#considering the atrocities some have on their skin

[berry-s0da]

He’s the prettiest girl at the party

#Mary look away #I wanted to post these but just now found them without watermark #argieblr #enzo fernandez #him and his Facebook mom tattoos #3 lions like 4 crucifixes a lot of corny motivational quotes #like a million religious tattoos #I don’t care I think they’re pretty #considering the atrocities some have on their skin

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The Only Truth... | Part Three

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

There are all sorts of hazards inside a Prisoner of War camp - guards, disease, injury, infection. One that none of you were banking on was the weather itself. Despite it all, and a severe lack of time to linger in one another's presence, you still find yourself growing ever closer to a certain Major.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Disease, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, Kissing, SS Officers, Depictions of Nazi Atrocities Against Russian Soldiers, Threats, Fear, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6337

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April 21, 1945

Despite heeding your request and allowing others to bear the body of the late Freddy Simms, the boy whose name he learned only after his death, from the hospital to the corner of the camp where other bodies were also awaiting transport to the graveyard, Bucky still found himself tremendously sore the next morning. If not for roll call, he would have much preferred to remain on his makeshift sleeping palette tucked beneath the eaves of a fully occupied tent only half-protected from the elements. As it was, the resident goons needed him upright and counted, and so, with no shortage of grunting and grimacing, he had forced himself up and into line.

Considering the overwhelming population present, it was a wonder the guards did not just spend all day counting the prisoners to satisfy their twice daily checks. A few mouthfuls of broth later and Bucky had just lain back down to rest before it seemed like he was having to repeat the arduous process all over again. It had taken another day of rest to recover from his overexertion, but when he awoke this morning, things seemed a little less torturous. The warmth in the sunshine certainly helped, and he felt energized enough to accompany the delivery of the hot loaves of dense, black bread to the hospital. As his eyes scanned the rows of cots in the tent and then the clapboard building, he barely concealed his frown as you seemed nowhere to be found.

“Major, would you mind taking this pail of bandages out back for me? The Nurse seemed to miss them when she collected the laundry this morning.” There was a knowing tone to Chalmers’ request that made him swallow sheepishly, his ears heating up slightly, but he quickly nodded.

Grabbing the rather light pail with the hand of his uninjured side, he walked down the hallway to drop off a loaf of bread in your sparse quarters, brows furrowing at the lack of windows therein, before continuing out the back door. The sight of you crouched beside a basin, sleeves rolled up as you scrubbed at the sudsy rags with a large pot of bandages boiling away on a small fire nearby was so utterly domestic, Bucky could not help but let his mind wander. To imagine you in a kinder place doing something so very mundane without the fear of being shot or starved to death. That was where you ought to be – not here trying to scrub blood and other filth out of tattered cotton under the thumb of SS goons.

Bucky swallowed painfully as you paused a moment to smooth some errant strands of hair from your face and he was able to fully see the painful scars on your left arm. Scars that he had previously caught small glimpses of, despite your best efforts to hide them from him, but the full extent of them made his skin ache in sympathy. That explained why your nightmares featured fire.

Your sharp inhale, swiftly following by the sound of your boot impacting the pail behind you, pulled him from his reverie. Sent his eyes flying back up to see your horrified expression. You were frantically tugging down the rolls of your sleeve as you backed away from him, gait horribly off balance due to the obstacle you had encountered, and he was both afraid you would fall over and that he had offended you. Dropping his own pail, Bucky once again found himself chasing after you across the small, mud-filled yard behind the hospital, sliding his arms around you to haul you tight against his chest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It just looks like it hurt a lot.” He murmured into your hair, hating the way your entire body was rigid and stiff against him.

There was an agonizing, drawn-out silence where the ambient sounds of the camp bled into the intimate moment until finally some of the tension melted from you.

Sniffing indignantly, you muttered against his chest, “it did. Well not at first, I was too busy trying to get out of the damn plane and take my surgical tech with me. But after…” He felt your head bob in a nod against him and he pressed a reassuring hand between your shoulder blades.

“He make it?” Bucky whispered, immediately feeling guilty for prying, but he could not take back the words now.

“Fitz? Yeah, he’s here – helps out at the hospital once a week…” You leaned back in his arms to look at him with dewy eyes, that wicked grin tugging at your lips and the depth of his longing to kiss you took his breath away. “Don’t see him quite as often as certain prisoners, though.” You teased, making him grin warmly in response.

“Maybe I’m still a patient in a way, angelfish. Maybe you’re still healing me.” He had meant to parry your jest with one of his own, but instead all that had come out was a vulnerable truth, and you both stood there, eyeing one another intensely before Bucky felt your arms, previously trapped against his chest, slide around him properly.

The way you pulled him closer should have felt comforting, reassuring, but instead all it resulted in was a lightning bolt of pain ripping through his back and he was barely able to smother the resulting hiss. You pulled back quickly, fairly ripping yourself from his arms as you frowned at him with your hands on your hips.

“John Egan you are still very injured.” You chided, gripping his shoulders to maneuver and guide him back to the stairs before forcing him down to sit on the edge of them.

“Like it when you say my full name, angelfish. Middle name’s Clarence if you want to really give it all you got.” He smirked up at you incorrigibly and you huffed in what he hoped was a mix of fondness with that obvious infuriation.

“Don’t think I won’t add that to my arsenal Major. Now you stay right there, that way I know you’re not off getting yourself into more trouble.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He grinned, loathe to admit it aloud, but it really did feel better to be sitting down.

Nodding sharply, you grabbed his abandoned pail of bandages to add them to the pot of water, fanning the flames of your small fire until they burned hotter to boil off anything infectious, before returning to your bucket of rags. You continued to scrub at them, casting scrutinizing glances his way every so often before transferring them to a rinse bucket.

“Did you really meet the Pope?” Bucky suddenly asked the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he had heard you speak the words to the Simms boy.

“Yes, I did.” You nodded, wringing out the clean rags one at a time before draping them across your ersatz clothesline. “The whole squadron did.”

“You were in Italy then…” He mused quietly and you nodded with a quiet hum of agreement, the pair of you swapping information without giving too much away to anyone who might be listening in. “Well I definitely did not meet the King.”

Your sudden peal of laughter had him both grinning and bristling defensively.

“That far-fetched an idea, hmm, angelfish?” He raised an eyebrow demandingly and your hand pressed against your lips, trying to smother giggles you seemed to be unable to stop. “Alright, alright… If I wasn’t stuck on these steps on your orders.” He threatened playfully, basking in the way that only made you throw your head back and laugh harder.

God, you did not belong in this place.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You apologized as he huffed, coming over to tousle his hair fondly.

It took all his willpower not to press up into your touch like some demanding housecat. Slinging an arm around your waist, he pulled you down to sit on his broad thigh.

“Think all this hard work is making you hysterical, angelfish, take a load off.”

“Bucky…” You murmured, reluctantly holding your full weight off him until he forced your hips down fully.

“Rest dammit, isn’t that what you’re always tell me to do?”

“But you’re actually injured…”

“So were you. They let you rest when this was fresh?” He asked softly, fingertips trailing across the abnormally smooth yet ridged surface of your burned and healed flesh.

Bucky could feel you twitching slightly in his arms, obviously not entirely certain how you felt about his touch on your scar and so he shifted to lace his fingers through yours instead.

“There were too many people to help.” You sighed. “Still are, I–”

“Just sit another minute. Can’t save ‘em all if you’re too tired to stand up.”

Your fingers closed around his as you exhaled shakily, head coming to rest on his shoulder. “I do want to save them all…and it’s never enough.”

“I know.” He whispered squeezing your side, lips brushing against your forehead.

The sound of voices caught his attention then – voices growing louder, growing closer. You leapt from his lap, and he reluctantly released you, assuming a casual posture as you grabbed a long stick to pull sterilized bandages from the pot and dump them into the sudsy water for scrubbing. Two guards rounded the corner, immediately barking at him.

“What are you doing back here?!”

“Hospital staff only, get out of here now.”

“Major Chalmers asked me to assist the Nurse, you can confirm it with him.” Bucky replied with a shrug, watching your eyes widen with curiosity.

“We will go confirm with him together, up.” The first guard spoke again, and Bucky rose stiffly, nodding to you before they led him inside.

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As you awoke the next morning to the sound of rain hammering against the roof, you were filled with relief that you had managed to wash and dry all of the laundry yesterday. It was still waiting in its baskets to be folded, but it would hold until your next free moment. Forcing yourself to feel satisfied with a few slices of the loaf of that black bread that had appeared in your room – you held your suspicions that Bucky may have played a role in its arrival – you dressed and emerged as your door was unlocked, blinking in surprise as Fitzgibbons entered the hospital along with Chalmers and Menzies.

You had honestly lost track of the days, a serious risk in the camp, and the fact that it was now Sunday, his shift and your day of rest, had completely slipped your mind. As a medically trained Sergeant, it was well within Chalmers’ rights to order Fitzgibbons to work in the hospital more often, but an early clash of personalities between Menzies and your surgical technician meant that his presence was only requested on a more limited basis.

“Morning Ma’am. Brought you a book to try and keep you off your feet.” He held out a battered paperback and you shook your head with a fond sigh as you accepted the copy of The Great Gatsby.

“Thank you, Fitz…sure you boys don’t need any help today?”

“You can help us by taking the day off as intended, Nurse.” Chalmers replied in a tone that brooked no argument and you nodded, retreating to your room to sit at the small table to crack open the book curiously.

The selection of reading material in the Red Cross library in camp was limited, dated. This book had been published twenty years ago, and you had a feeling you might have read it before, but it was hopefully going to keep you relaxed and your mind off the dozens of tasks you felt like you ought to be doing instead. Despite your predilection to turn inward and get caught up in an overwhelming sea of introspection, the story proved engaging enough to lose yourself in until a knock on the door jamb startled you.

“Mail call.” One of Bucky’s friends stood there, the blond with the gold teeth, grinning. He had a box tucked beneath his arm.

Confusion bloomed unabated across your face as you had not once received a piece of mail since you had been taken prisoner in January. No one had.

“I didn’t think that we were getting mail…” You slid a piece of scrap paper into the book to save your place.

“We’re not, Hambone, stop confusing angelfish.” Bucky appeared over his friend’s shoulder and snagged the box out from under his arm. “It’s those Red Cross boxes we thought we might get.”

“Man, I just wanted to say it once, still a kind of mail.” He grumbled as he strode back down the hall.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head as he set the box down on your table. “Sorry if he got your hopes up.”

Laughing dryly, you set your book down to pry open the already portioned box – each package meant for two servicemen. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned not to expect anything here.”

Spotting the can of powdered milk you held it out to him. “You take this.”

“Angelfish, why are you giving me your rations?” Bucky eyed you suspiciously and you raised an eyebrow in response.

“You’re healing bones and I’m not?”

“At least take half, put it in one of your old cans…”

Glaring at him a moment, you relented with a sigh, unable to deny the fact that it would be nice to have some to add to the bitter coffee. Digging through the remnants of your last box, you found the empty can from the allotment of powdered milk that had arrived in February and began decanting half of the fresh supply.

“You haven’t gotten a single letter? Not even your parents?” He asked quietly, leaning against the door frame.

Swallowing tightly, you slid the metal lid back into place on the cannister, shaking your head. “Figure things must be pretty bad if they can’t get the mail through. Not that I got a lot of mail before but…” You shrugged and held out the powdered milk to him. “Pretty sure it’s got a hole so use it quick.”

Stepping forward to take it carefully, Bucky’s eyes traced over your face curiously. “No handsome fella desperate for your scented stationery, angelfish? I find that hard to believe.”

