is usually wont to help the pump maintain a vacuum, within the same way vacuum grease is employed with a air pump in scientific applications. The gel also makes it easier for the ring to slip off the pump, and later, to get rid of it from the penis.

Variations

Some cock rings models include a protruding clitoral simulator, designed to tickle the clitoris, vulva, or anus during sex (and during masturbation while the ring is employed on a dildo). Others, like the vibrating ring, vibrate, either vibrating the ring itself, or using two removable bullet vibrators to supply stimulation to the testicles and clitoris. Many cock rings have vibrators attached which will be worn to stimulate the scrotum or perineum of a partner during sexual/physical activity . many ladies find that rings with vibrator attachments provide clitoral stimulation that's needed for achieving orgasm.

Another/female variation is an inflatable cock ring for added control of adjustment.A triple cock ring or triple crown may be a cock ring that has additional rings for restraining the testicles. In orgasm, the testicles usually retract towards the men body before ejaculation. A triple crown changes and intensifies the feeling of orgasm by forcing the testicles to remain faraway from the body.

Risks

Vendors of cock rings and medical sources always indicate that cock rings aren't to be worn for quite about half-hour . Falling asleep or using illicit drugs at an equivalent time is extremely dangerous. the primary sign of pending problems is when the penis starts to become numb, painful, or cold. As soon as this happens, the cock ring must be deleted/removed.

Medical issues

Cock rings that are too tight, or worn for too long are often dangerous: this might cause priapism, a medical emergency that, if not treated promptly, may result in severe and permanent damage, including penile gangrene which will end in the destruction and possible amputation of the penis. Rings for male erecticle dysfunction are invariably furnished with the instruction that they ought to not be left on for quite thirty minutes. Falling asleep with a hoop on may be a particular danger. this might cause temporary or permanent nerve damage. Numbness within the glans , penis becoming cold or penis becoming white could also be signs that a cock ring has been worn for too long and medical advice should be sought.

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must not be used without medical advice by those that have cardiovascular problems or who take blood-thinning medication.

Materials and kinds

Commercially available cock rings are made for panis up of many various materials, including: leather, rubber, silicone, neoprene, nylon, metals (including: aluminium, steel, titanium, silver, gold and platinum), wood, plastic, bone, horn, ceramic, glass, and semi jewel . They also are available a good sort of sizes, with an inner diameter starting from 35–63 mm (1.4–2.5 in).

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Designs range from the straightforward to the complex. Normal or cheap rings may lie flat on a surface, while others are ergonomically curved to suit more comfortably on the wearer. Some designs are horseshoe shaped with a closure. In cross section, the cock rings may vary from round to flattened oval, the latter offering more friction on the penis and are therefore less likely to slide . Many of the newer rings even have different accessories and projections.

There also are vibrating cock rings available which may stimulate the testes at an equivalent time.Today, cock rings are often bought with accessories that stimulate the clitoris or anal area during intercourse. Other cock rings go round the scrotum and may significantly enhance erection and intensity of orgasms.

However, there's one negative: the more accessories that are added on, the greater the prospect of developing discomfort or cold sensations from the device.Rings for ED must be ready to be placed in position while a pump is connected; the erection is lost as soon as vacuum is removed unless the ring is already in situ . This rules out most types aside from simple elastic rings.

Specialized underwear

Specialized underwear is out there which comes with pre-fitted cock rings. The

underwear features

a pouch with an indoor fabric/elastic cock ring which either slides along the penis and encircles the scrotum or, alternatively, simply snaps round the base of the scrotum to snugly—but not during a constricting way—attach the pouch to the genitals. While this sort of pouch permits the wearer to go backless, Cock ring pouches are often attached to either a thong or traditional jockstrap.

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skiinggray5-blog · 6 years

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10 Creepiest Photos Of Victims Taken By Serial Killers

Many serial killers collect twisted and chilling souvenirs, often referred to as “trophies,” from the scenes of their crimes. This can be anything from a lock of their victim’s hair to one of their personal belongings. But what happens when a serial killer likes to document a cold-blooded murder in a photograph? Even worse, what if they wanted to capture their victim on film moments before they died?

For some of the following victims, looking at a camera in the hands of a serial killer would have been one of the last things they ever saw. The images captured of their torment provide a chilling glimpse into the brutal reality of their murders.

10 Robert Ben Rhoades

Serial killer Robert Ben Rhoades stalked the highways of Texas in his mobile torture and death chamber. A hidden compartment in his 18-wheeler truck is where he would end the lives of his victims in the most brutal manner imaginable—a vicious cycle of “kidnap, torture, kill.” He is suspected of killing more than 50 women between 1975 and 1990, although, as he traveled all around the United States using interstate highways, it is believed the real victim count could be even higher. He was only convicted of three murders.

