#pure cotton rug

[casavanihomes]

Geometric pattern rug is 100% pure cotton. Cotton rug are extremely comfortable and offer a great feel and warmth. The work of light colors is to brighten up a room and its décor. Rug in tones of beige, sand, and taupe will make your room seem bigger and sprawling. -> Material :100% Pure Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Golden & Beige -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available. For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.etsy.com/listing/1028977685/indian-hand-block-printed-rug-kitchen

[rugsforeverusa]

Rugs Forever USA

This rug is made up of 100% pure cotton rug. They are both trendy and traditional at the same time. They will fit anywhere and area perfect anchor for any room that subscribes to a Bohemian design style. Grey and beige rug are found ubiquitously wherever carpeting is the flooring of choice. -> Material :100% Pure Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Grey & Beige -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.ebay.com/itm/275498405530

[aggro-my-beloved]

Shaw Pack HC’s (1/?)

note: I promise after this I’ll get some sleep…and dream about more redacted audio HC’s, that is

• Sweetheart has made it their mission to teach Aggro the most random tricks, without Milo’s knowledge. We’re talking fetch, speak, high fives galore. Sweetheart still isn’t sure how Milo hasn’t noticed the cat’s recent weight gain from all the treats he’s been given for “motivation”. It wasn’t until one fateful night that Asher and Baaabe were invited over to break in their new house and Asher left his mode of transportation lying around (him and Baaabe arrived separately since she was working late) that the result of their secret training lessons were exposed.

“Uh, sweetheart,” Milo begins, voice curious and steady.

“Hmm?” His mate hums, craning her neck to peer at Aggro flawlessly passing over the hardwood floor of the living room. It’s yet to be adorned by a rug of their choosing.

“Why is our cat on a skateboard?”

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

• Baaabe has never encountered a physical fight in their life. Always one to stay out of trouble, they keep to themselves and never enter any altercation that involves a clean uppercut or south paw, because they’d surely fail.

Or so they thought. Hell, even Asher did when he begged them to join him in his adventure to the arcade and purposefully led the two of them up to the Boxing Punch Game. It’s the first time Baaabe is seeing the name of the machine, but they are familiar with it. The player decks the red punching bag dangling before them and watches the score tally up to deduce whether they are as strong as they thought or indeed a weakling.

Too afraid of what their results may yield, Baaabe volunteers Asher to go first, which he does without complaint. The sound of his fist colliding with the bag echoes across the arcade hall and perks a few ears, and his score grazes the seven hundreds. Baaabe feels her toes curling in anticipation while Asher keeps on encouraging them to just give it a shot, and that “the score doesn’t matter. You’re unempowered after all, I have a bit of an advanta—“

The rest of his sentence gets caught in his throat, his jaw slack as her numbers climb and climb to over a thousand total points. But even more shocking—to Baaabe’s total disbelief and Asher’s amusement, the punching bag lie on the floor, disconnected from its machine.

Yup. Baaabe broke the fucking game. All from a single hit.

It made Asher hard a little scared of his mate’s true strength. He did the dishes that night without complaint.

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

• Clumsy as they may be, I think Angel is secretly good as secretly good as sewing. Perhaps they worked as a part time seamstress for a past job, maybe a uniform store that involved hemming a measurements. This is a wonderful tool to have for emergency instances, like that broken zipper on Baaabe’s wedding attire which Angel resolved with ease. Baaabe would claim the rest of the night that Angel really is a saint sent from higher deities out of our control. Everyone will blame these babbles on the mate’s alcohol intake.

But in the comfort of their home, Angel uses this power for pure, ungodly chaos. Including, but not limited too:

1. Slightly hemming Davey’s tank tops to fit him slimmer around his waist. His mate loves how it shows off his physique.

2. The clothes he hasn’t worn in a while will be cropped to better fit Angel. How they gaslight David into believing his security hoodies keep shrinking in the wash and he needs a better vendor who uses less cotton is still a mystery.

3. Three Words: Ugly. Matching. Sweaters.

4. The entire pack has one designed by Angel personally and almost everybody loves them. Milo pretends not to be offended when he is gifted his sweater that’s two sizes too small. David rarely wears his unless Angel pulls out the puppy dog eyes, which he can never deny pleasing. Baaabe and Asher wear theirs religiously, even if it’s the dead heat of summer.

[lonewolfwriting89]

PRIMAL

Alpha!Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: His skin was scarred, mapping his dangerous past, displaying his masculine strength. A true Alpha. His hair, dirty blonde, was wild, stray strands dipping into his molten gaze.

Warnings – Language. Smut. NSFW. Alpha theme. Hints at Werewolf!Simon

A/N: A very late kinktober fic, hope you all enjoy 👻😈🐺 apologies for missing in action lately xoxo

————

Maybe it was the sunset.

Maybe it was the impending rain.

You didn’t know what it was, but there was something different. Something electric. The dying light bled down through the trees across the face of a man that you thought you knew. There was something in that filtered light of early evening that made him even more desirable. A way that urged you to act on those fantasies that you had kept hidden in your secret heart.

You could smell the coming rain on the wind as it drifted lazily through the maze of trees and brush, the smell of summer. Maybe spring was known as the time for lovers, but the summer had always done it for you. Hot and moist, at times; pungent. Like the light scent of his sweat that teased your nose.

Simon exerted a kind of benevolent control over you. He had since the day you had met him, standing against a tree and watching you walk along the worn path beside the creek that led through the deep, dark woods. You’d asked his name many times, but he would never tell you, and he never asked for yours. How many weeks had you been walking with your new friend? Three? Four? And yet you still didn’t know what to call him.

This day had been different from the start. For one thing, the way he was dressed. He was leaning against his tree, as always, but gone was the rugged flannel shirt and heavy boots. He stood there nonchalantly in nothing but his faded black jeans. His feet were bare against the floor of the forest and his broad, triangular shaped torso disappeared into the narrow band of his pants. For the first time you were being given the opportunity to take in the sight of the muscles that had teased your waking dreams for the last few weeks. You were tortured with wonder at the thoughts of what was under his tight shirts, the muscle apparent, but modestly covered.

You liked what you saw. He was well built, rippling muscle tense and solid. His skin was scarred, mapping his dangerous past, displaying his masculine strength. A true Alpha. His hair, dirty blonde, was wild, stray strands dipping into his molten gaze.

“Can I walk with you?”, he asked. He always asked the same question, never presuming. You smiled when you said yes. Could this handsome man really be so naïve as not to realise that the only reason you walked in the woods everyday was to see him?

Your hair was tucked deftly away from your face, underneath the hood of your red sweatshirt. The red of the shirt was the only splash of colour to stand out amid the lush greens and earthy browns of the woods. You wore cut off denim shorts and trainers below the red sweatshirt, enjoying the silk of air as it brushed your bare skin. The flapping tails of your white cotton blouse fluttered in the breeze where they hung from under the sweatshirt.

You both walked along the edge of the creek together for some time, watching as the sun began its descent in the western sky and the rain clouds began to gather darkly in a line to the east. The scent of copper came on the wind as the smell of the distant rain blew through the forest. The leaves turned their white undersides skyward with the updraft of the wind.

And that was when you came to the full realisation that you wanted this man. Right now. This quiet, unassuming man who walked and spoke with you for hours, never needing anything from you in return. That he didn’t seem to need you, made you want him more. Simon wasn’t aloof; he was just comfortable, confident. The smoothness of his walk and the grace with which he moved belied a sense of pure unselfconsciousness. The Man in the Woods was truly at home in his skin. At home in the forest.

Simon looked you in the eye and knew what was on your mind immediately. You looked away nervously, wondering how much truth he had seen in your face. You had nearly been lost in his frosted steel gaze. Lupine eyes.

“I want you—I’ve always wanted you”, he said matter-of-factly, “Will you have me?”.

“What?”, you asked, incredulously. You knew you heard him, but his words had stunned you momentarily.

“What did you say?”.

He stepped closer to you and you involuntarily backed away from him. When your back came into contact with the trunk of a large oak tree you abandoned your thoughts of flight. Where would you run anyway? Did you even want to run? The unexpected nature of his advance caught you off guard. It wasn’t how you were used to being approached by men. It wasn’t a corny line in a city bar. It was an honest, up front statement and a serious question, spoken with a purity of mind and an innocence that was out of place in such a lustful proposition.

“I said, I want you. Was that clearer for you?”.

You didn’t move, the stability of the huge tree at your back helped to hold you up on wobbling knees. You didn’t speak, your lips merely trembled.

He leaned against the tree, an arm on either side of your head, as he leaned slowly down, putting his face level with yours. His scent surrounded you, drowning you in an overwhelming lust. Simon whispered again, “Will you have me?”.

You lowered your glimmering eyes and reached your hands out, taking his hips and guiding him against your body.

You felt Simon’s muscled chest pressing against yours, forcing your shoulders back against the curve of the tree trunk, making your breasts stand out, high and proud. He took the zipper to your red sweatshirt and brought it down slowly, in one fluid motion, sweeping it from your shoulders. He stripped you of the sweatshirt and discarded it at your feet. Your nipples pebbled under your flimsy blouse, poking out under the white cotton.

His hand snaked up your body from thigh to breast, his fingers capturing your nipple, rolling it, pinching it. You mewled softly, turning your head and closing your eyes, taking in every sensation.