You could not help but roll your eyes with a sarcastic noise. “Fellas don’t want girls like me, Bucky. They want some pretty thing waiting back home with the time to write pages long letters in looping cursive and those saucy acronyms and pretty spritzes of perfume. Not girls who spent so much time making a living they forgot to make a life.” Your eyes dropped to study the cans of corned beef, of ham, the fresh box of crackers, and small block of American cheese in your ration box. “I’m sure you’ve got a beautiful girl waiting stateside. Sweet and kind and not a whisp of a scar on her. Doesn’t know the sound of jackboots on floorboards or how to use a parachute or what it looks like when the life leaves someone’s eyes. That’s the kind of girl a man like you deserves, Bucky. To completely forget this nightmare even happened. Not this beat up, grungy, girl who wouldn’t even remember which fork to use at the dinner table–”

You barely registered the press of his lips against yours at first, mouth fumbling against his as you continued your litany of reasons why you were utterly unsuitable for him until at last you became fully aware of his warm palms cupping your cheeks, his kiss growing firmer until you stilled against him. An exhale sighed its way through your nose as the tension seeped from your bones, melting against his tantalizingly firm and broad chest. With a noise of deep reluctance, you forced yourself back, licking your lips slightly.

“You could get yourself in serious trouble doing things like that John…”

“Long as it’s not in trouble with you, angelfish.” He murmured fondly, tracing his fingertips along the curves of your ears before slowly pulling them back, tracing your jaw as he went, your nerve endings shimmering in the wake of his touch. “I just couldn’t bear to hear another word of that horseshit.”

A smirk tugged lazily at your lips, the tender flesh of them still humming slightly. “So if I spout nonsense, I get kissed, is that how this arrangement works?”

He exhaled sharply through pursed lips. “You can just ask, too. No need for all the absurd self-deprecations. Because the ‘fellas’ you speak of are idiots. You are a damn treasure, angelfish. Anyone who can’t see it isn’t worth your time.”

Feeling moisture gathering at your lash line, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him in to lay a firm kiss of appreciation on his lips, briefly glimpsing his look of surprise before your mouths collided. Mindful of his ribs, you slid your other hand to his hair, holding him close as his arms encircled your waist.

“I like this ‘arrangement.’” He breathed against your mouth when the pair of you were forced to come up for air.

“Mmmm. Well you’d better get out of here before someone comes looking for you.” You muttered, not making a move to release him.

“Absolutely.” He replied, only pulling you closer into him.

“Bucky…” You sighed, tone not nearly admonishing enough.

“Thirty more seconds.” He whispered.

The unmistakable and aforementioned sound of jackboots scraping across hardwood echoed down the hall and you started to shove at him. “Goon, goon!” You hissed and he back pedaled quickly to the threshold of the room, cradling the powdered milk under his arm.

“I tried reading that book, didn’t really understand the green light business.”

Chest heaving, you furrowed your brows, watching him gesture sharply to the paperback on the table beside your ration box and you inhaled in recognition.

“I think it’s some kind of metaphor in futility?” You blurted out, a long-lost lecture on the novel suddenly flooding back to your rescue as a guard strode past him down the hall, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Yeah, got enough of that in my real life.” Bucky huffed with easy nonchalance before shrugging. “Well, see you around, Nurse.”

“Thank you again, Major.” You nodded, desperately trying to even out your shaky breaths as Bucky disappeared down the hall and the guard continued out the back door, sending you slumping into your chair in relief.

Your trembling fingers traced the tiny smile that curled at your lips, not at all certain what had just transpired, but things between yourself and Bucky had definitely changed.

What most certainly did not change was the weather. The deluge persisted through the night and into the next day, Chalmers and Menzies arriving mud-splattered and damp after being released from their combines. The humidity was of absolutely no help to Desmond Brown, an infantryman from Pennsylvania who had been battling pneumonia for nigh on a week now. Dusty, as he was affectionately known, only seemed to grow weaker, and you were quite dismayed to note a bluish tinge to his fingernails and around his lips today.

“Won’t be long now.” Menzies uttered as you made your rounds and you nodded silently. “Doubt we have anything to prop him up and make him more comfortable?”

Scouring the hospital with your gaze, you shook your head with a frown. “I’ll move his cot against the wall and try to prop him against it – not the best but better than…” You left the fact that he surely felt as though he was drowning in his own fluids unspoken.

Menzies was smart enough to understand and nodded firmly. “Try and sit with him as much as you can today.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded and the pair of you parted ways to put your various treatment plans into action.

Pushing the cot flush against the wall, even with its occupant still in place, was not terribly difficult. Malnourishment and illness had devoured much of Dusty’s muscle mass, though you did need a moment to catch your breath and recover, given that you too were three months into your POW diet. What proved hardest was keeping the man propped upright. Any time you would leave his side to check on another patient or help one of the surgeons with a task, you would find him slumped to the side or slid down into what he deliriously claimed was a more comfortable position.

Most concerning of all, a soft rattle had taken up residence in the back of his throat, audible with each exhale. It was worryingly known as the ‘death rattle’ and usually signalled the end was not far off. Fetching a cool cloth, you settled him into the most comfortable yet still propped-up position you could manage with a combination of his pillow and blanket and the wall before laying the cloth across his fevered forehead. Dusty blinked his glassy hazel eyes at you once, then twice, before his eyelids fell shut for the last time. His labored, rattled breathing continued on for a remarkable duration, and all the while you sat at his bedside, cradling his hand in yours.

You tried to remember sweet things to talk about – spring and its flowers, family dinners, Hershey bars from his native Pennsylvania, anything at all so he would know he was not alone. The men in the adjacent beds grew quiet, the only sound the insistent rain striking the roof and the fading breaths of your patient until even those were gone too. Confirming Dusty had passed by checking his pulse, you shifted his body to lay flat on the cot and covered him with the blanket, standing with a start to find Bucky leaning against the wall, soaked to the skin, watching quietly.

“You know where his friends are bunking?” He asked in a hushed voice, and you nodded, fishing out his chart to find the number of his combine, providing it softly. “I’ll tell ‘em.”

“Thank you, Major Egan.” You nodded, looking quickly as Menzies arrived to note the time of death as you glanced back at another meaningless loss, wondering when it could all just be over.

Bucky’s knuckles brushed against yours gently and you offered him the ghost of a smile before Chalmers was calling for you. “Try and stay dry, this is perfect trench foot weather.” You gave him a meaningful look, willing him to not become another tally on the death sheet, another hole in the POW graveyard.

Bucky nodded sharply in return. “Doin’ my best, angelfish.”

“Good.” You breathed before rushing off to try and keep someone else alive.

Another night, followed by another day of incessant rain, had the yard outside resembling a sea of mud. It kept everyone trapped indoors, even the prisoners who had been sleeping outside found their fellow men making room wedged between sleeping palettes lest people get swept away in the night. There was no meeting Bucky out back whilst doing laundry, nor any excuse to sneak off to quiet corners for a moment of privacy. There was simply too much to do and so all you were able to share, when he and his compatriots delivered another allotment of black bread that day, was an intense look of yearning before duty pulled you away once more.

The state of the tent had been weighing on your mind as it sagged lower and lower beneath the three-day onslaught of water, and it was no surprise when the canvas gave way the morning of the 25th, a mighty sound of rending fabric echoing through the space. A deluge of frigid, accumulated rainwater poured down onto the three men who had the misfortune of being positioned below the gaping tear, its ragged ends flapping in the breeze. Grabbing some towels of rough cotton, you were rushing along the slickened wooden floor to try and move them, dry them off, when the entire corner of the tent lurched and collapsed with a groan and further cries of distress.

“Help!!” Was all you had the mental capacity to yell in the face of the sight before you, hoping to summon Menzies and Chalmers.

To your immense surprise and relief, a flood of men began to pour in from the yard, most likely summoned by the sight of the collapse, but also perhaps your scream. As the lot of you began to unearth men from beneath the debris, you recognized Bucky’s friend with the gold teeth – Hambone, he had called him – as well as the brunette who had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt over ‘angel face.’

“Where should we put ‘em, angelfish?” Bucky’s voice broke through the cacophony from behind you and you turned back to him quickly, wondering when he had arrived.

“In the hall, towards my room.” You thought quickly on your feet, the very last available space in the hospital coming to mind.

With over half of the tent still intact, you worked with the group of volunteers to reinforce the structure that remained standing and ensure the men resting there were all right. Mercifully, the rain slowed for the first time in days, before stopping altogether. Barricading off the collapsed portion of the tent with the sodden, unusable cots, you turned to take stock of the rest of the patients, pleased to find them resting as comfortably as possible. You were drenched and filthy, but that was a secondary concern. Squelching your way inside, you gnawed on your lip to see a total of eight patients now sheltered in the hall with no bedding to speak of.

The feel of a towel being draped over your shoulders jerked your head to the right to see Bucky roughly rubbing at his dripping curls with a towel of his own.

“I am once again in your debt, Major Egan.” You sniffed, wringing out your shirt slightly into the rough cotton.

“Don’t mention it. I’m guessing the only beds you have for them are out there in Lake Moosburg?”

A small, incredulous snort escaped you despite your ragged state and he huffed an exhausted laugh in reply. Shaking your head with a sigh, you furrowed your brows. “We’ve got nothing but a few more towels, and an abundance of dirty rags and bandages…It stopped raining though.” You tagged on the tiniest piece of good news and lifted your knuckles to rap against the wooden wall for good luck, to help it hold, grinning fondly as he practically mirrored the motion.

“Small mercies. I’ll see if I can convince some of the others to part with their blankets in the name of the unwell. I’ll be back, angelfish.”

“You’re a good man, John Clarence Egan.” You murmured tenderly.

Bucky froze, eyeing you intently, unmoving. Not even breathing for nearly a minute before he exhaled heavily. “Suppose you did warn me you’d weaponize my full name, angelfish…” He rasped, fingers wrapping around your wrist to squeeze in a subtle but emotive gesture, his thumb stroking across the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, making you shiver.

“Sorry.” You whispered, having not anticipated the heaviness of the blow it would land, but Bucky quickly shook his head.

“I look forward to you almost killing me again, soon.” He smirked and squeezed one last time before releasing his grip on you to head outside, sloshing his way around the camp to scrounge up enough bedding to keep the displaced patients comfortable.

A variety of guards and their officers came to inspect the damage throughout the day, Lieutenant Colonel Clark making his presence felt as he appeared on Bucky’s heels and immediately demanded the tent be repaired to provide appropriate care for the men.

The next morning dawned sunny for the first time since the 21st, but the cheer brought by the change of the weather was significantly dampened by the appearance of the skeletal figures of Russian labourers. You had glimpsed them from time to time through the barbed wire of the fence behind the hospital, ghoulish figures forced to work in the kitchens, on camp maintenance and repairs, and burying the dead, but you had never been this close to them before. Clearly summoned to complete the repairs on the corner of the hospital tent, they moved in a slow shuffle, clothing barely more than limp rags around their spindly frames. Rumor had it they did not even receive Red Cross ration boxes, subsisting solely on the scraps provided by the SS camp administrators.

Your heart ached at the sight, and you longed to smuggle them food or something of comfort, but they were, at all times, surrounded by a ring of guards to keep them separate. To keep them apart from the rest of the POWs. Casting sympathetic glances their way, you collected the rest of the cots and bedding they unearthed from beneath the partial collapse and shifted it all outside to dry out in the sunshine, noting the increased presence of guards kept Bucky and his compatriots from dropping by.

You assumed the same would be true throughout the 27th as well, however, shortly after the sun reached its zenith, you straightened from a patient’s bedside to see him leading in an unfamiliar face, the shorter man cradling a bloody hand to his chest.

“McLeod here sliced himself good on one of the ration tins.”

“Sorry to trouble you, Ma’am, it just won’t seem to stop bleeding.” The Scottish brogue tumbling from McLeod’s lips matched his shock of red hair impeccably, even if it was a bit difficult to decipher.

“Take a seat right here and we’ll take a look.” You smiled and gestured to one of the freshly dried cots, wedged between other patients at it awaited the completion of its normal resting place.

As you perched on the edge of the cot beside him, setting a pile of bandages in your lap, you noted Bucky eyeing the crowd of SS guards and their waif-like labourers hard at work in the corner of the tent. Gathering McLeod’s injured hand in yours, you gently dabbed at the blood pooling in his palm, nodding as the depth of his cut was revealed.