Rhoades would take chilling photographs of his victims before murdering them. When he killed 14-year-old runaway Regina Kay Walters in a barn in Illinois, he captured a chilling moment where she appears to back away from him, clearly frightened. Rhoades’s photos of Walters were also used as evidence that he had held her captive for a long time, based on her hair growth and the bruising on her tiny frame. In 1994, Rhoades was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole. In 2012, he pleaded guilty to the murder of a newlywed couple.[1]

9 Harvey Glatman

Harvey “The Glamour Girl Slayer” Glatman was a truly frightening and twisted serial killer in the late 1950s. Glatman posted Lonely Hearts adverts to lure his victims in addition to prowling modeling agencies in Los Angeles, posing as a photographer before taking women back to his apartment. There, he would tie them up, assault them, and take pictures before they lost their innocent lives—each victim appearing terrified and desperate. After Glatman had killed them, he dumped the bodies in the desert.

Following an attempted attack on a woman who managed to escape, the police were alerted, and the hunt for the killer began. When police managed to catch up with him, Glatman eventually confessed and revealed his “toolbox,” which contained all the chilling photos of the victims. He was executed in 1959 in a gas chamber at San Quentin State Prison.[2]

8 Rodney Alcala

Rodney Alcala was also known as The Dating Game Killer because he appeared as a contestant on a popular dating show during his killing spree. He was described as a “killing machine” by detectives and would strangle his victims, revive them from unconsciousness, and then strangle them again—repeating this twisted process until they were dead.

Alcala was sentenced to death for the murders of five women, although it’s believed the real victim count could be as high as 130. Detectives have uncovered over 1,000 photos belonging to Alcala in a storage locker. Many of the subjects in the photos appeared nude. The less explicit photos have been made public in hopes of identifying the people in them.[3] The photo above is but a single example. In 2016, Acala was charged with the 1977 slaying of a woman identified in one of the photos.

7 William Richard Bradford

William Richard Bradford was sentenced to death in California for the murders of his 15-year-old neighbor and a 21-year-old barmaid. In 1984, Bradford met barmaid Shari Miller in a Los Angeles bar and told her he was a professional photographer who could help build her modeling portfolio. He took her to a remote campsite, where she posed for him. Then he strangled her to death. Bradford then sliced off her tattoos and ditched the body in an alley. He was caught after it was discovered that he was the last person to have seen both of the victims alive.

After 18 years on death row, police discovered 54 photographs of young women that belonged to Bradford, including the photos of Miller, in various modeling poses.[4] They released the photos in hopes that they could identify the other potential victims. The majority of the victims in the photos remain unidentified, but as Bradford spent time in Michigan, Florida, Texas, Oregon, Illinois, Kansas, and Louisiana, the search is still nationwide. In 2008, he died behind bars of natural causes.

6 Robert Berdella

Robert “Bob” Berdella was a serial killer and torturer who documented his sinister slayings in photographs. Between 1984 and 1987, he murdered at least six men in Kansas City, Missouri. After befriending his victims, he kidnapped them and physically tormented them for days and weeks on end. He injected caulk in their ears to deafen them, administered electric shocks to their bodies, and blindfolded them with bags over their heads.

In the photographs he took of his helpless victims, some of them were already dead. The bodies of his victims were then dismembered and either buried in the yard or left in bags for the garbage crew to pick up. Berdella was caught after one of his victims managed to break free from his restraints and jump from a second-floor window wearing nothing more than a dog collar around his neck. Alongside the disturbing images, police also discovered human remains at his home, including two skulls and notebooks on torture.[5]

5 Jerry Brudos

Serial killer and necrophile Jerry Brudos was known as The Lust Killer for his perverse attraction to his victims. He killed them in cold blood and then kept many of their shoes as trophies. Since the age of five years old, he’d had a fetish for women’s shoes, and he received psychotherapy as a teenager after he was caught stealing women’s underwear. Between 1968 and 1969, Brudos murdered four young women and attempted to attack two others in Oregon.

Brudos photographed one of his victims, 19-year-old Karen Sprinker, in his garage just hours before her murder after he kidnapped her from a department store parking lot. He made her pose in clothes he had bought and then strangled her before dumping the body. Sentenced to life behind bars, Brudos never showed any remorse for his crimes—instead, he put the blame on his own mother, claiming she had been abusive all his life.[6]

4 Dean Corll

Twisted serial killer and torturer Dean Corll abducted, assaulted, and killed at least 28 teenage boys and young men from 1970 to 1973 in Houston, Texas. He was given the nickname The Candyman, as he would use free candy to lure his vulnerable victims into a false sense of security. He was assisted by two teenage accomplices named David Owen Brooks and Elmer Wayne Henley, Jr., and his reign of terror came to an end when Henley fatally shot him.