He leaned in and you tilted your head to receive his kiss, your mouth slightly open, lower lip still trembling. You felt the familiar hot, wet sensation in the juncture of your thighs, but rarely this heated or this soaked. Your pussy pulsed along with your pounding heart and you began to subtly thrust your hips forward, grinding your mound into the hard bulge in his pants.

Just short of completing the kiss, he stopped, extending his tongue slowly and softly, tracing it delicately along the edge of your lips. Feather soft and deliberate, his tongue stretched out and licked your full lips. Your tongue waited impatiently, desperately wanting to reach out and welcome Simon into your mouth, but you held back. The longing was exquisite torture and you were about to burst when he finally crushed your lips to his.

Too soon he broke the passionate kiss, pulling away from you with a quick, soft bite to your lower lip, tugging it gently with his sharp teeth. Had they always been that sharp? Your mind was hazy with pleasure. With one hand he pulled your hair, maybe a bit too roughly, but you had no complaint. With the other hand he began working the button and zipper of your denim shorts, expertly opening the front of your pants to his exploring fingers. Your soft cotton panties were pink and offered no resistance as his hand dove beneath the thin elastic waistband, to your boiling centre.

Simon’s thick fingers nudged and teased your engorged clit, stroking it softly. He nibbled at your neck, drawing your skin into his mouth and brushing it lightly with his tongue. The pressure of his teeth and the softness of his tongue combined to drive you over the edge.

Buttons be damned, you thought, ripping open your blouse, exposing your firm, peaked breasts. Your own hands found their way to his head, entwining fingers in his silken hair and urging his head down to your breasts. Simon happily complied, moving down and sucking one pert nipple into his mouth. As you moaned from the new sensation at your breast, he slipped a finger tentatively inside of you, eliciting an even stronger moan.

As with your lip, he bit softly on your nipple and tugged, slowly rolling his tongue over the puckered skin surrounding it. He pulled you away from the tree, just far enough to slip the white cotton blouse completely from your body, and then he pushed the bare skin of your back against the rough bark, as he moved to your other nipple. You squeezed and released handfuls of his hair, pressing his face to your chest, as he dropped the white blouse on top of the red sweatshirt. Fabric becoming damp from the dew on the floor.

A small cry escaped your lips when the long, thick finger in your pussy found just the spot. Taking that cue, he concentrated his ministrations in that area, and soon you were cumming, walls spasming around his digit. Your body went rigid against the tree, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as the small spasms coursed through you in slow, undulating waves. You pressed yourself greedily against his hand, wanting the waves to go on and on. The sensations at your breast and core were overpowering, your body shuddering, breath ragged.

The distant rain finally caught up to you both, coming down through the heavy forest canopy, making the woods around you sizzle with every little drop. The cold rain on your hot skin sent up little plumes of steam, and Simon let out a moan of pure ecstasy, low and drawn out, luxuriating in the feel of the water on his flesh. He turned his face up, letting the rain drip lazily onto his face, into his mouth. You cast your eyes down and watched the tiny rivulets making their way down his muscular chest and abdomen, through the little line of hair coming up from the waistband of his jeans and disappearing into them.

Brazenly, you allowed your tongue to follow their trails, dragging your tongue hungrily down Simon’s neck, biting and kissing as you went. Down over his chest, stopping to lick and suck his nipple. Biting and kissing down over his stomach, you soon found yourself on your knees in front of him, eyes fastened on the tautly stretched fabric of the denim over his crotch, the shape and size of his cock obvious as it pressed against his hip. You nibbled along his shaft through the jeans, up to the head and back down, pressing soft kisses against the bulge.

Simon felt he was going to explode when you dragged your teeth firmly along the same path that you had just nibbled, your hands coming up and massaging his heavy balls. He groaned gruffly, fists clenched at his sides, fighting for control.

The button was hard to open, due to the tightness of his pants, but you managed and your fingers took the clasp of his zipper, pulling down slowly, one agonising tooth at a time. When you finally had lowered the zipper enough to allow, his cock sprung out, achingly hard and visibly pulsing. With every beat of his heart it leapt slightly. The head was a dark purple and the shaft had one large vein running across the top. It disappeared into the patch of wiry hair at the base of his abdomen.

A glistening drop of clear liquid formed in the slit at its crown and you darted your tongue out, touching it briefly to the tip of his cockhead. The little drop held to your tongue in a long, thick string before breaking and dropping onto your bottom lip and chin.

Wrapping your hand around his cock, you gripped it firmly, giving a little squeeze and watching with delight as more of the clear liquid oozed out. Simon groaned again, reaching out and placing his hands gently against the sides of your head, urging you forward, pleading wordlessly. You looked up and met his gaze, staring down at you with pure black eyes, hungry and needful, almost violent in their gleam. His lips were parted and he breathed slowly and heavily through his mouth, his chest heaving.

One long shiver coursed through his entire body when you finally bent your head and took him into your mouth. Your eyes had been just as hungry as his and you devoured him ravenously, sliding your lips up and down his hard length, feeling every ridge and sinewy knot beneath the skin. You let your saliva pool on your tongue and spread it liberally over his shaft, slipping your mouth down until your nose was pressed into his hair, and then pulling back slowly with a long sucking motion, before diving right back down. You took him into your throat and coaxed him with the muscular contractions you could produce, summoning the load from him. You pulled back once more and heard him grunt and then groan again, feeling his cock swell further in your mouth.

“Not yet”, he breathed, desperately pulling his throbbing hardness from your mouth. He was going to explode if you didn’t stop and he had very precise intentions for his seed. It was not to be wasted.

A few more loving licks along his cock was all you had time for before he grabbed your shoulders and brought your to your feet. Once again, he pressed your back against the oak tree harshly.

Simon slid down your body onto his knees, his tongue delving quickly into your naval, and then dipping down to the edge of your pink panties. As he nuzzled your sex through your shorts, he slipped off your shoes and socks, his big, calloused hands slipped leisurely up your legs. From your ankles to your knees he teased your skin with his fingertips, a slight tickling across the backs of your knees. His hands reached up behind you, grabbing your ass and pressing your body to his face. Simon grabbed the loosened waistband of your denim shorts, brought them down smoothly and you stepped out of them, arching your back against the tree for stability. Just as quickly he brought his hands back up and grabbed the elastic band of your panties and brought them down, baring your completely to his eyes.

Ravenous.

Leaning his head forward, he placed a firm lip kiss above your cleft, inhaling your scent deeply as he pulled away. Driven by your smell, he lunged at you, biting into your hip, the last vestiges of his self-control being all that stood between pleasure and pain. A surprised gasp, followed by a soft moan, answered his bite.

The rain began to come down heavier, the canopy of the forest barely slowing the drops. A cool wind picked up, twisting through the trees like a sentient being, seeking and finding the two lovers. You both shivered, but only partly from the chill.

Simon picked up your right leg and placed it over his shoulder, spreading your for his kiss. His tongue moved out slowly, finding your clit, engorged and reddened. Pulsing with animalistic desire. You raised your head and cried out, one arm bent back along the trunk of the tree, the other holding his head. You involuntarily ground your pussy onto his face, hard against his mouth. Your left leg nearly buckled when he curled his tongue around your clit and gently sucked it into his mouth, coaxing your orgasm in much the same way you had attempted to bring his. He sucked at you softly, yet voraciously. He was a man starving for you, trying to engulf you entirely into himself. A deep, resounding growl rose from his throat, the air vibrating from his lips and sending you once again over that edge.

You let out a small scream just as a distant clap of thunder began to rumble over the forest. You rode the waves of the thunder as it faded away. You cried again, another orgasm ripping through you, pulling your entire being to your centre. To his mouth.

The tree bark was rough on your back, possibly cutting your flesh, but you were beyond caring. You leaned forward, pressing harder to his lips, and then slamming yourself back against the tree in pure wantonness, over and over. There was no pain. Only blinding pleasure.

You didn’t realise it when he brought your leg from his shoulder and back to the ground, so lost in ecstasy. Your body trembled still, the remnants of the climax still rippling outward from your core, as you sagged against the oak, eyes closed. Every nerve in your body refocused its intention to carrying on the devastating feelings coursing through it.

The ripples were coming slower as the thunderstorm grew ever closer. You tried to sink into the tree, to feel everything at once. You felt the cool rain dripping on your skin, a trailing drop running to, and then going around your nipple. You curled your toes into the wet, mossy ground. The soft murmur of the rain on the leaves sang to you.

A loud, obnoxious clap of thunder brought you out of your reverie and your eyes snapped open. You gasped, startled, as you realised that you were face to face with Simon again. He was gazing at you with a predatory gleam in his icy eyes.

In one move he was against your body and inside you, sliding up into you as you stood against the tree. With his hands on your hips Simon raised your body and lowered you onto his cock, thrusting himself madly into you, too insistent to care about anything else.

You turned your cheek against the tree, exposing your neck, and he could no longer hold back. A bestial groan escaped his lips, followed by a snarl through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body was wire taut, the force of his thrusts lifting you from your feet, suspended between the tree and Simon. You planted your feet firmly on top of his thighs and rode him, taking each pounding stroke as deep as gravity and flesh would allow.