“Think you might need some stitches here, let me fetch the surgeon.” You smiled reassuringly, pressing a wad of bandages over the wound, coaxing him to apply pressure to it before approaching Chalmers who was working just a few beds away from the construction zone.

The clatter of tools striking the wooden floor caught your attention before the frail body of a workman collapsed to the ground. Acting on instinct, you surged forward to check on him, a professional hazard when on duty in a hospital. The nearest guard, not quite so tall as the others and thereby twice as mean to make up for it, barked at you sharply.

“Get back, schwester.”

He gave you little warning before the butt of his rifle cracked against your shoulder, making you lurch back in pain and chastisement. The cramped quarters combined with the mud-slickened floorboards to send you sprawling backwards onto your hip, mortified, but as you immediately tried to scramble back up to your feet, a wall of humanity was in your way.

“She’s just tryna do her job, keep your shirt on.” You recognized Bucky’s terse growl first, followed by Chalmer’s British accent, made all the crisper in his annoyance.

“You would strike a woman who is only trying to help an unwell man?!”

Sliding backward across the slimy wood, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“Let’s get you on your feet, lass.” McLeod grasped your elbow with his uninjured hand and hoisted you up despite the way your boots seemed reluctant to find purchase on the ground, holding you steady until you nodded that you were, in fact, stable.

“Nein!” The guard shouted back through the men who had formed a barricade between you. “No help!”

Frowning deeply you balled your fists to see the Russian POW laying in the mud, unaided, unacknowledged by any of the guards or his fellow labourers.

“Nurse, go get cleaned up.” Chalmers’ orders snapped your eyes to his face, and you swallowed tightly before turning on your heel, making your way to the utility room to fetch some water.

You could vaguely hear the surgeon arguing for the man’s life as you transitioned from the tent into the main hospital building, but you narrowed your focus to carefully stepping over the men sheltering in the hallway. To trying not to cry at the meaninglessness of it all. Stopping at your room to grab your wash basin, you looked yourself over in the mirror, sighing as you were thankfully not as mud stained as Chalmers’ order led you to believe. Bucky’s reflection as he peered into the room made you turn sharply to face him, gulping back tears as there were patients just steps away.

“You hurt?” He asked softly, seizing your hands.

You shook your head quickly. “Just a little bruised, but I’ll live.”

Bucky tugged on your hands to pull you against him, wrapping you tightly in his arms. “You’d better.”

Burrowing your face into his neck, you could only muster a nod in reply, clinging to him, careful not to hurt him, until you felt able to take more than just the tiniest sips of air for breaths. As the crushing weight lifted from your chest, you lifted your head to look at him apologetically. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, angelfish, you were just trying to help that poor man.” He sighed, pressing his lips to your forehead. You felt one of his hands leave your back and heard him huff a laugh. “You might want to change your shirt though, your back’s covered in mud.”

Tensing, you craned your neck to look over your shoulder, muttering bitterly. “So that’s what Major Chalmers meant…”

“I’ll get you some fresh water and make myself scarce, too many goons watching.”

Nodding softly, you passed him the basin, hoping the construction would be done soon and things could go back to their bleak yet relative normalcy. As if hearing your wishes for the first time in months, the universe actually conspired to have the repairs to the hospital tent completed that evening, all eight patients returned to the cots in the corner, the hallway cleared. Everyone seemed to breathe a little easier that night as you settled them down for sleep, awaking to yet another gloriously sunny day and finally the chance to catch up on the overwhelming backload of laundry.

Setting your water to boil out back and prepping your wash basins, you returned to the hospital to collect the pails of rags and used bandages, smiling warmly as you found Chalmers in conversation with Bucky about one of the American patients. He sent you a friendly nod without breaking his concentration and you bent down to grab the pail that rested between the central desk and the cot where one of the medium-term residents, Pete Thompson from Ohio, was recovering quite well.

“Nurse, you gotta be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He gushed, as he was prone to do, fluttering his long, dark eyelashes.

The young man had lain it on pretty thick since the moment he had arrived several weeks ago, before traversing a brutal course of bronchitis, which he was thankfully coming out the other side of.

“Oh come off it, Thompson.” You laughed warmly. “You boys are so desperate for female company, I’m sure you would propose to Eleanor Roosevelt if she had the misfortune of crossing your paths in this place.”

The guffaw your joke earned had you grinning brightly in return, and you made sure he was comfortable before turning to grab the last couple buckets, blinking to find them in Bucky’s hands.

“This all of ‘em?” He raised an eyebrow and you nodded, leading him out the back way to set your load down in the nearly dry yard.

You hard barely turned around when his lips were crashing into yours, hands gripping your elbows, kissing you breathless.

“Wha…” You tilted your head at him, stunned, when he finally pulled back.

“That’s for slandering our First Lady but also diminishing yourself. Couldn’t just kiss you right there in front of everyone though, angelfish. Specially not that soldier boy getting fresh with you. Had to wait ‘till we were alone.” He smirked and pressed his lips against the tip of your nose, making you giggle airily.

“John Clarence Egan, never change.” You sighed dreamily.

His chest rumbled softly before his lips surged forward, already parted, to take advantage of your surprise and slide his tongue along yours hungrily. In retrospect, his ‘attack’ may have been well warranted, give your twice use of his full name. It was also not unwelcome, making you cling to his shoulders and whimper down his throat as he seemed to taste every inch of your mouth. The way the hair dusting his upper lip brushed against your face threatened to undo your knees, your head swimming with lack of oxygen and emotion until the sharp snap of the door’s hinges had Bucky wrenching back from you.

Pressing your lips together to take greedy breaths through your nostrils, you watched Menzies moodily deliver a missed bucket of rags, eyeing the pair of you suspiciously.

“Best move along Major, we have guests inspecting the handiwork of our unfortunate neighbours.”

Bucky nodded to him firmly, sucking in a deep breath as though to muster a reply. “Thanks for the heads up, Captain. See you around, angelfish.”

He tipped his imaginary cap to you, and you nodded in return, watching him disappear around the side of the building, heart hammering beneath your sternum, before lurching back to focus on the task at hand. To say that your thoughts stayed to him often throughout the course of the day would be an understatement.

-------------------------

Read Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

[hubristicassholefight]

Hubristic Asshole Fight: Round 1 Part 1b

Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars) vs Feanor (The Silmarillion)

Propaganda below cut

Anakin

Decided that he would become stronger than death to stop those he cares about from dying after failing to accept his mother's death. When he begins getting visions/nightmares like he had before losing his mother of his wife dying in childbirth, he decides to team up with an evil sorcerer and mastermind to learn the secret to stopping death. The price he willingly paid was leading the slaughter of the community of peacekeeping monks who had raised him from nine years old, feeling guilt about his heinous betrayal even as he unflichingly continued the massacre (sunk cost fallacy to a very extreme degree). The unintended price he paid was the loss of his limbs and independence after his injuries during a fight with his mentor and brother figure, his wife dying on childbirth due to the great stress of his heinous actions, and being separated from his children until they were adults firmly opposed to the imperial regime he became the attack dog for (only knowing of their survival until after he had personally attacked them both); He literally did not have to do any of that. his wife Padmè very very very very much did not want him to do any of that. He was completely absorbed in his own inability to deal with loss that he deadlock refused to consider losing family again and then he went and killed what amounted to his extended family, his wife and the man who raised and guided him from age 9. And his own kids unknowingly. In terms of accomplishing your goals there really really wasn't much more he could have fucked up. And when it comes down to key moments, all he had to do was not cut off mentor and co-worker Mace Windu's hand with a laser sword and everything would have been fine. He's a nominee for Fail King of All Time to me

He thinks he's hot shit which, he is, but like cool it dude you don't have to mass murder maim mutilate your way through life to prove you're the extra most specialest bestest psychic space wizard;

Hubrised so hard he 1) lost his limbs and his skin 2) became what he hated 3) caused the very death he sought to prevent, betraying and destroying himself for nothing; So soaking wet and self aware that he cried committing atrocities. If he knew what hubris was, he'd agree he has a lot of it

Feanor

The definition of hubris. Created the silmarils who were so perfect even the gods praised them. Got them stolen by the gods evil brother (so essentially fantasy satan). Then decided to go fight the evil god to get the silmarils back and swore an oath binding him and his sons to get them back no matter who would stand in their way. This drastically backfired when some other elves stood in his way so he murdered them. Got cursed by the gods for this (together with his entire family and everyone who followed them). Told the gods that they were of the same kind as fantasy satan and that they would end up following him

Morgoth (a god) shows up at his house and Feanor (professional hater of gods) tells him to get fucked* and slams the door in his face. *”Get thee gone from my gate thou jail-crow of Mandos!”; He has never spent anything wrong ever aside from all the war crimes.

The Valar (gods) asked Feanor for help in saving the world from being in total darkness and he said “no, figure it out yourselves”. Repeatedly and intentionally goes against their orders leading to war and chaos; I know it’s left open ended to what really happened to him after he died, but I hope he never repents. I hope he stays an antagonistic and egotistical bastard after being reimbodied (brought back to life) and continues to make it everyone else’s problem. I love him.

I’m gonna have to try to do this without a sing Tolkien scholarship words so bear with me. Basically my dude is one of the smartest and most talented elves in the world. Unfortunately he has a lot of daddy issues AND mommy issues largely due to the fact that his mom died when he was a kid and decided not to come back (as elves can do). No one else has this problem. He invented a ton of important stuff and had seven sons. His most prized creation was three gems called the Silmarils, which contained the light of the Two Trees, which gave light to the world before they were destroyed. When the Valar (the gods of Tolkien’s world) asked if they could use the Silmarils to potentially create another light source, he emphatically refused and in fact became so jealous of them that he and his sons swore an oath that anyone who so much as touched them would die by their swords. Sauron’s boss steals the gems and Feanor decides that he will lead his people on a crusade to retrieve and avenge them. This results in the death of him, most of his people, and almost his entire family minus one of his sons, Galadriel, and Elrond; He once yelled at the devil to get off his lawn

went to war with morgoth (satan basically) against the will of the gods and made a whole speech to said gods about how they were gonna feel really silly when he killed morgoth and saved the whole world. he never actually did battle with morgoth because he died on like day 1 of getting to middle earth (he left like 2/3 of his forces behind because he didn’t trust them) and spontaneously combusted upon his death; he’s a huge asshole and a mad scientist and linguist and prince with daddy issues and also mommy issues

Dude thought he could win a fight with the devil, tried to just walk into Angband (Mordor before Mordor actually existed), made an oath to kill everyone that tries to take his creations even the Valar (angelic like beings) and ends up causing his death, his sons deaths and a bunch of other deaths; His name is quite literally spirit of fire Is basically regarded as THE greastest elf Is in fact THE best smith of the elves and crafts their most precious jewels (that end up causing so much death) Is THE linguist to the point of creating the alfabet every one uses even after The Crimes, creates a bunch of things that are used even after The Crimes actually Loves his dad more than the things he made Is the only recorded elf with seven kids Is married to a sculpter that is so good that people confuse her statues as actual people (a propaganda because he had to be good to actually bag her you know) Manages to create jewelry so good even the the angelics beings sent by god are surprised he managed to do it So good at making speeches that it leads to a rebellion against said angelic beings and a lot of people to leave paradise with him His mother died because his spirit was too powerful Invented kinslaying after trying to steal some boats for said rebellion Swears an oath that destroys his whole family (but adds a great flavour to the rest of the story) Tells the devil to fuck off and slams his house door on said devils face Dies via auto combustion because his spirit was just too powerful for a normal death Gets stuck in the afterlife (that elves can usually just return from) for spiting the Valar Is said he will have an important role in Tolkien’s version of Ragnarok by letting the jewels he previously promised to kill for be destroyed to defeat the devil

Because of his pride, he went against the gods because the evil god Morgoth stole his life's work (the Silmarils, 3 shiny gems that radiated the light of the two trees that a huge evil spider had sapped dry). Swore (with his 7 sons) an oath to hunt Morgoth and retrieve his shiny gems. Commited kinslaying, burned some boats, combusted to ashes after suffering mortal wounds at the hands of corrupted demi-gods. Consequences of his actions could be seen long long after his death: the oath was passed on to his sons to hopelessly fulfill (failure after failure, including two more kinslayings, one of them casting himself into a fiery volcano, another wandering the shores for eternity);

#anakin skywalker #star wars #feanor #the silmarillion #tolkien's legendarium #hubristic assholes tourney #round 1 #round 1 part 1b #official #poll

[akunoniwa]

Reconciliation

AN: i really like the priest trope y'all and dottore continues to plague my being.