Nearly 40 years later in 2012, a photo which is believed to show a 29th victim was uncovered by a filmmaker. The boy appears scared as looks up at the camera while wearing handcuffs. Filmmaker Josh Vargas said, “While rummaging through pictures [belonging to Corll], this Polaroid falls out. I take a look at it and, right off the bat, having studied the case and the crime scene photos and everything, I see Dean’s toolbox, and I see his implements in that toolbox, and I see this kid right here with handcuffs on his arms.” It is believed that the boy was Corll’s 29th victim.[7]

3 Anatoly Slivko

Soviet serial killer Anatoly Slivko played a disturbing game with his victims in an attempt to recreate his own twisted fantasy. In his early twenties, he witnessed a traffic accident that fatally injured a young boy wearing a Young Pioneers (essentially the Soviet Equivalent to the Boy Scouts) uniform, and this gruesome scene sexually excited him.[8] Two years later, he started running a local children’s club and took advantage of his position in the most sinister way imaginable.

Slivko formed close friendships with the boys—usually aged between 12 and 15 years old—and then lured them to the woods. He would hang the boys from trees, assault them as they were unconscious, and then revive them. He also took photos of the victims as they were asphyxiated. More than 40 boys were molested by Slivko, and he was unable to revive seven of them, leading to their deaths. When police began investigating a boy’s disappearance, several of the children complained they had suffered “temporary amnesia” from the things Slivko did to them. The photos and testimonies were enough to charge Slivko, and he was executed by firing squad in 1989.

2 Jeffrey Dahmer

There are some images you should never search for online. Such is the case for the personal Polaroid collection belonging to serial killer and cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer that was uncovered during his arrest. Milwaukee police officers discovered a man named Tracy Edwards roaming the streets with handcuffs dangling from his wrist. Edwards said a “weird dude” in a nearby apartment had put them on him, and they escorted him to address, which was the home of Dahmer. When an officer went into the bedroom to find the key for the handcuffs, he noticed photographs of dismembered human bodies lying around.[9]

Dahmer was arrested, but that wasn’t the only grisly discovery in his apartment. Investigators uncovered four severed heads, seven skulls, blood drippings collected in a tray, two human hearts, and an entire torso. The chief medical examiner commented, “It was more like dismantling someone’s museum than an actual crime scene.”

1 The Unsolved Polaroid

On September 20, 1988, 19-year-old Tara Calico disappeared near her home in Belen, New Mexico, when she failed to return from her regular bike ride in Valencia County. What was believed to have been a kidnapping soon evolved into a potential serial killer case after a chilling Polaroid was uncovered.

Nine months later, a woman discovered a Polaroid in good condition 2,600 kilometers (1,600 mi) away in Florida. It showed two apparent victims bound with their arms behind their backs and tape over their mouths. The young woman looked identical to Tara, and the boy was believed to be Michael Henley of Milan, New Mexico, who went missing six months before Tara when he was nine years old. Parents of both the victims were convinced it was them. Sadly, in 1990, it was discovered that the boy in the photograph was not Michael, as his remains were uncovered, and his death had been a tragic accident.[10]

The questions surrounding the Polaroid are still unanswered, and one of the most chilling theories online is that this was a photo from a serial killer’s creepy collection. This might very well be one of those cases that will never be solved.

Cheish Merryweather is a true crime fan and an oddities fanatic. Can either be found at house parties telling everyone Charles Manson was only 5’2″ or at home reading true crime magazines. Twitter: @thecheish

Source: http://listverse.com/2018/09/08/10-creepiest-photos-of-victims-taken-by-serial-killers/

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suitdean · 6 years

Text

Clothes.

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hotspotsmagazine · 7 years

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First Impressions Are Everything

We’ve all had that time when we flubbed a first impression. That time when we were set to meet someone for the first time and something went really wrong. Perhaps it was the poppyseeds in the teeth from the morning bagel? Or a skirt tucked into the pantyhose at the back, revealing more than you ever intended? Or the piece of toilet paper dragging on the bottom of your shoe? It’s all fodder for a stand up comedy act. But a bad first impression doesn’t have to be the result of something as major as the skirt in the pantyhose. It can stem from something as simple as terrible listening skills or negative body language. Read on a for a few tips on making a good impression, with some specific suggestions for those times when you are most likely to need them.

Active listening

Tell me if there is anything worse than someone who isn’t listening when you’re speaking to them? You can tell from the look on their face that they’re working out what to say next and it will probably have no bearing on what you’ve been saying whatsoever. Or they are thinking about what they’re going to have for lunch. Either way, it doesn’t make a solid first impression.