His eyes remained focused on the smooth curve of your neck, the delicate slope to your shoulder. The need began to slip from the corners of his mouth as he saw and heard your pulse. Simon couldn’t take it. He lunged forward and bit you, hard. Too hard. You cried out, but you never broke your stride. He tasted a small bit of your blood on his tongue and it drove him to the point of rage.

Lightning split the sky just above, with an instantaneous crack of thunder. Not far away from you both, a tree fell, burnt and smouldering. The rain was pounding down on you. The wind drove it down and into the forest, hard against your rutting bodies.

You screamed with another orgasm and he howled with rage, pain and lust as he emptied himself inside of you. Thunder and lightning crashed above you, pale in comparison to the rapacious nature of the beast coursing through both of you. Simon looked into your eyes and saw the lightning flash. You looked into his and saw the truth of what he was. Half man, half beast.

You rode out the storm and the passion, moving slowly, kissing and touching. Caressing. You brought your feet back to the ground, pumping your hips slowly, letting him go soft inside of you as the storm blew away, almost as quickly as it came.

At last, he slipped from your core and he stepped away from you. You said nothing. The rain dripping from the forest canopy, the receding thunder, and your breathing were the only sounds. With his hand he softly stroked your cheek, gazing intently into your eyes. Then he turned and walked away, naked, into the heart of the forest.

You watched him go, wondering if you would ever see him again. Touching your hand to the bleeding bite at the bend of your neck, you winced absently. The pain was negligible, but it would surely leave a scar. A scar that would undoubtedly tie you to him.

The thunder rolled on and a wolf howled in the distance, answered by the howls of many others. Through the canopy of trees you could see the moon trying to peek out from behind the lingering storm clouds.

Only now, it seemed to call to you.

————

[captain-mj]

Og Soapghost?? Maybe with bottom og Ghost?

I was talking about a god x human au in my discord recently and this felt like the perfect time to use it!

Ghost couldn't feel much in his body anymore. It hurt. He knew that. But it was so distant.

A man forced him forward and he could feel spikes of feelings through his body that were vaguely like pain. Rivulets of blood and sweat went down his body.

They made him kneel. People were speaking, but he couldn't understand over the drugs pumping through his body. It was pounding through him.

Roba stood in front of him. Knife in hand. "May your soul suffer for eternity. You could've avoided this. If you just... listened. " He looked a little sad. "Such a fucking waste."

It was a relief. To die. A moment of nothingness that made all of it disappear. The ache in his body. All the pain. Gone.

Then it hit him. Pain in a way he'd never felt before. Vibrating through his body.

He laughed a little because somehow, still not as bad as his dad.

His body spiraled further down despite it not feeling like he really moved.

Ghost hit something soft and sank down into puddles of fabric. Where they touched his skin, everything was fine. No pain. Not even from his mortal wounds. It was all just okay.

Strangely, he found himself falling asleep. The dead shouldn't sleep, Ghost felt, but he fell into it all the same.

This had been an expected turn of events. Eventually, Ghost was sure that Roba would kill him and go to hell. It felt expected at least.

All of that led to him waking up in a bed though. A bed with such soft sheets Ghost wondered if they were made of pure silk or Egyptian cotton. They ran through his fingers like water.

His skin looked.... clean. After seven months of the only shower he got being from rainwater leaking into his cell, it was... confusing. To not just be clean, but be... pristine. Even his nails were cleaned up. No longer broken and chipped with blood encrusted into them.

The robe he was wrapped in was similar. Fancy and the perfect amount of coziness. Ghost's body was... pleasant to be in. The aching in his right shoulder from where his dad had yanked him too hard as a child, the harsh ripped feeling with his ribs, even the dull throbbing of his head from dehydration, all gone.

It was startling.

He took stock of his body first, seeing he very much still had wounds, he just couldn't feel them.

The room was plain. Carpeted with soft rugs though. It was a very pleasant temperature. All of the furniture inside had been nailed or screwed into the floor. The only thing in the room that Ghost could hypothetically pick up and use for a weapon was the robe he had on, his only clothing, or a lamp. The lamp itself was not where most of the light in the room was coming from. It wasn't... very clear actually where all the light was coming from. Even the shadows seemed unsure about it, with some moving severely one way and gently in others. Some objects had two or three shadows, none of which made sense.

Ghost had a weird sensation like he should have a headache but didn't.

A man came in. Ghost's height, but just a smidge shorter. Broad shouldered and striking blue eyes and a mohawk that looked oddly out of place.

Blood. It soaked him. His clothes and face and there were clots in his hair.

"Yer awake." The thickness of his accent and the strangeness of the situation meant Ghost needed a second to really understand him.

"Yes."

"Soap."

Ghost stared at him before he continued. "My name is Soap. You're name is Simon."

"Prefer Ghost." He responded quickly now and he said it seconds before he sent the useless lamp hurtling at Soap's head. It smashed into him and Ghost felt the impact like it had hit him. Pain lanced through him and although it was a familiar type of pain, it still made him choke out a noise from the shock of it.

Soap moved closer, unharmed. Smiling. "My dear Simon. While I find that very amusing, I recommend you don't try to hurt me, okay, mo chridhe?"

Ghost blinked at the man, head spinning even faster. He gingerly felt his face for any soreness, but there was nothing. Just...himself.

Soap was in front of him. He gently started to reach for him before stopping, bloody fingers about to dirty Ghost. Immediately, he pulled back. "You don't know me... personally. But you and I have a very long history together."

Ghost stared at him blankly.

"I apologize for my state. A sacrifice? To the concept of pain? Of suffering? Well, it doesn't happen as often as you might think. And there's a lot of things, gods, spirits, concepts that wanted you. But I could never, ever, let them have you." Soap spoke like his words were honeyed.

Ghost had been in hunting in Canada the first time a mountain lion had observed him. It had been the same feeling. Same fear.

"Now, I know you must be nervous. Scared. That's okay. You can be those things." Soap smiled. Dazzling. Beautiful. It hurt to look directly at it. "But please know and understand that I will never, ever hurt you again."

Again?

Ghost tried to string words together. He needed to ask a question, but what would be the right one?

Soap turned. "I'm going to go wash up. Stay here. Rest. You look tired."

Ghost had just woken up. He did not feel tired. He only felt the fabric against his skin. "Where am I?" Not a good enough question.

Soap smiled. "You are in... well. Heaven isn't quite right. Neither is hell. Human souls do not come here often. But you are safe. I'd level the world. Destroy anything that came into my path. Before I let another being lay their hands on you."

Ghost knew he was telling the truth. Instinctively and viciously. His body started to get colder and he wrapped himself in the blanket as he watched Soap walk away from him. There was the sound of water.

Ghost ran for the door. He tried to get it open. It wasn't locked. It just... wouldn't move. He yanked harder and used all of his strength, feeling it just barely creak. Like a cat, he clawed at the door, trying to get it to just fucking budge.

The water shut off and Ghost fled back to bed to pretend he had stayed in the same spot.

Soap was... handsome. He reminded Ghost of someone he knew from high school.

"How do we know each other?"

Soap didn't look happy. "I am a god."

"My mom was protestant and my dad was atheist and I really doubt the Christian God is Scottish."

Soap grinned dangerously. "Why? Think he's a Brit?"

"No. He'd be Jewish. Seeing as Jesus was Jewish. So. Let's say I believe you." "You should." "Which I don't, what are you the god of?"

"Pain. Anguish. Suffering. At the hands of a parent usually but not always."

"Oh."

"So you know me well. Unfortunately. You're not the person to go through the most pain. Shocking, I know. You're in the top ten. But... it was the past few years where you caught my interest."

Ghost stared at him. "Wasn't conveniently when I turned 18 and therefore it's legal was it?" It was a shit joke. One mostly done to throw Soap off. To try to get him to stop staring at him the way he did.

"Nah. You were actually 20 already. You put yourself through more pain and I was there again. I saw you again. And you had... filled out. Got taller. Older I should say. You were... gorgeous." Soap looked at him with literal hearts around him. They formed out of smoke.

Ghost didn't want to know what he considered his love language. If it was anything like what he was, Ghost imagined the next eternity living in agony with the promise of love hanging above his head.

"I see."

"Yes. I will admit that I'm wretched."

"You could've stopped it?"

"No. Not at all. You think I like letting children get hurt? Never. But I am the god of pain and anguish so I am there. I watch and I tip the scales and when I can, I bring karmic justice. But right now, I am wretched for not stopping you from being killed. But Simon, you must understand that I simply wanted to protect you. Now I can. Now I can bring you to my bed. Love you properly."

Ghost felt the floor fall from beneath him. His panic must've been clear on his face.

"Not right now." Soap said it so loudly it made Ghost flinch. He quickly dropped the volume. "For now, it is more than enough to know you are... safe. Unable to feel pain. Within my reach, though not in my grasp yet." He reached forward, fingers gently touching Ghost's cheek. It sent such a visceral feeling through Ghost. His nerves reacted. The touch drowning everything out.

It lingered far longer than it should.

"You're tired, aren't you?"

Ghost gasped, trying to find air for his lungs. "Wait."

"Just rest. Your body is so damaged. It's going to take so much time to stitch you together, but I promise I will do it with all the love and care needed." Soap took consciousness away from Ghost. Gently, careful to let him drift into it. Like threads.