Synopsis: In which you confess to your earnest, local priest about your most wretched sins...

Pairing: Priest!Il Dottore x fem!reader

Warnings: MDNI, he's a priest all of the sudden... for some reason..., dirty (blabbing) talk, mutual masturbation ig, you two just drive each other mad

WC: ~2.7k

Also, if anyone is interested, for the last couple years I have been curating a playlist of Evil, Macabre, Scheming classical that I usually write to. You can find it here! (Spotify :/)

Dottore himself may possess a universe-worth of deranged secrets, but his malevolence was the most obvious truth of all.

He’d be a resourceful and dutiful liar, a rehearsed cosmopolitan who knows what to say to get not just underneath your frail blouse, but your skin. He’d often get hyperboles thrown his way, how he must be able to read minds… Surely… That is impossible, right?

How Dottore managed to slip in through the ancient cracks of the Church of Favonius, one could not trace with their finger alone, as he found a special way to bypass the seminary. Growing morbidly bored in his lab as his segments took care of the more ‘menial’ things, he had a thought, twisted and contorted as usual: Where could he get a true, mouth-watering taste of humanity, bare and earnest before him? Naturally, a church is a place where sin may be denounced, but in a sense is romanticized and encouraged in its fashionable banishment. How he’d not considered this his first time around was… Perhaps a symptom of his inability to have all of himself in one place, both cognitively and literally speaking.

Dottore couldn’t merely walk into the cathedral in search of employment, however. The fame he’d acquired was not for his victories, but rather his shortcomings, though the public wouldn’t discern them beyond atrocities, successful or not. While the Fatui had strange footholds in every part of Teyvat, his presence would not be shrugged off, especially should Seamus get word of his meanderings.

His plan, then, was simple– dispose of a working, familiar priest, and he could replicate him as he’s done before in Inazuma, promptly and quietly taking his place. The edges of his ears tingle with anticipation as he imagines all of the degeneracy and blasphemy he’d bear witness to in confession, perhaps he could absorb some inspiration for other projects… Or so he initially thought before you started coming to him for ‘advice’, blotting his mind with a different genre of filth.

In the confessional, he’s able to indulge in hearing various grim sins and tales, his tarnished soul getting off on the compiled suffering in one way or another. His coos of nurturing advice would aptly dilute any evidence of that, though, as he had a reputation to maintain. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to hear your most vile fantasies should he somehow get removed.

You came in routinely, your voice shrouded in its faux shame, so close to his ear as it was only separated by a mere wooden screen. He could damn near feel your tongue as it pushed your impure thoughts to him on its crests and troughs. He was well aware of your intentions, convinced you’d not step foot on church grounds were it not to hand-feed him samples of your depravities. The image of you kneeling, in such a decadent position while you granted him whispers of obscenities, made it hard to restrain a grin of utter, vulgar satisfaction.

Knowing who was approaching next, he allowed himself to loosen his grip on his character only slightly, “My… I never would’ve expected your prompt return…”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” Your voice crept beautifully through the holes of the screen like a miasmic mist. He allowed his still-unfamiliar title slipping past your lips prick chills all over his body, the blatant implications of hierarchy stoning him.

This was all between you two anyhow, so he decided to play with you to his content, “I can only imagine.” His true voice, too, lingered like smoke through to your ears, dense yet airy, “Perhaps the Lord will find it within His grace to admonish you of your consistently licentious behavior… Tell me, dear, what ails you?”

“I just can't seem to stop thinking about you, Father…” You always had a hard time dropping the guise immediately, as if you haven’t shared these thoughts with him numerous times before.

You heard him shift, his robes moving slowly about his tensed, upright form, your voice drowning him when it was shaped in such a needy tone, “Ah… Quite the predicament, indeed. You know this is a safe place for you to air your sins out into the open, you must proclaim them clearly to Him.”

Your light giggle sent wakes of delirium through him, “I could never conceal my true self from you, Father… Although, I find myself wondering if you’re really an envoy of God or a spawn from Hell.”

“You wound me, darling, deeply so, though that will not divert my faith and divine purpose to ensure your merciful forgiveness.” He improvised artlessly, your implications alone rustling his guts, a friction he was growing addicted to. His entire being salivated at the thought of what mangled ideas you’d bring right to his feet. How you returned to him, beckoning for attention like a crow as you’d gift him with gleaming desire.

“A true messenger of God’s word would surely not get giddy at the thought of fucking one of their devotees… Wouldn’t you agree?” Your words were somewhat daring on your part, as you couldn’t entirely surmise just who was inches from you, but he has more than revealed his insatiable lechery.

You swore you could feel his breath through the screen as he pushed out an arrogant chuckle through his nose, as if there were no other place for you but the palm of his hand, “It’s that very thing, your passionate devotion, that compels Him. Though it seems you’re trying to parry attention away from your misdeeds…”

You noted, much to your pleasure, how he didn’t deny your accusation, “It’s just… Often when I go to pray before bed, I get distracted…”

“It’s entirely normal to get distracted,” He briefly paused, you could almost feel the breath that was perched in his throat in your own, “Perhaps you’re neglecting a piece of your conscience, an inherent part of yourself that you’ve yet to reconcile with.”

An inherent slut, that’s what he thought. How you come in here weekly only to tempt him, your mind is devoted to nothing nearly akin to a god. Truly exquisite.

You continued a bit more blatantly, toying with him, “That could be… It’s so hard to not lose my train of thought when I’m on my knees and can’t think of anything but your voice in place of His.”

His body was bleeding soot, he felt a build-up of carnal animosity trickle into his veins as you spoke, “Is that so… Was I not conveying His word as I usually do, darling?”

Your knees were quickly growing sore from kneeling, but the pain was blunted by the dull buzzing in your abdomen, “If His words are usually detailing what terrible things he’d like to do to me, but I can’t be so sure…”

His legs inadvertently parted, weakening upon your implications, a heat radiating between them that he wished was due to your body being between them. He was trying with every atom that built him to keep his hands in a neutral position on his thighs, but so desperately wanted to alleviate the growing strain in his slacks, “Terrible, indeed… I think you’re not truly allowing Him to touch you, darling, letting Him resonate deep inside you…” His veiled smirk ought to run laps around his entire face as he shuffled through his deck of delirious innuendos. He just enjoyed the theater of it all as his hands clawed at polyester.

While his acting was laughable from a more rational perspective, you were too intoxicated with want to mind and his prods were becoming too potent, “You may be right, Father,” You hoped to any higher power that calling him that was fucking with him. Not being able to see him was making you spiral, the need to merely touch him was stacking as you were beyond yourself before even making it to the church. Being that his voice was all you knew, you were sure that should he actually graze your skin, you’d be all the more susceptible to his antics.

As much as he likes to indulge in teasing you, he so badly wanted to drop the act that you’ve both rehearsed so many times before and insist that you meet him on this side of the screen. Your honeyed voice is always shredding him to dust, his mind disintegrating at the thought of how reprehensible it’d be to take you right here in the confines of the confessional box. Look him in the eyes from your precious, kneeled perspective and tell him how far from God you’ve fallen, how your repentance can only be properly demonstrated on his cock. Your delectable moans would drip right into his ear as he takes you, making your sex the only sacrament you’ll ever require.

“Father?” You called to him through his mental escapade delicately, his silence unsettling in several ways, though it seems you’d successfully wedged your way into his head.

“Yes, darling.” His ability to respire becomes all the more taxing, the facade threatening to shatter as he almost forgets his role for a moment.

“Could you… Do me a favor?” Curling, winding, your vague presence was constricting around him so deliciously.

“What is it…?” You already had him at the heel of each consonant. You debated in your fantasies what you’d lose yourself over more: Being told what to do, or telling him what to do… Did you have to choose?

You bared your fanged will, “I know you want to touch yourself desperately, if you’re not already…” You began, confident in your assumptions as you heard an eroded breath tumble from his lips, “Could you do that for me…?”

His brows collided in a furrow, dumbfounded with how forward you were finally being, “Of course, darling…” He easily committed, “Anything to bestow God’s love, even to the undeserving…”

He didn’t care to hold back his heady exhale upon finally kneading a palm into his already well-hardened cock, cuffing it now and then to outline the silhouette through his pants. You, too, let him in on your movements, ensuring he heard your sweet, lofty mewls as your fingers padded your clit ever so slowly.

“How do you feel, Father… Tell me…” You sang to him, oh how he wished he could see your flushed face, how you urged him to pleasure himself.

“I know it wouldn’t compare to your vile little mouth.” He groaned through another wavered exhale, “I would go as far as to guess you were wet before you got down on your knees, before you got to this Church, thinking about how badly you want to be fucked in such a sacred place…” Saying this knowing damn well how his body faltered at the sight of your name being rightfully branded on his list for another confession.

“Maybe that’s just how I show my devotion, Father…” You bit your lip as your clit gradually stiffened with need, cycling just the right spot, hardly able to resist rutting into your hand.

“Fuck, and you keep calling me that,” His grip tightened, though he’d not let himself free from his constraints yet.

“Is that not what you are? Or are you, God forbid, hiding something?” You pressed him in unison with your hand.

Him revealing his true identity would benefit no one, including you, but something about being able to fuck you as his true self set him ablaze. His expression tightened into one of brief apprehension, he could feel the knocking of his heart in his throat– There’s no feasible way you’d know who he is…

“Of course,” He assured himself more than anyone else, “But when you say it the way you do, in that sickening little whine of yours… It’s too good, darling, too much.” You reeled as you could hear the grin that tugged at his lips, though the struggle to maintain composure between you is what spoiled you.

“Are you moving… Fast or slow?” You forced him to elaborate, though your voice only continued to dwindle.

“Painfully slow…” His hips instinctually rose and fell in his vice grip, “I wish it were any part of you, darling… Your hand, your pretty mouth… Maybe you’d be sitting in my lap…” He mused wickedly.

You hummed in a whisper, “I wish I could touch you…” You decided to admit, “What would you want me to do to you, Father…?” You dug your interrogation into him as you wandered to your cunt, overflowing with slick need as two fingers dove inside in a curl. How you could have his cock pushing through you right in this moment but you both opted for this pitiful demonstration instead…

He adored how you were tearing yourself apart for him, desperation infecting your words, “Perhaps I’d want you to start with your hand in place of mine so you could realize how utterly insane you make me feel… How hard I am for you with just your voice alone, darling.” The rhythm of his breaths was becoming more hasty, the timbre of his voice growing more tangy as his lust snuck through the confines of his weakening dignity.

“Fuck, I really just wanna feel your hot lips wrapped around me, that filthy mouth of yours… Your flattened tongue running against the underside…”

You egged him on with a moan of approval, his mental painting distracting your movements from exceeding a slow massage inside you, “That sounds so good, I want to be the one making you feel good…”

On that note, he found himself needing to corrupt you. Requiring it. It was a perfect setting to do so, beheld in the eyes of sanctity at its most intense. It made him want to rip his own heart out, how this feeling ravaged his entire being. He wanted to be the only one who could make you feel like you served a purpose, symbiotic destruction as he’d fuck you until you could recall nothing else but the sensation of his cock filling you to the most dizzying brim. As much as he wanted you to worship him, he found the prospect of making you ascend with pleasure more gratifying.

“I bet you’d be the kind to get off on me fucking your mouth, neglecting your aching little cunt…” He loved denying himself the raw contact with his cock, but it was becoming quite the task to uphold as he moved to fumble with his belt buckle.