A great way to make a good first impression is to be engaged. Listening to what the person in front of you is saying and responding to it accordingly. Parrot back some of their words, so that they know that you have heard them and ask them relevant questions, which incites them to keep talking. The thing most people want most in the world is to be heard. If they didn’t, Facebook and Twitter wouldn’t have a leg to stand on as social media platforms.

Body language counts

In the same vein as active listening is body language. We say a lot without saying a word when we meet someone, particularly someone new. The non-verbal cues that the other person picks up from us are just as important as the verbal ones. For example, not shaking hands with someone who offers theirs and if they don’t offer, not offering yours, can be taken as a snub. Having your arms folded across your chest while someone is talking might seem comfortable for you, but to others, it has the appearance of negativity, of a closed mind to what they are saying. It can even appear aggressive.

Facial expressions are part of body language. Some of us have what’s known as ‘resting bitch face’. This is where our normal face looks sad or mad, even when that’s not what we’re feeling at all. If you’ve been told you have that, be aware of it when you’re meeting new people. Make an effort to avoid it.

Good eye contact is another great way to make sure that your first impression is a good one. Eye contact is a positive, engaged reaction to someone else. Looking over their shoulder, at the floor or worse, at some part of their body, is not.

Good conversation starters

The old adage says that you should always stay away from religion and politics. In this day and age, that’s probably more true than it’s ever been before. There are certain topics that should be off limits until you know someone fairly well. Pontificating your views on touchy issues can lead quickly to a negative impression. Assuming things about the person you’re meeting is also fraught. Example? you don’t want to talk about the senior’s discount at the shop you’re standing in front of with someone who MIGHT not be a senior!

So what’s safe, besides the weather? It’s always safe to ask the other person about themselves. Most people like to talk about something they know a lot about and what better topic is there than oneself? It will also give you the chance to pick up on something they have said and expand on it, using those active listening skills, all while you are maintaining good eye contact and after a vigorous handshake. Just don’t ask “what do you do?” or one of the other standard conversation non-starters (see below!) Instead, you can ask things like “So, what should I know about you that I can’t read about on your LinkedIN profile?”

Other options?

If someone has introduced you to this new person, ask them how they know that person.

If you’re at an event, ask them if they’ve ever attended something similar before.

If you’re at a new job, ask about the best part of their week so far.

If they’re not talkative about themselves, avoid asking the same benign questions that people always ask. They don’t lead to great conversations, on the whole:

What do you do?

Are you married?

Where are you from?

How are you?

#1 tip for first impressions at a social gathering

Compliments are your new best friend. If someone has a handbag you admire, walk up to them and say so. The person you are speaking with will be happy to receive a compliment, albeit indirect, and it’s a good way to begin a conversation. But be genuine: if you are faking it, it will show.

#1 tip for first impressions on a date

Be positive. Even if things go wildly wrong: the waiter drops soup on your date; a passing cab splashes both of you as you stand waiting to cross the street; whatever happens, take it in stride and remain positive. Nothing says ‘loser’ like a 34 year old having a tantrum in the middle of the street.

#1 tip for first impressions on the playground

Making new friends as an adult is HARD, particularly breaking into the ‘mommy cliques’ at the playground of your children’s school. Avoid talking about anything related to the school and instead approach a group and ask their opinion on the best place in the neighborhood to get a haircut for Little Timmy. They’ll be more than happy to share their wisdom and you’ve got an in by being open and curious.

#1 tip for first impressions online

These days, you are just as likely to ‘meet’ someone for the first time in the digital arena as in the real world, so it’s vital that your online image is clean. I’m not referring to your picture or avatar, though these should be suited to the platform (LinkedIN: professional; Facebook: fun but not awkward; Twitter: something more than the egg). Search for yourself regularly on search engines and social media to see what people will find when they look you up, because they will look you up and you don’t want to find embarrassing shots of you knocking back shooters in your underwear as the first link they find.

#1 tip for first impressions in any situation: men vs. women

The thing that men are most impressed by? Eye contact and a good handshake – nothing limp or ‘wet fish’ like. For women? Eye contact as well, plus a genuine smile. So men and women might not be as different as originally thought!

At the end of the day, you have three to five seconds to make a first impression. Make it a good one.

These tips are available to share with your audience with proper credit by including the bio and link below and by contacting [email protected] with your intention to feature.

Justin Lavelle is the Chief Communications Officer at BeenVerified.com (https://www.beenverified.com), where he often writes about personal brand building. Beenverified is the fast, affordable, and easy way to access public records and search for people. Find out ages, marital status, addresses, email addresses, phone numbers, criminal records, and more.

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/02/22/first-impressions-are-everything/

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