Ghost woke up with most of his wounds healed or healing. They did not all heal cleanly, leaving scars, but they were done. Not even tender.

Soap slept next to him, slowly breathing in and out.

Ghost tried to escape again, scrambling at the door. He so desperately wanted to get out of there. To get confirmation this was fake.

"The door only opens for Gods." Soap mumbled from where he was in the blankets. "Come back to bed, Simon."

"Don't call me that. Whatever bullshit you're using to make this door act like this is probably some stupid trick. Something heavy on the other side."

Soap got up and walked over. "You think you're about as strong as I am right?"

"Probably."

Soap opened the door with ease. There was nothing on the other side but hallways. And a few cats. "Easy, peasy. You're human. My human. So it won't open for you."

Ghost watched Soap close the door. No latching, no locks. He tried to open it and it wouldn't budge. He kept asking for Soap to open it again, trying to find the trick to it. Soap was infinitely patient.

Soap put his hand on the knob. "Turn it."

Ghost turned and opened the door. Easily. He tried again with just his hand. Nothing. The knob was too old to have any fingerprint technology or some other tech thing.

Ghost looked at Soap who just shrugged. "Told you. If you want to go outside, we can go."

"Yes. I'd... like that."

Soap nodded. "You shouldn't go out in just a robe. Let me get you clothing."

Ghost nodded and watched Soap go to a door that hadn't been there before. He got clothing out and got on his knees, helping Ghost who followed the silent orders automatically.

Soap offered his arm.

"No." Ghost was not going to hang off him like arm candy. "I'll walk next to you."

Soap frowned. "Simon."

"No."

"It's to keep you safe. How about we hold hands?"

"No. Don't touch me."

Soap sighed. "I can't say no to you. Just stay close. If someone takes you away, they might hurt you."

Ghost did stay close to Soap. Mostly because Soap stayed really close. Things did watch Ghost. Things that clearly were not human. Not animals.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

Soap led him to a kitchen. The doors didn't make sense. Ghost felt the world start to crumble around him.

Oh fucking hell.

This was real.

Soap got him food. It was leaves with something red over it, most likely salad dressing. He added some meat to the side and gently led Ghost back up. Ghost grabbed his arm and followed him.

Soap sat on the bed and watched him eat.

Ghost enjoyed the food. It tasted good. Mostly, he was trying to pretend this wasn't happening.

Soap motioned for Ghost to shower once he was done. His clothes mysteriously disappeared besides the robe. He laid on the bed again, sinking about into the softness. Music started to play. Beautiful music.

Ghost felt Soap laying next to him. Both staring at the ceiling.

"You like the stars, right?"

Ghost nodded. "I do."

Soap flicked his hands and the ceiling started to swirl until they were exactly like his stars from home.

Ghost started to breath harder. This was insane. All of it. But god, it was so nice to not feel pain.

Soap turned to him. "Simon. You're feeling something I don't understand."

"I don't want you to hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're capable. More than capable. What could I do to defend myself?"

"Simply tell me to leave. I adore you. I'll do anything you want. Anything to make you feel comfortable."

Ghost was silent for a while. They laid there a long time. He wasn't sure how long. Must've been hours. Just watching the stars. It was horribly pessimistic. Evil almost. But he knew if he didn't give Soap what he wanted, he'd take it eventually.

"Take what you want."

Soap looked at him, strangely passive. "Alright." He got on top of him, cradling his face. "I love you, Simon Riley."

Ghost looked away and let Soap pull the robe away. Let him trail his fingertips over him. He kept waiting for the pain. For roughness. Instead, Soap carefully prepped him. He pushed in one of his fingers, coated in something slick that felt warm. His mouth stayed busy on Ghost's stomach. With a gentleness that felt so foreign from the literal god of pain, he sweetly opened Ghost up for another finger.

The stretch felt... divine. It got a tiny groan out of Ghost that Soap quickly kissed him to swallow down. "I love you. I'll prove it. I have all of eternity to show you pleasure. To make up for all of the pain you've felt."

Ghost gasped as he felt him go deeper. Pleasure sparked up his spine as he was prepped. It was overwhelming and amazing and it felt so damn good. All too soon, he was pulling out those magic fingers and leaving Ghost empty and wanting more.

Soap hiked Ghost's legs up. "You might feel a bit of pain. I'm sure you're familiar with this."

Ghost bit his lip and nodded. "Be as rough as you want. I'm sure my pain is good for you."

Soap grabbed his hips and slid into him. Slow and steady. "Simon. Simon. Come now. Do I need to come out and just say I want to spoil you?"

There was no time to adjust before he carefully rolled his hips, making Ghost arch from pleasure. It spun and ran through him, too intense to be natural.

Soap held him close and kept going. Loving. The word loving came to mind. It was so focused on Ghost in a way he wasn't used to. There was this dizzying lack of anything but pleasure. He dug his nails into his skin to ground himself but Soap pinned him by his wrists. The change of angle meant Soap just brushed his prostate in just the right way and Ghost slowly felt something in him start to crack.

So good.

So good...

"I'd never hurt you. I only want you to feel pleasure. I'd keep you like this for all eternity if I thought you'd be happy. I'd dedicate my existence to pleasuring you. Whatever you'd ask of me. My mouth, my body, my hands. I've spent so much time learning what I can. What makes men feel good. what would make you feel good. I know every nerve of your body. Ever reaction of the flesh."

Soap twisted his hips and Ghost cried out, the stars in his eyes mixing with the stars from the ceiling. His legs shook where they wrapped around Soap.

"Faster..."

Soap grinned. "There you go. You'll learn to love me. I promise. But until then, whatever you want, you get. I'll spoil you. Ruin you. No one else will be able to compete." He did go faster. It was perfect.

Ghost felt his thoughts disappearing and being replaced with just...

Soap kissed him and stayed at the right pace until Ghost had to turn his head to catch his breath. He reached down to finish himself but Soap pushed it away. "No. Just this. I know you can. Until then, just keep enjoying the feeling okay? You don't do anything but feel."

Ghost whined, feeling the pressure in his lower gut. He needed to finish, but he understood Soap's point in that he didn't want it to end. Maybe he could be happy doing this forever. Just taking and taking and...

Ghost couldn't think anymore. His body just wouldn't let him, taking over his thoughts.

"Soap. Soap. Soap. Soap." Simon mumbled before throwing his head back, coming all over both of them. The moment overstimulation started, Soap stopped, pulling out. He pushed his hair back before going to tuck himself back into his pants. "Not going to finish?"

"Don't see a reason to as long as you did."

"No. Finish."

Soap paused and stared at him before slowly wrapping his hand around his cock. He started to stroke himself but kept eye contact with Ghost. He came all over Ghost's chest.

"Good.' Ghost muttered, relaxing. "I need another shower."

[articdelilah]

Hello there (●’◡’●)ﾉ may I request a teen(?)! Belle headcanons. The ikemen princes see her as a little sister figure. Maybe she's 14 to 17. It'll be funny to see her act bratty and chaotic to them once she gets comfortable but she does know when to get serious. Loves fun, food, and maybe she finds smth she wants to do while being there. Maybe she wants to be like one of the princes and handle sword, or maybe a doctor. It could be anything tbh, just want to see little sister fluff.

✮ A Little Trouble ✮

Platonic! Ikemen Princes x Teen! Reader

Hi!! Thank you sm for requesting!! I love the idea and I’m sorry if I went a little off the topic of the request💞 I would have finished this yesterday but tumblr deleted my work :,(

I did take on a little more calm approach to the stories so please feel free to request again for anything more specific!

Foreign affairs faction

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Clavis can’t help but burst out laughing when he first saw the girl; giggling about “Is there no pure hearted adults left in Rhodolite?

His interest was peaked however at Sariel’s choice of Belle. This meant that Clavis became Belle’s unofficial guide for the first weeks of her stay.

It wasn’t very long until Belle realised how much Clavis loved to prank his brothers and now her (his newest victim). He loved how the girl could get so bratty and chaotic at times, she was simply so entertaining!

Belle endured the whole list of Clavis’ pranks. Potholes, jumpscares, eating cupcakes with horseradish in them (twice) and the list goes on.

It wasn’t until one day that Belle simply had enough. She screamed at Clavis to leave her alone before slamming the door of her bedroom in his face. It was only a couple seconds later that Clavis’ grin turned to a frown, slowly walking away from the girl’s room.

A couple of days went by without Belle seeing Clavis. It was strangely quiet. No pranks, no laughing and definitely no jumpscares. She started to miss the purple haired man’s light hearted pranks and contagious laughter.

Obviously Clavis hadn’t disappeared, he had to make sure that Belle was safe and comfortable so he watched from afar.

Shreds of colourful paper, markers and washitape sprawled all over the Belle’s bedroom floor. She laid on fluffy cotton rug, kicking her feet in the air as she doodled a drawing of a very familiar purple haired man in the decorated page. It wasn’t long before Belle caught a whiff of vanilla surrounding her and the sound of the door closing caught her attention. She looked up to see Clavis carrying a plate of heart shaped cookies, placing them on the ground next to Belle before plopping to lay down next to her. He started to rip pieces of coloured paper too, sprinkling glitter on every surface of that once white page. Clavis’ paper soon filled with messy handwriting, clumsy drawings and too much glitter and stickers to count. The girl couldn’t help but laugh “I didn’t know you knew other languages!”. Clavis simply chuckled “Clavese is the mosy rare language in the world! Only two people understand it. You can be the third.” Clavis didn’t have to finish his words as the girl’s eyes glistened with excitement and her head nodded quickly.