Your face managed to insulate itself with a blush that, should he have seen it, he would’ve taken you upon first notice, “I’d want you to grip my hair, forcing me to keep eye contact…”

“Good, darling, now you’re imagining… How I’d make you gag looking right into your eyes, as that’s only what you deserve for punishment’s sake.” He managed to free himself from his slacks, with no patience to adjust himself beyond his length protruding through the opening of his fly. Your shallow pants were so close to his ear, through the fine holes of the screen he hallucinated a face to imagine. He watched the apparition of you sway and twitch as you were barely able to remain upright while your fingers pumped inside you.

“Do you often touch yourself in prayer, darling?” He ventured.

“Only if it’s to you… Your voice truly haunts me, especially when you tell me all of this worthless shit, I just… Can’t help myself, Father.”

“I think of you all the time, how close we are right now, how I could fucking destroy you but we continue like this anyway.”

“Why don’t you come out of your little box and fuck me then?”

His damned laugh that drove you up the vaulted cathedral walls sounded once more, wondering how long he could be stowed away like this. It is Sunday after all, but perhaps this schedule 10 minutes before mass was intentional. Dottore was adeptly full of himself as he’d not mind if your screams were heard over the choir, in fact, that’d be ideal. While the confessional wasn’t in the main hall, it wasn’t secluded enough to dampen how his hips would assault the skin of your behind as he took you…

Your offer was too divine to refuse.

#...i could write a part two... #hoyoverse plz feed me more dottore content im withering lmao #perhaps if he kicked my ass i would stfu abt him...??? #il dottore x fem!reader #il dottore x reader #genshin impact x reader #il dottore #genshin smut #作文

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟑

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Another day in the sun. You meet someone new. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.5k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

Rooster is lying in a sun chair, his swim-trunks still damp from his dip earlier. He’s holding a sweaty glass with half a Tom Collins left and his face tilted towards the sun, shades over his eyes. It’s warm--there’s a sheen of sweat covering his skin, sitting atop the oil he covered himself in. 

There are birds calling in the palm trees and cars rumbling down the residential street before his house. He has a sound system set up on the bar and Do It Again by Steely Dan is playing right now. Below the music, he can hear the soft sounds of you splashing as you take languid laps around the pool. 

You’re naked--partly because you don’t have a swimsuit and partly because you just like to be naked--and you were slathered in oil before you got into the pool, but now you’re thoroughly soaked in water. Your skin is already growing darker, soaking up all that precious sun. This will be your first time not having swimsuit lines in your life and your first time getting tan in a pool in California instead of a pond in western Nebraska. 

Pulling yourself up to the side of the pool, you grab your sweaty glass and take a long, long drink. A few beads dribble down your throat and onto your chest. This is your third Harvey Wallbanger and Rooster makes them just the way you like; strong. Your fingertips feel fuzzy and your belly is warm.

You keep yourself propped up as you gaze at Rooster’s resting form, kicking your legs to stay afloat. Your head is fuzzy and your skin is warm and the water feels fucking perfect right now. If this hasn’t been the way you’ve been living your life the past three days, you would consider this your perfect day. You feel like perfect days are supposed to only happen once.   

“So, why didn’t you go to Vietnam?”

Rooster sputters out a shocked laugh, face snapping to yours in an instant. 

You’re staring at him, smiling softly, still nursing your drink. 

“Jesus Christ, Cherry,” Rooster mutters, shaking his head. “Can’t just ask a guy why he didn’t go to war.”

“Sure I can.” You shrug, furrowing your brows. “I just did. Duh!” 

Rooster laughs again, sitting up on his elbows. 

“How do you know I didn’t?” 

You eye him like there’s a physical marker on his body that gives it away. You noticed the other day that he has some faded scars littering his face and throat, little lines that stretch a few inches. They’re white--old. But you’ve seen boys come back home from Vietnam; their scars are deeper and pink still.

“I can just tell,” you simply answer. “You weren’t a college student, right? Since you started in the industry so young. So, how’d you get around it?” 

Rooster bites his lip, watching water drip from your hair and onto your shoulders and chest, your skin pinkening. 

“Take a guess,” Rooster says, grinning.

A pang of guilt spreads across his chest: he’s grinning while talking about the atrocity of war. But he feels like it’s impossible not to grin at you, no matter the conversational topic. For a moment, he thinks of Jake and the guilt multiplies and starts to make his stomach ache. But then you start to hum, tapping your chin. 

“Did you tell them you were gay?” 

Rooster shakes his head. 

“Conciencense objector?” You ask, tilting your head. 

“I don’t agree with it,” he breathes, “but it doesn’t say that on paper, no.” 

You nod again. You take another long drink and continue humming, chewing the inside of your cheek. 

“I know you didn’t fail your physical. You don’t seem like a dodger either,” you tease. He laughs, nodding. It’s true--he didn’t fail his physical. And he’s definitely not a dodger, either. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why did the almighty Rooster Bradshaw get excused from the war?” 

Rooster takes a breath, propping himself up further in the chair. He hasn’t talked about this in a long time--honestly, no one’s asked him in a long time. No one wants to talk about the war, especially now that it’s been almost four years since it ended. But you’re young--the notion of war must seem so abstract to you, so far removed from your reality. 

“My old man was in the Navy,” Rooster starts, watching you chew an ice cube. “Croaked during a hop. Technically during active duty.”

He doesn’t like to think about his life before very much--it’s hard, simply put. His dad died before Rooster was old enough to tie his own shoes. He got seventeen good years with his mom before the cancer started eating her; then he got two bad years with her before she let go and he became an orphan.  

Something catches in your chest--something that clogs your throat and slows your breathing. Jesus Christ, he’s saying it so casually. And he’s watching you now as you digest it, as you realize what he’s saying to you. His dad is dead--and from what you’ve gathered here and there, so is his mom. He spends Christmases alone, which is probably why he was so willing to share his special caviar and wine with you that first night. 

“So, you were exempt from service,” you say softly. “When did that law pass? ‘64? ‘65?”

Rooster takes another drink.

“‘64,” he answers.

“How old were you in ‘64?” 

God--it seems like a million years ago. 

“I was seventeen,” Rooster answers, sucking in a deep breath. 

Your eyes are wide, your breath finally escaping your parted lips. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head. “Just missed it, then, didn’t you?” 

He nods.

“Do you know anyone that went to ‘Nam?” He asks. 

You nod, too. 

“A few boys back home,” you answer. You still remember their hollow gazes and scraggly hair, the way they carried themselves around town so precariously. “Came back all freaky deaky. Poor chumps. You?” 

Rooster considers lying to you--Jake doesn’t like telling people about his time in Vietnam. But everyone knows and soon enough, you’re going to know everyone. It’s going to come out. 

“Yeah,” Rooster answers. He rakes a hand through his damp locks, tutting. “My man, Jake. You’ll meet him on Sunday, he’s an actor for Goldman Homevideos. Don’t bring it up with him, though--he tries to forget it. You dig?” 

As audacious and rambunctious as you are, Rooster understands how deeply you understand him when you nod. Your eyes are big and earnest and your lips are flat and unsmiling. You get it. You won’t ask.

You’re having a hard time imagining some veteran being good at porn. All the boys back home were so scrawny and sad--who would want to watch scrawny, sad boys fuck on camera? You can’t imagine fucking one.  

“How old were you in ‘64?” Rooster asks, content in his decision to change the direction of the conversation. 

You grin something fierce at him. 

He knows it’s gonna feel like a blow to the chest. 

“Six for most of the year,” you answer, sticking your tongue out at him. 

He grimaces. 

“Christ, Cherry,” Rooster mutters, swiping a hand over his eyes as your melodic laughter echoes off the concrete. “I need another fucking drink. You down?” 

You shake your empty glass at him with a tight smile. 

As he fixes the two of you another drink, you rest your cheek against the warm concrete and cut through the cool water very carefully. All your limbs are loose and flowing freely beneath the surface, skin skimming the slippery red tiles. 

“So, where’d you grow up?” 

“Am I on The Dating Game right now or something?” 

“You wish,” you tease. 

He peers at you over his shoulder, glasses low on his nose. You blow him a kiss and a wink and it makes him sigh deeply. You really are going to be the death of him.  

“Virginia,” he answers finally, pouring a couple ounces of gin in his cocktail shaker. “Small town near a Naval base.” 

“What was it like?” You ask. 

He chuckles, dropping a few ice cubes into the shaker and screwing the lid on tight. 

“Boring,” he answers. “Moved out to California right before my eighteenth birthday.” 

“Why?” You ask. 

You have a way of making him feel like all you want to do in the world right now is listen to him. When you ask him questions about his life, he feels like he’s doing you a favor by giving you the skinny. 

“Well,” he starts, shaking his cocktail and chewing his bottom lip, “my ma was sick. Wasn’t much they could do for her in Small Town, Virginia. So we came out here and I just never…left.” 

It makes your chest feel hollow to think about losing your mother so young--even if she isn’t being a good mama to you now, even if you’re not sure if she loves you anymore. You imagine that there is little worse than losing your mother. 

“You look like you grew here,” you tell him with a sigh. He glances at you and you grin. “Like you just sprouted out of the dirt. Got pulled up ‘stache first.” 

“Ever heard the phrase don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Cherry?” He asks.  You laugh again. He starts on your drink, pouring a few ounces of vodka and orange juice in another shaker. “Funny, though. I think you look like you aren’t from here.” 

Ouch. You frown at him, scoffing. 

“I’m gonna freak if you tell me that I look like I’m from a fucking chicken farm,” you threaten, pointing at him with that cherry-red nail. 

“No,” Rooster quickly corrects. “You just look…tougher than the broads brought up here, you dig?” 

“Tougher than you?” 

He gives you an exaggerated nod. 

“Most definitely,” he says. “Didn’t you prove that last night?” 

He’s referring to when you rode him last night after a few glasses of nice brandy, when you held tight to his wrists and pushed them against the flimsy water bed. You and Rooster have had little else to do but peruse his liquor collection and fuck--both of which you two have been doing frequently. 

“You’ve got such a good memory for an old man,” you say gingerly. “You probably eat, like, all your muesli, don’t you?”   

Rooster laughs again. He’s already used to you calling him an old man--he’s used to everyone calling him an old man, really. He’s the oldest among his friends by a substantial margin. 

“You clearly don’t have an issue fucking old men,” he says, shaking your cocktail now as you smile at him. “So, in turn, I don’t mind being called an old man.” 

“Hey, grandpa’s need love, too!” You exclaim, watching him strain your drink into a frosted glass. “And I’ve got a lot to give!” 

“Thought you tried to keep love and sex separate?” Rooster asks, crossing the concrete and settling your drink in front of you before sitting down to dip his feet in the water. “Ms. Arsan.” 

You take a long drink and then nod. 

“Ever heard of a euphemism?” You ask. Rooster nods, spreading his legs when you move in the water to settle between them. You let your elbows prop on his knees and stare up at him, skin gleaming in the sun. “Love is a euphemism for sex sometimes. Wise guy.” 

He grins. 

You two like to keep each other on your toes. 

“Isn’t that the antithesis of everything you stand for?” 

You cough out a laugh, pinching his thighs softly. He can see every inch of your naked body from his spot above you, especially with your arms spread out the way they are right now. He’s nearly gotten used to you in this state--prancing around the house in little more than one of his shirts and nothing else most of the day. He’s had you everyday, multiple times a day since you met, but he is still learning your body. He likes this part of sexual relationships; tweaking here, rubbing there, curling, thrusting, pulsing, pushing. 

Honestly, you want him again. Right now. You’ve never had sex on tap like this before--it was always a bit difficult back in Nebraska. Sneaking off the farm, finding a suitor, convincing the suitor, finding somewhere to actually fuck. But living here with Rooster, who seems to have an identical sex drive and mutual want, has been heavenly. Anytime you want that itch scratched, anytime you want that hill climbed, anytime you want to be cast into the choppy seas of an orgasm--Rooster’s here. 

This is your version of Utopia, really.   

“Well, let me rephrase my sentence, then,” you say, sighing. You clear your throat. “Grandpa’s need to get fucked, too! And I’ve got muff to give!” 

At that, Rooster clinks his glass against yours and the both of you take a few gulps of your respective cocktails. 

“So, you don’t mind fucking older men?” 

You purse your lips. 

“You don’t mind fucking younger girls?” 

He purses his lips. 

The two of you clink glasses again and take a few more gulps. 

“How many people have you fucked?” You ask. 

He takes your glass and with your free hands, you gently knead his thighs. It’s something you do absently--your daddy worked long, long hours on the farm. Whenever he would come inside late in the evening, you would help him take his boots off and rub his calves like this. It’s just something you do. 

“Haven’t kept count,” he tells you, tucking a few strands of wet hair behind your ears. He likes the way your fingers are digging into his skin--he hadn’t even realized his legs were sore until you started to massage them. “But if I had to guess? God, I’m not sure I could even do that.” 

“We talking Jagger numbers here?” You ask. 

His throat is warm. 

“We are,” he says. And that’s all the answer you need. “What about you, Cherry? Keeping score?” 

You are. 

“Seventeen,” you answer proudly, squaring your shoulders. “You make seventeen, actually.” 

For some reason, it makes Rooster feel bad that you know precisely what number he is and he couldn’t take a shot in the dark for you. 

“That’s my lucky number,” Rooster tells you. 

You blink up at him in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“You jiving me?” You ask suspiciously. 

“No! Swear it,” Rooster says. “Seventeen’s my lucky number.”

It is now. 

You just nod, sighing. Strange. 

“Your turn,” you tell him. “Ask away.” 

He only has to think for a moment. 

“How old were you when you cashed in your v-card?” 

It’s a good question--relevant. But it makes your chest feel a bit tight. You haven’t ever told anyone this before--not whatever few girl friends would stick around, not any family, not any other boys. This has been sitting alone in your chest for a long time. 

“I was thirteen,” you tell him. Your voice is thin and your cheeks are warm. “He was fifteen. He mucked the stalls on my family’s farm. Seasonal help or whatever. It was just once. I think his name was Grover.” 

You’re not telling the entire truth. You know his name was Grover. He’s come back to your family’s farm every single summer to shovel chicken shit. He’s never looked your way again, though. 

Rooster studies your flaxen face and the way you maintain his gaze like you’re afraid to show him a weak spot, like a dog lying on its belly.

“Where was it?” He asks. 

“In the barn,” you answer. “Smelled downright funky in there.” 

Rooster grimaces. 

“Gnarly,” he laughs. 

You just shrug. 

“It was the first time I ever wanted to jump someone’s bones. I was just…watching him. Like, not in a creeper kind of way. I was just--I was just, like, noticing him for the first time, I guess? The muscles on his arm and back, his thighs. His hands.” You exhale wistfully, remembering the way the muscles curved elegantly beneath his smooth, dark skin. The way sweat gathered on his hairline and clung to his curls so deliciously. Even now, at twenty-one, it arouses you to think about it. “I just had to have him. And he took me. It was good--only lasted a few minutes. But it still is probably, like, the best fuck I’ve ever had.” 

Rooster lays a hand over his heart, frowning. 

“Ouch,” he says softly, grinning when you roll your eyes. “Why only twice?” 

You shrug. 

“The first time was random. The second time, I told him to come to my room that afternoon and he did. I think he was kinda scared of me or something, because he didn’t stay long. It was barely sex the second time. I didn’t ask him again and he didn’t try anything.” 

Rooster nods again. 

Again, he tries to imagine you in some ineffective farmhouse, asking the workers to come into your bedroom and cum inside you. It’s strange--he can’t picture it at all. Even with you here before him, totally nude, he can’t picture it. 

“Your turn,” you tell him, squeezing his thighs. 

Rooster sighs, leaning back on his palms. You scoot forward and settle yourself higher up between his legs letting your elbows rest on his upper thighs. 

“I was sixteen. It was with Lisa-Anne Monterey at the drive-in. We were seeing The Great Escape and she cried on the way home because her pantyhose snagged.” 

You laugh loudly, wrinkling your nose. 

“What a casanova,” you tease, pinching his taut belly. “Snagging pantyhose and making girls cry since ‘63!”

He knows you’re joking--he does. Of course you are. But he doesn’t like the sound of that suddenly--being known for making girls cry. He doesn’t want to be known for that at all. And he can’t help it when an image suddenly flashes through the forefront of his mind, one of you crying before him, mascara running down your cheeks. You don’t seem like the crying type, though--he wonders what would push you that far. 

“Your turn,” Rooster says, squeezing you between his legs. 

You’re pleased that he’s playing along now. 

“You ever been in looove?” You ask, grinning up at him. 

Rooster immediately wrinkles his nose at the question. For a moment, you think maybe you shouldn’t have asked him--but then he shakes his head, humming. 

“Not that I know of,” Rooster says. 

He’s telling the truth. He hasn’t had the time for any of that junk. 

“Heavy,” you sigh, frowning. “Me neither.”

“Does that make us unlovable?” 

“Probably,” you answer, a smile biting at your lips. “What makes you unlovable? For me, it’s that I’m too foxy. It’s been a real issue in the past.” 

Rooster grins at you. As if to agree with you, he reaches forward and pinches your cheek softly. He does think you’re foxy--real foxy. But even just like this, naked in his pool, bare-faced and soaking wet--you’re beautiful. It’s a different form of foxy, one that isn’t as easy to come across. 

“It shows,” Rooster teases. “I guess for me, it’s probably that I’ve got too much money, you know? People hate that. And my house is, like, way too big.” 

“How’s that Fleetwood song go? Rulers make bad lovers, better put your kingdoms up for sale, right?” 

You’re giggling, shaking your head softly. He can see every one of your teeth when you smile that big toothy smile at him. God, he already feels like he’s getting used to it--that big, toothy grin and those freckles sprinkling across your cheeks. 

“Bradshaw!” 

The voice echoes out across the backyard, vibrating across the pool and skimming the calm waters you’re still submerged in. 

You’re surprised, but you don’t move to cover yourself--it seems pointless. And even if you felt the need to protect your modesty, you wouldn’t have much to cover yourself with other than Rooster. And even Rooster doesn’t have much clothing on--just some little swim trunks that sit high up on his thighs. 

Rooster whips around, straightening his spine, pushing his glasses up in his hair. And there, walking across the threshold of the backdoor is Hangman. He’s grinning at Rooster beneath his bushy mustache, his hair tucked behind his ears and his cheeks pale pink. 

“What it is, brother! I’ve been trying to hit your line like crazy!” Hangman says, swaggering over towards Rooster. “Where the Hell you been, Rooster--?”

It isn’t until he’s close enough to smell all the tanning oil Rooster is donning that he catches his first glimpse of you: you’re completely naked, standing shamelessly between Rooster’s legs, grinning up at Jake from your spot in the red pool. 

Hangman’s cockwalk stutters and then falters entirely, his grin spreading as he lets his eyes rake over you. A naked woman in Rooster’s pool isn’t an uncommon sight--honestly, a clothed woman is more of a rare sighting in this backyard--but you’re a stranger. He’s never seen you around before--anywhere. 

“Thanks for knocking,” Rooster says, frowning at Hangman. 

Hangman barely glances at Rooster before he utters, “I was knocking for like five minutes, dipshit.” 

Hangman is handsome--like the Ken-doll type of undeniably handsome. He’s wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a Western-style button down with a bolo tie loosely secured around his neck like some sort of California cowboy. He’s drinking you in, you can tell, and there’s not an ounce of shame in all of that hunk of that blonde, tan muscle. 

“Who’s this?” Hangman asks, settling his hands on his hips. 

“This is Cherry,” you answer, mirroring his stance. “Cherry Arsan. Who’re you, cowboy?”

He licks his lips, glancing at Rooster, who is watching you with a fondness secured over all his soft features. 

“Hangman,” Jake says.  

You bite your lip and then shrug. 

“I like Cowboy better, I think.”

Hangman swallows hard. His eyes are lingering on your bare chest, which is slightly obscured by the water. Fucking Christ--there isn’t an ounce of shame in your body. 

“Right on,” Hangman says. “You can call me whatever you want, baby. I’m no square.”  

 Rooster smiles at you with tight lips, then turns to Hangman again. 

“Cherry here just signed a twelve-movie deal with Goldman Homevideos,” Rooster explains to Hangman. “She’s crashing here until she gets her dough.”

Hangman’s mouth is ajar. You’re the girl Dennis is buzzing about--God, Dennis wouldn’t shut the fuck up about you whenever Hangman went into his office for a meeting the other day. You should see the way she sucks cock, Jake, it’s out of this fucking world! She ain’t even acting, the kid just likes to fuck! On and on he’d gone about you, talking about all the films he wanted you to be in and who he was going to let go so you could replace them. She’s gonna be the next big thing, my man. 

“I’ve heard a thing or two about you,” Hangman coolly says.

“Radical,” you tell him. “I haven’t heard anything about you.” 

You don’t know that this is the Jake that Rooster mentioned earlier--the one who was in Vietnam. But even if you did know, you wouldn’t tell Hangman that you and Rooster had been talking about it. Not just because you’re a trustworthy person, but because you feel indebted to Rooster now--you feel that the two of you have formed some kind of alliance the past few days.

“I’ve been at my pad all week, man,” Rooster tells Hangman, squinting up at him. “Haven’t gotten any phone calls from you. Right, Cherry?” 

“Uh huh,” you confirm. “We’ve been hunkered down. I don’t own any shoes.”

Hangman quirks a brow at you. You’re sinking lower into the water, your hips bending and your arms moving peacefully below the surface. Your chin just barely grazes the surface.

“You don’t own any shoes, baby? Rooster, what are you doing to the girl? Holding her hostage?” Hangman grins. 

Before Rooster can answer, Hangman grabs one of the lounge chairs and drags it over to the side of the pool, plopping down with a sigh. You’re in between the two men now, not touching the side of the pool. You’re just watching them watch you. 

“We just haven’t left the house,” Rooster explains. He knows for a fact that Jake hasn’t tried calling the house--he would’ve picked up. But he doesn’t say anything; not yet, at least. “Shoes are on the docket before Sunday.” 

“What kinda shoes you like?” 

You raise your brows. Hangman’s grinning at you, holding his chin in his palm. 

“Pretty ones,” you tell him. “Expensive ones.” 

You’ve never owned expensive shoes in your life. You owned a whopping three pairs of shoes back home: rain boots, leather Mary Jane’s for school, and tennis shoes for gym glass. You didn’t take very good care of them, especially when you started to outgrow them after you graduated; they were all three falling apart. 

“Solid,” Hangman grins. “Dennis paying you the big bucks?” 

You nod. 

Rooster pats Jake on the shoulder amiably. 

“You want a drink, man?” He asks. 

Hangman nods, barely dragging his eyes away from you. 

“Aperol spritz,” Hangman answers, patting Rooster’s shoulder in gratitude. “You nervous, Cherry?” 

“Right now?” You ask, shaking your head. 

Hangman laughs a big laugh. 

“Nah, baby. About being in the business,” he answers. “You know--erotica. Spank movies. Triple-X. Porn.” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. 

“No,” you answer. “I like sex. I’m just getting paid for it now.” 

He nods, smoothing his hand over his mustache. He likes that answer. It’s how he felt, too. 

“This is gonna be like living a different life, baby,” Hangman tells you, crossing his arms. “You won’t even remember what life was like before once you really get into the thick of it.” 

That sounds good to you. That sounds very, very good to you. 

“Groovy,” you answer. “Not much life to remember before, anyway.” 

He thinks he remembers Dennis saying something about you being from some desolate, nowhere state. God, he thinks he can remember Dennis saying something about a farm, too, but maybe he just made that up. No way you’re from a farm--they don’t make girls like you there. 

Rooster is mulling over to the bar, keeping his ears perked to listen in on your conversation with Jake. Jake is like a brother to Rooster--Rooster took him under his wing a handful of years ago when Jake was just breaking into the scene. And because Hangman is like a brother to Rooster, Rooster knows that Jake has a bit of an issue with nose candy. It’s a rather new thing that Rooster’s noticed, only in the past couple months or so, but it’s definitely something that’s happened. Rooster knows all about nose candy--which is why he is so vehemently against doing it himself again. 