Chevalier was the most displeased. As you can imagine.

Chevalier had shown no interest in the new Belle. Since she was a teenager, Chevalier saw her as incapable. Going out of his way to ignore her, but Belle wasn’t giving up that easily . She followed Chevalier sometimes, or simply watched as he finished his work for the day.

The new Belle always remembered to ask about his day, if he remembered to eat and even bought cookies that Yves helped her to make for him. If he ‘forgot’ to eat, he would get an earful of why eating was important (as if he was a mere child who didn’t understand the importance of eating).

Chevalier admired the new Belle’s courage to scold the Brutal Beast over things so minor and soon he felt a weakness sprouting in his icy heart. His weakness being her.

He enjoyed how her voice filled the usually cold air of the faction’s office, her giggles and deep analysis over very minor things. She was the only one Chevalier allowed to ramble to him if she so desired.

He trusted her to invite her to his own private library, watching her curious eyes linger on the golden lettering of each book. Books about politics, romance, plays, novellas, poems and much more littered the shelves of the room. This was part of Chevalier’s little world that he was willing to share with Belle.

However, Chevalier didn’t allow Belle to slack at her new job. In fact, he made sure she did all of Sariel’s homework and read the books assigned to her. Sometimes coming into her room with an icy glare which told Belle all she needed to know.

The bright moon was covered by grey fluffy clouds, rays of its light peaking through the ashy curtain. The pink bedroom was dark, only the light of the brightest star shining through to illuminate its light on the yellowed pages of Chevalier’s book. Belle sat on the floor under the window. Earlier the same day, she had expressed her desire to want to understand Chevalier better; wanting to see the world through his eyes. She had asked the man to train her with a sword but she only got a glare in response. Therefore she had taken the liberty to take steal a book of his from his private library. It wasn’t anything she would normally read but it was the first book she grabbed. Her eyes were glued to the page, reading each word intently with furrowed brows. “Draconian? What does that even mean?” She muttered angrily; so focused on the stolen book that she didn’t realised her door was open revealed a tall blonde man standing in its frame. It was only when she heard a noise that sounded oddly like a snort that she looked at the doorway. Her eyes widened but before she could muster an excuse, Chevalier beat her to it and spoke with a small smile-

“Try reading a book written for your age.”

Luke made sure she was protected. I mean, you can’t blame him. A young girl having to live in a dangerous palace? THE SAME YOUNG GIRL THAT IS BELLE AS WELL?? He knew he had to do everything possible to make sure she was safe.

Imagine his happiness when the new Belle confessed her love for food and honey! That was the moment that really brought the two together.

Belle found the way Luke attracted animals as fascinating, trying to bring him to the woods to lure any cute animals or just have a look at them up close.

Due to this, Belle had taken a hobby of drawing the animals she saw around Luke and dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. She knew she had to work hard if she wanted to achieve her goal.

Luke tried his hardest to support Belle with her studies assigned by Sariel. He went as far as trying to study with her but ultimately failing and convincing her to take a nap outside instead.

When she told Luke about how she wanted to learn more about animals, he was very delighted. Due to his talent of attracting them, Belle learnt a lot about all kinds of forest animals.

It was a calm summer afternoon. Bees buzzed from one blooming rose to another, collecting pollen for their hives. As the bees were busy, Luke and Belle were doing quite the opposite. The two laid side by side under a tall oak tree, resting in the shade as if Belle wasn’t supposed to be in one of Sariel’s lessons right now. The golden beams of sunlight peered through the leaves, the sun directly on Belle’s cheek leaving a warm kiss on her skin. They weren’t the only ones resting under this tree however as earlier that day a dog had followed Luke to the palace. The big dog had chosen to spread its shaggy body and large paws on Belle’s lap, making her unable to get up even if she wanted too. “I had this weird dream where I was a bear and you were a bear too” the [H/C] girl began “We were in a cave and I was really cold. But you came and hugged me! I felt much better” she smiled at the sweet dream and Luke couldn’t help return the smile. It was times like these were life felt the way it should; Simple.

Nokto tried to stay away, mostly because of his reputation. He was fine with Belle and engaged in quick chit chat with her but nothing too long.

That was until he was strolling through the Rhodolite gardens when he heard soft crying. He simply couldn’t ignore the sound which led him to find Belle crying on a bench on the far right of the palace.

The 7th Prince sat on the bench with Belle, saying with his usual grin for her stop crying and smile. Belle simply looked up at the man before turning her head away, mumbling that he wouldn’t understand.

After a while of silence, Nokto asked more sincerely. “What’s going on?”. That was when the new Belle started to explain how, while she was happy to be Belle, she had to leave all her friends and family behind. She missed them and fortunately Nokto knew something about missing family.

“They’ll be there when you come back, no need to cry now”.

That day forwards, they started to talk more before kind of became inseparable. Just like twins, communicating by pulling silly faces across the round table or bickering over the best flavour of pie.

Nokto liked Belle’s chaotic personality, he enjoyed picking small fights and such. One of their favourite activities being chasing one another. Loud laughter filling the halls as Belle fell victim to Nokto’s tickling.

It was only when Nokto realised how close they became when he started to laugh. Belle had started to pick up on some of his habits like calling Chevalier ‘King Highness’ and trying to outfox Sariel (unfortunately that didn’t work). He was happy because she was happy.

However sometimes there were moments where no laughter was heard, no smiles shared and no trance of joy between the two.

Quiet steps filled the air of the palace, the sneaky fox trying to escape the place before a small voice stopped him in his tracks. “Nokto!” The voice called out. Nokto turned slowly to the voice, the red moon’s light casting his face in its bloody glow. A moment of silence passed before the cream coloured marble echoed loud clicking from Belle’s hard shoes which she had put on just a minute prior. When she reached the white haired man, the young girl wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. The Prince’s whole body tensed before relaxing and hugging the girl back. No words were needed to make them both understand. She simply had a nightmare, he simply had to stay.

Not proofread and I’m thinking of making a masterlist. Anyways,I hope you enjoyed!! Goodbye my Doves 🕊️

If you like my work, feel free to requests!

[sourpatchys]

Chapter three: Blood

Time: Quarry

Rating: nothing explicit. Mentions of walkers and death.

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: a magnetic pull, and a nights rest. The two survivors are growing closer by the day.

A/n: this took much longer than I had hoped for! I’m going to try my hardest to get the next chapter out much faster haha, hopefully the wait was worth it!

Guidelines masterlist Daryl!Masiterlist

The camp was in utter ruins when Daryl had returned.

Walkers were clawing their way into rib cages, ripping away the flesh and bone— screams echoed throughout the hills and trees, begging— pleading for help.

Any negativity Daryl had, from Merle, the weird fucking nursing home or the pieces of shit he had to live with— it all fell away in an instant. He was firing, shaking, even screaming— his body moved on pure instinct shuddering in a way he had never experienced before.

He was fighting for his life— for the life of others. Ripping arrows through the air, his eyes frantically searching for an end.

The way here was calm and quiet. He was pissed— angry and upset. His brother was gone and all he had to show for it were the people who left him to die. Walking home on an uneven trail, kicking the rocks under his shoes, cursing any god that would listen for ruining any life he had left.

The closer they got— the more Daryl started to pick up his speed. His muscles began to tense, a hot swarm of fire ants lighting up under his rugged skin. Something in his mind— in his body— started screaming, yelling at him, telling him to move faster. It felt as though he had lost all control, his legs were moving before he could even wonder why.

The sun had set by the time the small misfit group had returned, its burning rays hidden under the horizon, leaving terror in its wake.

He wasn't sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish— smashing in the heads of the dead with anything he could get his blood crusted hands on. At points he used nothing but the soles of his boots, caving in the skulls of the monsters he'd come to despise over the passing few months.

The blood was warm, washing over his burning skin like a safety blanket. Each pass of his fists, his axe or his bow, lightening the load of horror little by little.

It felt as though it had lasted hours, the adrenaline making every move he took feel slow— as if he were a movie on rewind— unable to reach the end.

Daryl's skin was sticky, his face was hot and his heart felt as though it was going to rip out of his chest. He was looking for something— static electricity was shooting through his brain like lightning, unwilling to stop, forcing his body to move— refusing to let him rest for even a moment.

His vision was blurry, fading lines together— the overwhelming darkness of the night only worsening his disheveled state. It felt as though he were having a panic attack, unable to catch his breath, chest caving and screaming for the release of pressure.

The moment he saw the group, huddled together and checking for injuries— something in him stilled.

He wasn't sure what did it, be it the proof that there were survivors, or the overwhelming pull of knowing everything was finally over— but the static left, replacing itself with cotton.

—

The attack on the camp alerted everyone to the dangers of staying still— something had to change and it had to change fast.

You weren't sure if you had ever felt that level of panic in your life— the overwhelming feel of being alone— forgotten.

It didn't make sense— nothing about your mind or your body's reaction to the chaos made any fucking sense. You understood the fear— the urgency of safety and the pull of death.