“What brings you around, Hangman?” Rooster calls, popping open a bottle of Aperol. “Not that I’m not jazzed.” 

Hangman, legs spread and fists resting on his thighs, leans back in his lounger and glances at Rooster. 

“Wanted to talk about the party,” Hangman calls back. “See who’s coming.” 

Hangman also wanted to talk about this new broad Dennis has been going on and on about, but you’re standing right in front of him. 

“The usual,” Rooster answers, slicing an orange. “Anyone can come. Same as always.” 

Hangman nods. His fingers are starting to tingle, his nose is starting to burn. You’re just watching the two of them, letting your chin submerge in the water so you just breathe through your nose. 

After shrugging on his paisley pool-robe, Rooster crosses the concrete again and hands Hangman his drink. Then he sits back down on the edge of the pool and nods for you to retrieve the orange he carried over for you. 

“You’re gonna prune, kid,” he says to you, eyebrows raised. 

You’re swimming towards him, grinning. You take the orange from his hand and press a chaste kiss to his mouth before burrowing your thumb through the soft skin of the orange.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Hangman excuses, jumping out of his seat and wandering inside the house. 

Rooster knows what he’s going to do in there--you don’t, not yet. For now, you’re oblivious, just eating your orange in the pool and tossing the discarded skin on the hot concrete beside Rooster. 

“That’s Jake,” Rooster says to you, fingering a piece of orange skin. He watches the realization dawn on you, orange juice dripping from out mouth and onto your chest and into the water around you. “You picking up what I’m laying down?” 

“I get you,” you answer softly. 

You’re perplexed. Hangman seems fine. He seems chipper, even. You can absolutely imagine fucking Jake--he doesn’t seem like the boys you saw back home, the ones who didn’t care much to be alive anymore. 

When Jake skips out of the house a few minutes later, there’s a new energy about him. He’s grinning something fierce, practically vibrating with excitement. He feels good--his heart is racing the way he likes it to, his ears have that slight ring, and he just feels fucking good. 

“Room in that pool for two, Cherry-berry?” 

Cherry-berry. It tickles you. 

You chew the rest of your orange carefully, nodding with a smile. The juice is sweet and tangy on your tongue; it makes your belly warm. 

“Fab,” Hangman answers. He starts stripping just beside Rooster, letting all his clothes fall in a heap on the concrete. “Get in with us, Rooster!” 

Rooster can see the white powder dusted across Jake’s mustache. Jake is moving with a rapidity that can only stem from taking a bump--even if Rooster already knew that’s what he was doing, it’s good to have confirmation. Jake hasn’t really been trying to hide it these days, not that anyone really does. Rooster did whenever he did it--but that was a long time ago. 

“Hangman,” Rooster says quietly. 

Jake’s gaze lands on Rooster’s easily--his pupils are blown and he’s naked now. Rooster just subtly swipes a finger across his own mustache and nods at Jake. But Jake gets the memo immediately, carefully dusting his stache off and swiping his finger across his gums. 

You watch the interaction curiously, tilting your head.

But then you go back to admiring Hangman’s naked body. He looks like California the same way Rooster does--carved out of marble, his form broad and serious. He’s flaccid right now--it’s not a sight you’re used to. But even in its softness, you find a certain beauty in the natural state of being. 

Then Hangman grins at you. 

“I feel like me and you are gonna get along just fine, Cherry,” he tells you, pointing to you. He’s suddenly much more energetic than he was before, his smile impossibly wider and brighter. “Fuck swimming. Wanna fuck instead?” 

Rooster glances at you, a frown tugging at his lips. He loves Jake--really, he does. He’s the closest thing to family that Rooster has. He always brings good wine to parties and fought in a pointless war because it was a duty placed upon him by the big guys. 

But for some reason, he really wish Hangman wasn’t here right now. Things have been blissful between you and Rooster the past few days: in between fucking, the two of you have talked politics and literature and art. You’ve ate dinner together and watched whatever spaghetti Western��s have been playing on the television. You’ve watched the television sign off every night together, which Rooster hasn’t done since he was young. Strangely, he just wants to preserve that. Not that it’s going to be possible in your line of work. He knows he’s being stupid. He knows it. So, he says nothing. 

You bite your lip, raking your eyes across Hangman’s body again. 

“Sure,” you answer. “Practice makes perfect.” 

It isn’t uncommon for Rooster’s friends to talk about this so openly in front of him, even if they’re at his house. Especially Jake--he’s shameless. Rooster’s grown comfortable with sex surrounding him on all fronts, especially when Jake shows up. 

Rooster stays sitting on the edge of the pool, sipping on another Tom Collins, as you take Jake through the house and lead him into your bedroom. He fiddles with the orange peels you left behind and thinks about you between his legs, asking him if he’s ever been in love. 

Jake doesn’t waste any time when you get into the spare room across from Rooster’s, the one you’ve been sleeping in. The room is the nicest you’ve ever had--big windows that you keep open to let the evening breeze float through, a gargantuan waterbed that curves around your body, dark walnut furniture that you have precisely no use for, and a big fluffy rug that feels like feathers on your perpetually-bare toes. Your room back home was little more than an antique mattress and magazine cutouts on the wall; and you were sleeping on the pullout portion of Jenny’s trundle bed when you were staying with your aunt. 

He holds your naked body close to his, your skin still slick with chlorinated water. He kisses you ferociously, all tongue and teeth and spit. And you’re kissing him right back, already keening at the hardening of his cock against your belly. 

“Nice to meet you,” Hangman mumbles against your lips. He leaves a sloppy trail of kisses across your jaw and down your throat as you reach down and begin to pump him in your hand. He groans against your skin. “Where you from again? Mississippi?” 

“Nebraska,” you breathe out. He cups your breasts and pinches your nipples hard enough for you to gasp out--it arouses you that he’s being so precise and rough. “Where are you from?”

“Texas,” he mutters, sucking softly on your collarbone.

“I can spot a cowboy from a mile away,” you breathe, thumbing the pearl of precum that’s dripping from the head of Jake’s cock. He’s big like Rooster, too--maybe a bit thinner and longer, but still sizable. Your mouth is watering. “You ever go by Tex?” 

“Not after Manson,” he answers, leaning down to capture your pert nipple between his lips. He suckles harshly, bucking his hips up to meet yours. “Jesus.” 

“Forgot about that,” you mumble.  

Jake reaches down, everything moving in hyperspeed for him, and dips his fingers between your legs. You’re aroused already, aroused enough that the pads of his fingers slip easily around your clit. You bite into his shoulder, intense flames of pleasure licking your heels instantly. 

This is the kind of sex that you’re used to. This is the type of sex you would have back home, except much less exciting. But this is how quickly the men and boys used to move back home--spitting in their cupped hands and smearing it over your cunt and rutting into you before their wives could come out of the grocery store or before their lunch break ended. 

Rooster is sitting at the bar now, making himself another Tom Collins. He still has a little piece of your orange peel in his grip, pressing it between his fingers. He’s changed the record--now, It’s Your Thing by the Isley Brothers is playing. It’s louder now, too. There’s something heavy sitting on his chest--something that feels similar to envy. But he knows he’s being stupid; he’s had you all to himself since you were discovered. 

And you are not his. You are thoroughly not his. 

Jake sits down on the edge of the bed, gripping your hips and guiding you to him. He presses into you easily, securing your back against his chest and sighing deeply when your warmth surrounds him. 

You feel good--you feel very good. He knows he’s high right now, he knows every one of his senses is heightened, but this feels like fucking magic. You’re warm and soft everywhere, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulder as you tip your head back. He feels good, too--he’s quicker, rougher than Rooster but it isn’t something you necessarily mind at all. He’s holding onto you tightly, already thrusting rapidly. 

“Feel so good,” Jake mutters to you, kissing your exposed throat feverishly. “So fucking tight, baby. Been giving this to Rooster all week, huh? Holding out on me.” 

You’re grinning--not just because he’s making you smile but because you love this. You love that you just met this man and that you were naked and no one cared and now you’re fucking. And after you’re done fucking, once that itch has been scratched, you’re gonna get back in the pool and have a few more drinks. 

“Jealous, Cowboy? I just met you,” you moan out, hooking your legs over his so you’re spread. 

His hand wanders down and lands on your clit easily, his strokes rapid and inexact, but you don’t care. Sex has never been about cumming for you. 

“Maybe we’ve known each other all along,” Jake mutters, pressing himself deeply inside of you. You keen, squeeze around him and he bites into your shoulder to lessen his groan. “Like some sort of hippie-dippie shit.” 

“You’re just saying that cause you like fucking me.” 

“Mind your potatoes,” Jake grunts. 

This definitely isn’t Jake’s first time having sex with someone within minutes of meeting them, especially not in his business. And this isn’t his first time fucking this high or even fucking in this bedroom. You can tell all of this somehow the same way he can tell that you’re no novice. No chance in Hell with the way you’re grinding yourself against him and keeping up with his pace. 

“How long have you been in the industry?” You ask. 

He chuckles dryly, settling his sweaty forehead against your neck. His nose is running, but he doesn’t care--he won’t let anything interrupt the pace he’s set. 

The two of you seem to be in some sort of unspoken stand-off, asking each other questions and seeing who can fuck and answer at the same time. 

“Since ‘73,” he mutters, digging his fingers into your hips when you clench particularly hard around him. He’s still circling your clit and you’re still moving your hips against his expertly. “After I got back.” 

You know what he’s talking about. But you don’t know if he should know that.

“How’d you get started?” 

His thrusts are starting to falter, stuttering. He’s close. 

“Red, let’s talk about this later,” he groans. He moves to hold onto the crease of your hips and starts to guide your body down onto his cock over and over again as he pants against your skin. “Fuck, where should I cum?” 

“Inside,” you pant. 

He’s touching a spot deep inside of you, one that was opened up by your legs spreading, one that you always want to be caressed and pressed against. You’re moaning out, letting him guide your hips up and down against his rapidly. 

You don’t have to tell Jake twice. He spills into you after a few lazy thrusts, holding down harshly on your body before letting your body relax against his. You’re both panting, your chests flushed. 

“Trying to trap me or something?” Jake asks, playfully biting the slope of your shoulder.

Laughing, you shake your head. 

Your hair is still dripping down both of your bodies. It smells like chlorine and cum in here now. 

“Can’t make babies,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “Doctor said I’m twisted up in there.” 

Jake lets his flat palm press against your chest. 

“Here?” He asks. He’s teasing you of course. 

You bite your lip. Your throat feels thick for a moment.  

“Yeah,” you answer. 

He laughs, then. Sometimes he’s accidentally cruel when he’s this high--all semblance of the Southern gentleman he really is fades and is replaced with someone with blown pupils and a bloody nose. 

“Right on, Cherry.” 

 Jake stays for a long time. 

The three of you swim around until the sun sets low in the hills, the sky painted an obscene shade of orange. You drink your Harvey Wallbangers, Hangman drinks his Aperol spritzes, and Rooster drinks his Tom Collins. Rooster picks a Fleetwood Mac record and dances with you on the concrete, both of you bare-naked while Hangman takes a couple more bumps in the privacy of the spare bathroom. Rooster makes everyone steak as you and Hangman scour the record collection and sip on brandy--which Rooster considers to be an evening drink. 

By the end of the night, when the red waters in the pool glow beneath the pristine light of the moon, all of you are drunk. Hangman is high and drunk, but that doesn’t put a damper on his mood. Everyone’s lazing on the couch, half-dressed, telling stories about porn stars before and after them. 

All day, you’ve had that warm feeling in your chest. It’s the feeling you get whenever you now that you’re somewhere you belong. And you know, with your entire heart, that this is where you belong. 

“You ever been in love, Hangman?” You ask, combing your fingers through Rooster’s hair. He’s sitting on the floor before you, his limbs strewn about like spilled liquid. He’s very drunk--drunker than he’s been in a while. And he’s drinking in your touch and attention, absently rubbing circles on your bare foot as he lets his cheek rest against your knee. “I asked the old man earlier. Your turn.” 