But why— why did you feel so utterly alone? You weren't alone— not even slightly. The entire group was with you, witnessing the carnage and bloodshed. They all saw Amy being ripped apart, her curdled screams for help. They all saw the ripped muscles and pointless deaths. Hell— they protected you! Killing any of those vile things that got near you.

Your mind was in a haze— unable to focus or understand. You felt like a child lost in a grocery store. The yelling of those who had left, running into camp from their mission and joining you in your fight for survival— it was the only thing that threw you out of your mangled state of mind.

Sleep did not come easy that night. The corpses of your newfound friends still littered the outside, rotting into the ground and killing the grass below.

Your pillow felt as if it were filled with rocks, your blanket cut into your skin like needles— and the ground felt twice as hard.

Part of you wondered how Daryl was doing.

Perhaps it was a way for you to distance yourself from the carnage, but you still couldn't help but wonder if he was okay. Merle hadn't come back that night, his presence erased entirely, never to be spoken of again.

Sighing in defeat, you sat up, ripping your needle pointed blanket away from your clammy skin and making your way towards the outside world. You didn't allow yourself a gander. Your eyes focused solely on your slippered feet, making a slow crawl towards the bright blue tent in the other side of camp.

The smell that plagued your nostrils was almost enough for you to call it quits— the undeniable rot and decay rising from the soil. Even without the visuals, it was impossible to ignore.

But the sight of that closed up tent door kept you right on track. It was like a pull— a magnetic connection that you couldn't ignore.

"Daryl?" You whispered, your index finger bent, tapping lightly on the closed up mesh. "Are you up?"

There was shifting behind the blue door before the zipper eased its way down, the small sound echoing through the hills, daring you to make another.

“What do you want?” His voice was gruff, his southern lull deeper than you had ever heard it before.

“I wanted to see how you were doing?”

His milky blue eyes looked you up and down, casting a spell of unease, unsure of what to make out of your nightly visit.

“Why?” He asked, finally removing his eyes from you and looking around at your surroundings. Unzipping the door all the way and stepping back. “Get in here, you don’t need to be out there.”

Thankful for the separation, you stepped inside, plopping yourself down on the hard floor and crossing your legs— unsure what to do with yourself in the new environment.

Daryl sat himself across from you— mimicking your own actions from the day before, as he turned on his bedside lantern, placing it between the two of you.

“I couldn’t sleep— I got to thinking about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

His eyes were unreadable, staring right through you.

“You never answered me.”

Grunting, the archer leaned back in his hands, pulling his eyes away from you once more, choosing instead to look up at the makeshift ceiling.

“M’fine. Couldn’t sleep either.”

It was silent after that, though it wasn’t unpleasant. You found yourself calmer than you could ever recall being before, sitting tight in a broken down bright blue tent.

Feeling more comfortable, you allowed yourself to stretch, pulling your legs out from underneath you as you adjusted.

���Tomorrow— whatever we end up doing, and wherever we end up— can I leave with you?”

He stared at you, unsettled— confused by the request. Though, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny you.

“Whatever.”

A warmth unlike any you had ever felt seeped into your skin, glowing and trailing along through your veins. A smile— small yet true— made its way onto your face, a gleam of hope finding itself inside you once more.

“Thank you Daryl.” You beamed, placing your hand on his knee.

Soon enough you found yourself drifting, your eyelids growing heavy as your face began to tingle. It didn’t take long before your once restless night became something else entirely.

Next chapter

[steampunkforever]

At its most basic structure gunfire is just minerals (glorified rocks) being thrown really fast. In this aspect, there is very little difference between a specops death squad decked out in NVGs murdering you with suppressed smart-aiming Next Gen battle rifles and some brute named Grug caving in your head with a chunk of boulder. The only thing that separates the two is the advent of flint knapping, the way they style their beards, and the variation of head trauma they administer you in a dark cave located somewhere in the region people used to call "Asia Minor."

Much in this way, jeans are jeans. The cuts, colors, and styling have changed across the years, but in form and function not much differs from the sturdy workwear gold rush prospectors donned before hitting the slopes of Pikes Peak in 1859 and the black skinny jeans worn by starbucks baristas in Denver as the prepare to enter the Frappe mines.

Of course, much like comparing David's Slingshot to Raytheon's latest missile (an activity reserved for the IDF), much has changed since Levi Strauss riveted together his first pair of trousers. Specifically, the world has seen the introduction of stretch fabrics beyond mankind's comprehension, both a boon to emo band frontmen and a curse to the environment.

Those of you who've followed this blog long enough are well aware of my demographic's use of stretchy jeans to rebel against the oppressive bagginess of the 90s and early 00s. As such, I've been thoroughly indoctrinated into the stretch. Though never extruding myself into a pair of skinny jeans, I've been a strong proponent of slim-fits from the moment I was able to escape the bagginess of the past. Is this bagginess in now? Yes, but so were JNCOS for a time so let's not trust the trend cycle with our lives just yet.

The point is, my denim has always needed to be tight. Wearing pants is outright stressful otherwise. But I simultaneously fully understand that stretch fabrics are bad for the environment. The elastics in your jeans poison the environment with each wash, and will hang out in landfills long after the cotton that bound them has returned to the earth. A conundrum to say the least.

I'll fully admit that I came upon the answer to my problem in a flash of pure coincidence, having thrown a couple pairs of cheap straight-leg 100% cotton jeans in my cart fully intending on using them as throwaways for when I didn't need to think about what I looked like but needed something rugged that didn't look like cargo pants. Little did I know that my denim savior rested in overly stiff jeans that looked baggy on me in the fitting room.

See, 100% cotton jeans are the sort that have what we call a "break-in period," like when you buy a new corvette and it makes you wait a second before you can unlock the full RPM range. Not that I can afford a new Corvette, I'm buying store-brand jeans at America's least glamorous retailer, but you get the point. The break in period lets you put some wear and tear in the denim, relaxing it and letting it loosen up, providing a better, if baggier, fit and getting that "comfortable as an old pair of jeans" feel that we lost in the vacuformed denim era championed by bands like Sleeping with Sirens.

So I broke them in. I ignored washing instructions entirely, I rewired old cars in them, I didn't care about them and I showed them that, which in hindsight I realized was probably the best thing I could've done for them. Stiffness softened to structure, the color faded pleasantly, and rather than looking and feeling awkward, the jeans began to conform to my body. Hefting a cast iron intake out from under the hood of a car that shares a birthday with your parents is great for getting denim to fit just right. Highly suggest treating these jeans like you don't care for optimum results.

Of course then comes the tightness. The denim fibers loosen over the break-in process, and which would make them baggier, and these were already straight-leg jeans, a shape not intended for tightness. And I need my jeans tight. The secret to getting a slim fit was also achieved on accident: I once more ignored washing instructions and threw them in the dryer without looking at the tag.

Denim from brands who care about their image is often treated with anti-shrink solutions in order to maintain the general shape of the cut, but my cheap pants did not, and therefore shrunk just the right amount when thrown into the dryer and spun around on the "whatever" setting.

Under this combined abuse, the cotton shrunk where I needed it to, conforming to my curves while retaining structure and ruggedness required of a good pair of jeans. This isn't a new discovery by any means, but personally it was a revelation to find denim that fit snugly without the guilt of microplastic underpinnings.

There really isn't an outtro for this post, a long winded ramble about how I got some jeans to fit, other than some vague point about looking to the old ways for sustainable options to a plastic filled future. I guess it's just nice to find good-looking denim jeans that aren't prestige brands doing their best to make a new corvette look cheap in comparison. That is all.

[lesless]

Sometimes at night I fantasize about being rich enough to afford the pure sensory relief of a house made of all natural materials. When I slide off my house slippers & have to walk across the horrible awful synthetic carpet I imagine instead it’s a polished hard wood or a woven cotton rug. I would be so normal if I didn’t have to interact with nightmare materials on such a consistent basis, I swear. I promise. I would be so normal.

[casavanihomes]

Green White rug is 100% pure cotton rug. Green also has the effect of bringing young vitality into a space. The newest trend in home décor is green rug. Green Rug are a great way to bring nature into your home. -> Material :100% Pure Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Green & White -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.ebay.com/itm/185688301103

[rugsforeverusa]

Classic and considered, black & grey are timeless colors. Grey rugs are stylish and work best when combined with other colors. Grey rugs living room can also be used in various shades for a tonal look. Add luxury and sophistication to your living space.

-> Material :100% Pure Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Grey & Black -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.ebay.com/itm/284222883947

[winterandwords]

Seven snippets, seven people

Thanks for the tag, @oh-no-another-idea! I'm taking these from Project Darwin, the shelved WIP I'm feeling pulled towards working on again...

1

The last stubborn leaves clung desperately to the trees against tearing November winds when Darwin Eaves arrived home for the first time in almost a decade. There would have been a certain poetry to the storm having followed her, but the truth is the storm was here first. Perhaps she invited it to stay though, to distract from her own force of disruption. I’m not saying Darwin could command the weather, but I’m also not saying she couldn’t.

2

A vanishing, a disappearance, is never a one-off event. It aches and lingers with the endless radioactive decay of tragedy until the memory of the person becomes buried under a host of might-have-beens and some leftover if-onlys.

3

Later that summer, Amber and I were lounging in her back garden on a scratchy blanket with satin edging that we’d stolen from one of the spare bedrooms, drinking cartons of sugary orange juice still cold from the milkman’s truck and playing with the kitten.

4

I closed the crack in the curtains and imagined Darwin’s mother, gaunt and fluttering, greeting her daughter with a half-melted flurry of unfinished sentences and her father barely acknowledging her with a voice like slate and not even a hand outstretched.

5

I sat in Darwin’s seat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee that I had stirred three times clockwise, then three times anti-clockwise, before tapping the spoon three times on the rim of the mug and throwing it into the sink. That August, I learned to like the taste of coffee and developed a caffeine habit that no twelve-year-old should have.

6

The soundtrack to those months was piano music. Sometimes it came as a gentle arpeggio breeze floating to meet the evenings as they began to close in and sometimes a rolling ocean of pure, raw intensity that I later learned was Mrs Eaves playing. I have never been able to equate that aching fullness of sound with her slightness, her compulsive reserve, the almost-apology of her being.

7

I sat down on the rag-woven rug with cotton string tassels in the middle of the floor and the whole room became my altar, vanilla and cinnamon-scented sacredness, holding its hand protectively over the mouth of a thousand secrets.

Tagging @a-fox-who-writes, @asher-orion-writes, @bright-willow-ravine, @blue-kyber, @dxrlingdaydreams, @happystarfishnightmare and @marthawrites, if you'd like to do it 💜

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[samsexualdeancurious]

Sugar-Sweet

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Words: 1,014

Summary: Y/N and the Winchesters are wrapping up a hunt at a carnival.

Warnings: Fluff, smol case fic.

Written for an Angel request.

---

“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” you say, eyeing the bag of blue and pink cotton candy in Dean’s hand.

He shrugs and shoves more in his mouth, eyes never wavering from their lock on Sam. The younger Winchester is talking to a security guard, laying down a distraction so you and Dean can slip past to grab the cursed doll that’s sitting on the shelf of the carnival fortune teller’s tent.

“They’re on the move,” Dean announces around a mouthful of dissolving sugar as he stuffs his bag of candy in his pocket.

Sure enough, Sam and the security guard are walking. As soon as they’re out of sight, Dean loops his arm over your shoulders and pulls you along beside him towards the tent. You lean into him, laughing at nothing as you keep an eye out for more security guards. Most of them are towards the parking lot, though, as the carnival winds down for the night. There aren’t any in sight and soon Dean is lifting the flap of the tent to allow you inside.

The interior is dark for a moment as you slip your flashlight from the inner pocket of your jacket and turn it on. The pale beam illuminates an elaborately decorated red and gold interior, set up exactly as it was earlier in the day when you sat across the small round table from a trembling old lady wearing several pounds of costume jewelry and had your palms read. She’d rambled on about your love line while you nodded along. The floor is layered with rugs, plush underfoot, and every surface is draped with silky fabrics.

“Where’d you say the doll was?” Dean mutters. He stands close to you in the dark, not wanting to accidentally bump into something and make a mess. He’d fumbling with his own flashlight but it doesn’t turn on when he flips the switch or when he gives it an angry shake. “Fuck. should’ve checked this.”

You ignore your boyfriend’s grumbles and sweep the beam of the flashlight over the rugged bookshelf along the back wall of the tent. The shelves are packed full of props, some for use and some purely for aesthetics.

“Top shelf.”

You center the beam on the doll. It’s creepy as hell, burlap body and head with a lacy dress and button eyes. The dichotomy of the rough fabric skin with the flowery pastel and lace outfit alone gives you the creeps.

“I hate dolls,” you mumble while Dean wraps his hand in a rag and uses it to take the doll down.

Dean studies it and then turns the doll to face you. “Hello,” he says in a high-pitched voice, making the doll wave one arm.

You roll your eyes and Dean laughs, wrapping the doll up tightly before shoving it in his pocket.

--

Sam is waiting outside the tent.

“Got it?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

You nod.

“Good. I bought us some time but I’m not sure how much.”

Turns out, “some time” equates to “no time at all” because a new security guard comes into view right as Dean exits the tent behind you.

“Hey! You!”

“You had one job!” Dean shouts as he grabs your hand, the both of you already running.

“Fuck off,” Sam yells back.

Thank god the fortune teller’s tent is on the edge of the carnival, closest to the street where Dean parked the Impala. You’re sliding into the backseat and the engine is roaring to life long before the security guard can catch up.

Dean whoops, steering the Impala out onto the main streets and into traffic. Sam lets out a laugh at his brother’s antics and you can’t help but echo it with one of your own.

“Time to find somewhere to burn this thing.” Dean pulls the doll from his pocket.

Sam takes it, careful not to touch it with his bare hands. “Should probably get out of town while we’re at it.”

You slump sideways in the backseat. Your racing heart is calming down, the adrenaline leaving your veins. You hate to have almost gotten caught - and for a doll, of all things - but you can’t deny that the adrenaline rush is fun. Still, it shouldn’t have happened. “I call being the distraction next time.”

“I don’t like that,” Dean grumbles.

“I can guarantee I can do a better job than Sam,” you point out.

“Hey!” Sam shoots you a glare with no heat to it. “I even took the time to knock the guy out and tie him up. How was I supposed to know there was another one hanging around?”

“That’s the lookout’s job!”

“I wasn’t the lookout, though! I was the distraction! Two different things. Dean should’ve stayed outside the tent to be lookout.”

You can’t argue with that one. “True. He didn’t even have a working flashlight.”

Sam laughs as Dean’s cheeks flush.

--

Dean drives until well outside the city limits, where he pulls off onto a side road and finds a place to park.

“Let’s burn this thing before one of us accidentally touches it,” he says, eyeing the doll that Sam’s still holding on to.

The burn process is a relatively quick one. Cursed objects, unlike ghosts, don’t usually fight back when facing destruction and the doll is no different. You can’t suppress a shiver when you watch it go up in flames, though.

“Good riddance,” you sigh, leaning against Dean’s side. The night air is chilly but his arm around you is warm and when he leans down to kiss your cheek, his lips are still sticky from the cotton candy. You jerk away with a grossed-out noise and Dean laughs, chasing after you. Sam moves out of the way, rolling his eyes as he kicks dirt over the dying fire.

Dean catches you by the driver’s door of the Impala, arms tight around your middle as he finally presses his lips to your own. You give in, returning the kiss, and can’t deny that you enjoy how sugar-sweet his mouth tastes.

—

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward @onethirstyunicorn

[moonillfated]

.・。.・✭ 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘰 & 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴 ✫・゜・。.

"Even before I met you, I was far from indifferent to you." 🚬

☆ !! Happy birthday @raggedy-dxctor !! ☆

As much as Corin hated summer, it was always a nice view to watch the town nestled amidst rolling hills and drenched in soft hues of fire riding the sunrise, he tracked all streaks of orange blazes and tiger fur sluggishly ascending behind the horizon and overlaying the mountain tops like milkweed monarchs, resin and the plumage of a scarlet ibis. He leaned against his palm and sighed annoyingly as the sky turned to acacia marmalade and tumbleweed cotton candy. Fucking shit, why did his birthday have to be during these heats? The final embers of daylight casted a veil of twilight upon the sizzling asphalt outside the diner, a box of inseparables matches and an empty butterfinger packaging. It reminded the honey haired male of his old treehouse, where it always smelled of burning chalk and late breakfast. He groaned again while pushing himself away from the window and heading towards one of the bar stools, in the cusp of summer's rich warmth a cold fruit punch easily did the trick. They closed about an hour ago, having spend a little too much time with the last remaining visitor - he gave the little girl a jawbreaker after she showed him her Lisa Frank sticker album.

After taking a seat behind the counter and turning of the shitty hallmark sitcom on the old cathode ray-tube TV, Corin took off his apron and threw it aside on one of the pub tables. One of his annotated books was laying open on the wood with condensation rings, passenger to Frankfurt. He grimaced and quickly grabbed it, mouthing a small 'sorry Agatha' while hastily scrubbing off the moisture from the cover. Some other unnecessary and less precious items were placed there earlier during customer service, like an envelope from his neighbor Sherry, who constantly rambled about government conspiracies and how she wanted to hook up with a royal guard. Probably a job rejection, dental records from her ex fiance, or ugly infomercial floral maxi skirt coupons. Corin fetched himself a drink and sipped on the icy cocktail slowly as he waited for the door bell to jingle. There was still time left before he was picked up so he began reading rather lazily, skimming over the pages through round lenses and enjoying his cooling beverage. A calico cat walked past the large windows of the building and Corin found himself smiling softly at the flecked feline, her soft fur was matted, all oriental rugs and marble cake. He hummed as he adverted his hazel eyes from the kitty and continued scanning through the paperback crime fiction.

1975, the outskirts of Sacramento, far away from the shore and bustling turnpikes. His best friend Milo had found an old pickup truck, whose tailgate has clearly been through stuff, abandoned in a messy, green understory. He recalls how the unruly boy handed him the red volume with busted knuckles, scraped knees and a missing tooth. They spent the entire day there as Corin quietly declaimed his new gift with pooh bear bandaged fingers, scrabble boards and a spirograph. If he were being honest he didn't concentrate much on the book, because he already went through it so many times - something about ministers insisting on kittens. Between the idyllic backdrop of their small hometown, was the diner that they spent all their money on to open. With regular patrons beckoned inside by the smells of rich coffee and the atmosphere of pure nostalgia and camaraderie, Corin's eyes drifted to the yesteryear polaroids on the wall. He emptied his glass as he jumped off of the chair to place it in the sink and shoved the piece of literature aside carefully, outside night was beginning to settle as one of the diner's owners started to turn off the fluorescent lights.

As if on cue the entrance signaled being opened, Corin rolled his eyes as he heard the soft thumps of canvas sneakers against tile. "How about you start showing up on time?" The brit snapped playfully and heard Milo scoff, he didn't even have to look at him to see the shrug of his shoulders. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks." Just like last year, the younger male agreed to prepare a birthday night-out while Corin took on the working hours. Corin laughed lightly as he switched off the last lustre of a bulb and turned to face his cocky friend, and just like always that stupid leather jacket squeaked like melting rubber. He noticed how Milo's shaggy black hair was even more disheveled and messy, top crinkled like he's been chewed up by a cow. "Did you get hit by a tractor?" The other clicked his tounge and eyed Corin like he was the most irritating thing he had to deal with. His demeanor was tinged with an edginess that tended to keep poeple at arm's lenght, but Corin found it cringe if anything really. "A baler if you really give a shit." They could go on bickering for the rest of the evening but he'd end up being beaten up like a pinata when the taller male had enough.

"My god dude." Corin ridiculed and grabbed his jacket from off of the hanger by the entry. Milo always had been too reckless and bold for his own good, raven between doves and words sharp like shattered glass. Throwing forks out of ferris wheels, climbing wicker braid utility poles and ever the misfit as Mrs. Corenthal oh so lovingly dubbed him. "Close." He teased and bumped his shoulder against Corin's as he followed after him, the older of the two shoved back against him flippantly. Just across the beanery was Milo's motorcycle, a sleek cruiser with shiny silver details. The tires rutted stubbornly against the hot gravel over the months, oil puddles now way too dry and long gone to see on the concrete. Before either of them considered the idea of a shared buisness, during days of madeleines and holographic boomboxes. They used to play with post soviet comics and pogo balls, when Corin wrapped those stupid sesame street bandaids over Milo's bleeding cheeks on the toilet floor during third period science. It was childhood stratagems, handwritten bonbon wrappers, something short of bittersweet and purple stained.

"You comin' or what?" Corin didn't realize he froze after wrangling the keys out of the locket, quickly jogging up to Milo and taking the spare helmet. Even blindfolded it was familiar to sit on the upholstery leather of the vehicle. Suddenly the blue eyed man shifted and Corin barely managed to grip a chain hanging from Milo's jeans to steady himself as the obsidian colored scrambler leaned to the side. "Can you at least warn me next time?" Flushing barely at the embarrassing yelp that slipped out, hands coming up to safely curl around his waist. A small twitch, but that was all. Finally settling according to the proper safety precautions and squirming around for a solid eleven seconds to get comfortable, Corin rested his forehead against the healthy shoulder of the rider. "Better not drag me off to the middle of the forest again." It was a rather nice suprise sure, but he wouldn't put it past the incendiary to bury him alive where nobody could find his body. An irked grumble is all he got in return, accompanied by a kick to his ankle. "Dick." Corin gritted out through a painful hiss, tightening his hold around Milo's stomach and gazing at the now closed restaurant.

He scarcely registered the engine starting before he felt the upcoming wind on his jaw, fluttering past them as Milo drove across the streets. Summer was hell but this made it bearable, now they were drifting over the highway towards the neighboring city far up east. Furrowing his eyebrows under the helmet and digging his fingers into the belt of Milo's pants it was an obvious, wordless sign of confusion that he hoped the other would get. Great, the guy finally got enough and he was going to end up behind a fucking graffitied dumpster by the side of the road. Ignoring that line of thinking as he pulled himself closer to the rough surface under his face, Corin watched the passing signs and traffic symbols. The zooming of the rolling tires brought back a memory from camp, when he used to smile at all the kites and paperplanes. Soon enough the scenery became brighter with neon shades of red and blue, a metropolitan aurora borealis. He lifted his head up to take in all the surroundings and upcoming tunnels when Milo switched gears to a faster limit. In a quick duck they overtook multiple cars with precise outstrips, fluidly retreating into a straight position. Corin's arms loosened again when the intrepid move was over and the motorbike continued to rush over even cement like before.

Nearly an hour later the two arrived in Memphis, both hunched over the dark two-wheeler. The city's center was busy as always, loud crowds and nightclubs, like a massive lambent slinky. Corin was hardly holding onto Milo anymore, the tips of his palms faintly brushing over his hips as the brash male set a steady pace. It was nice to be back here for a little trip and private party, with luck maybe his corpse wouldn't be vandalized. They drove into a parking lot not far away from where the majority of the people collected like moth balls and dust. Corin was the first to hop off of the seat like always and yanking the helmet down to place it down. His best friend rolled his neck and the snapping joints that popped under the movement made the bartender shiver.

"Are you actually planning on talking to me today?" Corin crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head gayly. Milo just quirked a split eyebrow and continued to lock up his beloved, his baby. "Are you planning on stopping with that whining?" As if genuinely offended by his comment, Corin let out an insulted gasp. Without further words or sarcastic remarks, Milo lazily strolled along the illuminated pedway towards the teeming center of arching magnolias and the Delta's melancholic breeze. 1983, Beale Street. On the eighteenth of August, the two were barely teenagers. Milo's broken wrist held a copy of Robin Run-the-hedge, and the smell of nicotine - charted remnants of tobacco and smoke, still used to bother him. And Corin collected poplar tree seeds behind his tutor's pergola, convinced it was a fairy's cotton hassock. And if they ever held hands because they were scared of losing eachother in the throngs of Tennessee? Well, that was between them and the hopscotch drawings.

"Forgot how vibrant this place is." Corin murmured over the booming music festival close to the sauntering pair. Milo nodded in agreement and nonchalantly jaywalked, flipping off the ruby red stickman as he crossed the avenue. "I'm not paying for your fine." The older scolded and flicked his arm when the they arrived on the opposite side, many shops and all sorts of niteries lined the jammed streets. Under the shroud of an indigo, starless sky they arrived in the heart of Memphis late at night. The charming blend of history and modernity followed the cyan ripples of the Mississippi River, devil-may-care attitude and escapade scars. "Quit acting like you don't already." Milo quipped back, flashing his teeth. That reckless abandon that Corin admired but could never quite embrace, a caged bird unsure of its newfound freedom. A radiant summer afternoon, near the koi pond veiled behind the ivy-clad stone walls of Mr. Corenthal's mediterranean villa - the lady with the polka-dot bucket hat and persian cat Edgar. They forgot their sandcastle toolkit, a bottle of mello yello and some indie blockbuster Looney Tunes strip in her garage. The two ambled down the streets and soon enough Milo abruptly halted infront of a small, tucked away bakery. The lanky male stepped aside, spiked arm cufflinks like a silver vice, and urged Corin to walk inside first. With a suspicious side glance, obviously baiting, the shorter headed over the threshold and Milo followed.

"What is this place?" Corin asked softly as the aroma of pastries and coffee hit his nose. Warm, crisp and cozy. Milo tapped the rim of his glasses, leading him to one of the booths in the corner. "The fuck does it look like to you? Not a fuckin' laundromat is it?" Scooting into the narrow seats was not really a challenge, both of them already had enough practice in their own diner. "Oh shut up." Corin grumbled, throwing his feet onto the bruiser's lap under the table out of spite. An annoyed half snare got caught in Milo's throat as the older pressed his soles into his stomach, sure enough leaving behind pale pattern stains. "Get your fuckin' feet down." He gritted the warning out with a joshing exhale but not actually making an attempt to remove them. Corin smiled and placed them over his thighs, feeling the torn patches of ripped denim under exposed calfs. "Don't push it birthday boy." He knew that Milo didn't really mean any of it but it was always fun to goad, so he applied even more weight onto the other's legs.

After a few minutes of back and forth bickering, a waitress came to take their orders. Milo decided on an espresso, while Corin allowed himself a proper treat. 1981, Cherokee. Beside a babbling brook they buried Corin's hamster and sent out origami boats. Way later the same day when the sun waned, they raced towards a meadow. Doodling in their tattered sketchbooks, penning over 'The taming of the Shrew' each time Shakespeare wrote Sly. The young girl who took their order shortly returned with a tray in her slender hands, with a joyful beam she handed it over. Milo lit a cigarette with his steel zippo lighter and took a single drag before Corin shot him a disgusted look, he was going to get an earful later definitely. The meringue pie arrived, a delicate confection of fluffy sweetness and zesty lime filling. Milo leaned back in his chair as he gazed out of the window at the moonlit cityscape, a contemplative expression played across his usually stoic features. Corin watched him fondly, stabbing his fork into the crunchy top layer of the pie.

It wasn't anything special, or extravagant, or expensive. But it was summer and they were young, it was still Marlboro boxes and slices of pie. They had time, to rewrite more chapters of assay mark romance novels, to freeze more ice packs. Summer lasted only so long, no matter how much they both disliked it.

Yeah, Corin thought looking at Milo, this made it bearable.

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