Hangman is laying across from you on his back, a tall glass of brandy balanced on the flat of his chest. Everything is fuzzy around him and he’s heavy and warm. No way he’s gonna be able to get up--let alone drive home. He’s gonna crash here tonight, he already knows it. 

“You first,” Hangman declares, his head lulling as he glances at you. 

He’s struck by how easily you and Rooster have seemed to click. There is some sort of immediate connection between the two of you, which Hangman doesn’t often see with Rooster. Rooster is like everyone’s dad, really--and he’s guarded about who he’ll spend his time with. But here Rooster is, drunker than a skunk, holding onto your calf and leaning against you as you play with his hair. 

“No,” you answer. You point to your chest and shrug. All twisted up in there. “No from Rooster too, right, big guy?” 

Rooster nods. Your fingers feel too good in his hair--you’ve rendered him silent. He’s so drunk that he doesn’t even comment on your new nickname for him: big guy.  

“Once, I think,” Hangman slurs. “His name was Gentry. We were in the same…well, anyway. We never said it to each other. But I think I knew and I think he knew.” 

You’re drunk--drunker than you’ve ever been, maybe. But you’re slightly more sober than Rooster and Hangman. You have had a significant amount less brandy than they have. So you see it when Hangman’s eyes get glossy, when his pupils shrink. You see it when the glass of brady starts to rise and fall rapidly. 

“Why didn’t you tell him?” You ask. 

You wonder if this is what it’s like to be good friends with someone. This feels like what girls at slumber parties talk about--which is something you missed out on entirely. But there is such a warmth in your throat right now, such a sense of admiration for both of these men here. It could be the alcohol--or that hippie-dippie shit Hangman was talking about. 

“Oh, he died,” Hangman answers casually, tutting. “Bam! Landmine. All gone, Gentry. Later days, man!” 

Hangman starts to laugh, his mouth wide open and his throat flushed. 

And even as drunk as you are, as abstract as this all seems, you understand that this is not a normal reaction. You understand that this laughter is not born from humor and that gloss over his eyes isn’t just because of the aperol or the brandy or the coke. 

Rooster told you earlier that he doesn’t like talking about it. You don’t know if Hangman is talking to you about it because he’s so out of his mind right now or if it’s because of how the two of you have clicked today.

You detangle yourself from Rooster--he’s almost asleep now, his eyelids heavy and your fingers as good as a wool blanket and warm glass of milk. He comes to a bit more as you crawl across the sofa gracefully, just a t-shirt covering your body. He watches you, his vision bleary, as you move the glass of brandy and lay your body on top of Hangman’s. You’re lying entirely parallel on top of him, holding him close to you. Rooster’s chest is starting to hurt. He misses your fingers in his hair, your skin beneath his thumb.

Hangman is surprised for a moment when you move his glass away and even more surprised when you lay down on top of him. For a moment, he thinks you’re initiating sex and moves to pull your t-shirt up since he’s always game. But then you’re just still, your arms wrapped around him and your cheek against his shoulder. He doesn't know what to do--but he suddenly feels bad for laughing. Gentry. Gentry.     

His heart is racing below your ear. Your eyes are growing heavy at the sound, the constant and erratic beating. Hangman isn’t moving and neither are you. You don’t know what you’re doing, but it feels right. 

You fall asleep there and so does Hangman, the lights in the room low and the record spinning soundlessly. And Rooster watches. 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: I'm not going to tell you all a story. I grew up in a very religious household--AKA my mom is a bible thumper and my dad is Jewish but my mom decided that all her kids were gonna be Jesus freaks--and I went to church every Sunday. like I was the kid that was like yeah, my mom said you can stay the night tonight but you have to go to church with us in the morning! and then my mom was like baptism time! and on THREE different occasions when they tried to baptize me...something went wrong. TWICE the water boiled. ONCE the pool was drained mysteriously. and the hospital I was born at burned down. why am I telling you this? I think it's bc God knew I was going to write this story and knew better than to grant me entrance.

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Ramblings of a war criminal

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps) “I was once told that no one is really a villain because everyone is the hero of their own story. That their reasoning’s justify their actions in their mind that it is they who are in the right against a world that is wrong.

I never liked that.

It implied that so long as you had some form of reasoning or logic to your motives you would always be the hero.

A soldier who kills someone on the battlefield isn’t a murderer, because they are fighting for their country.

A bank robber isn’t a criminal, because they are stealing to make ends meet.

A butcher of cattle is not a monster, because they are trying to feed people.

The line of thinking that on some level everyone is a hero becomes so twisted and warped that you could find a way to still be a hero no matter what kind of horrible act you were committing.

Now, the perspective shifts when you factor into account that as society is comprised of uncountable people each with their own story being told as they live and breathe. The standards of what makes a hero and what makes a villain become margin lines that move with the ever shifting tides of what is socially acceptable.

Owning someone was once not only considered normal, but a mark of an industrious nature to have earned enough money to buy the life of another human being.

Can you imagine that?

You’d be out in the fields branding someone of your own species with your mark to prove ownership like they were cattle and society would hold you as the talk of the town. What a fucked up world that was; and even more fucked up when you find people romanticizing it like it was a time of “More civilized people” just because we use fewer words today.

I’m not going to recite a fucking Shakespeare play’s worth of words to order a burger; sue me.

Now myself?

I never was the hero, even in my own story.

I have done things, terrible things upon innumerable planets.

I have skinned alive my enemies for fun, I have butchered innocents for a paycheck, I have even used thousand year old religious documents as toilet paper to wipe my ass; and despite having my own reasons to which I carried out every single one of those atrocities I knew I was a villain.

Justification does not give you a free pass on your moral compass, nor does the approval of the society you live in.

There are no shades of grey to be blurred and distorted with me.

I am the villain of my story.

I wonder when I’ll meet the hero who will put me down.

I hope they’re ginger. Always liked gingers.”

Recovered audio Journal #3 for Francis O’Connell A.K.A The Devil’s Right Hand.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

[diaday333]

Hymns/prayers for the Dead

I’ve never really considered reading/ writing hymns for the dead because I guess I never “needed” them, but with the tragic events going on the world right now, multiple gen-c-des and atrocities, I’ve felt moved to write these. Like I said in my last prayer post, keep speaking up, b0yc0tting, and keep praying! You can technically apply these prayers with any dead, but I had the m@rtyrs of Su-dan, Con- go, Ethiopia, and Pale - stine (breaking them up on purpose) in mind, as well as anyone else who have lost their lives due to the terrible events going on in this world and from their oppression. Also, sorry for any spelling or grammar errors.

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We call to Hermes Kαταιβάτης (he who leads souls down to the underworld), guider of souls. Immortal guide, lover of humankind, you take special care of us when we leave this earth, and your involvement shows the Gods’ love of humankind, as there is a God with us every step of the way, even after our deaths. Gracious God, during these times we ask for your grace, and for you to take extra care of the souls that find their way past the river Styx. Everyday now, thousands of people die from acts of cruelty from oppressors emboldened by hubris. We ask you to treat these souls with added care, especially those of children, taken from life too early, while you escort them to the dread queen's home or wherever their final resting place may lie. Charm them with your wand and bless their heavy eyelids, bringing them a peaceful end for their final rest. Oh Lord, guider of mortals, grant a sacred end to those who lived the best they could.

(Greek pronunciation: Kah-teh-vah-tiis(ees))

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To the Savior of the dead and the noble queen herself, we call to you! Dread Persephone and shadowy Hades, though you may not take every soul into your wide walls, you watch over the dead nonetheless, those who wander your fields of flowers. We thank you for your mercy towards our souls, notably of the most restless ones. We ask that they can find joy in the afterlife, especially those who were robbed of it. Not only do you take in these souls, Lovely Persephone, you exact justice on their behalf, with your kindly attendants, or daughters in some ways, the Erinyes, especially during these harrowing times. All we ask is for justice and a peaceful afterlife for the many martyred people of all the atrocities going on. We thank you, Hades and fair-tressed Persephone!

—————————————————————————————————————

“Fear the prayers of the oppressed.” I heard that today and I thought it fit. The Gods are with us and the oppressed during these times 🤲 They hear every prayer and they are outraged as we are. Keep up every action and don’t forget about our fellow humans suffering and don’t stop fighting!! No act of oppression goes past them and they hear everything. It’s been almost a year for Su-Dan, almost 6 months, 160+ days for Pale - stine, and years for Con-go. The Gods count each day and count each person who say and do nothing. I just want add some of my favorite excerpts that get me through these hard times and reminds me that the Gods care (which we already knew, but yknow).

“The gods are not blind to men with blood upon their hands. In the end the black (kelainai) Erinyes bring to obscurity that one who has prospered in unrighteousness and wear down his fortunes by reverse.” - Aeschylus, “Agamemnon”

“Hear, Tisiphone, Allekte, noble Megaira, revered goddesses whose Bacchic cries resound. Nocturnal and clandestine, you live deep down in the dank cave by the sacred water of the Styx. Men's unholy designs do incur your anger; rabid and arrogant, you howl over Necessity's dictates, clothed in animal skins, you cause the deep pains of retribution.” - (First part of) Orphic hymn 69

“Hear me and be gracious, 0 renowned Eumenides, O pure daughters of the great Chthonic Zeus and of lovely Persephone, fair-tressed maiden. Over the lives of impious mortals you keep a careful eye, in charge of Necessity, you punish the unjust.”

(First part of) Orphic hymn 70

“For whoever knows the right and is ready to speak it, far-seeing Zeus gives him prosperity…” - Hesiod “Work and days”

“You princes, mark well this punishment you also; for the deathless gods are near among men and mark all those who oppress their fellows with crooked judgements, and reck not the anger of the gods. For upon the bounteous earth Zeus has thrice ten thousand spirits, watchers of mortal men, and these keep watch on judgements and deeds of wrong as they roam, clothed in mist, all over the earth. And there is virgin Justice, the daughter of Zeus, who is honoured and reverenced among the gods who dwell on Olympus, and whenever anyone hurts her with lying slander, she sits beside her father, Zeus the son of Cronos, and tells him of men's wicked heart, until the people pay for the mad folly of their princes who, evilly minded, pervert judgement and give sentence crookedly.” - Hesiod “Works and Days”

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #Sudan #dont forget about sudan #eyes on sudan #pray for palestine #pray for sudan #free congo #eyes on congo #pray for congo #ethiopia #eyes on ethiopia #hellenic polytheist #hellenic paganism #hellenism #current events #deity worship #erinyes #Hellenic hymns #Hellenic prayers #deity hymns #deity prayers #Persephone deity #hades deity #hermes deity #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #free gaza

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Sunlight

Summary: A moment in time where you could've sworn that nothing ever could go any different between the two of you…

Pairing: Elijah Kamski x afab!Reader

Word Count: - 2.1k

Content Warnings: Fluffy PWP 18+!, Softdom!Elijah, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral (F Receiving), Edging, Slight Praise Kink, Begging, Implied Further Smut

A/N: I'm gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure 🥴 The Kamski brain rot has befallen me again! Massive thanks to @blueberrypancakesworld for motivating me in this endeavour 🫶🏻🖤

Follow-Up to Golden Cage but can be read as a standalone just as well.

Tagging: @spookyorchid @blueberrypancakesworld @herprivateisland

Each day, you'd rise with me

Know that I would gladly be

The Icarus to your certainty

Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

Strap the wing to me

Death trap clad happily

With wax melted, I'd meet the sea

Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

- Sunlight By Hozier

Around 5 years prior, on an early autumn Saturday morning, the time gradually moved closer to noon…

A quiet groan rolled over your tongue as you lazily opened your eyes just as much as necessary for your gaze to shoot a quick glance towards the alarm clock on the nightstand.

"Huh…" You noted, somewhat amused by the fact that it was nearly noon already.

"Hm?" A still halfway asleep Elijah behind you protested in a low hum as you turned around, tightly wrapped in his embrace.

"Good morning, sleepyhead.", You peppered the crown of his head with a wash of quick pecks, his cheek resting nuzzled against your collarbone, "I might as well start preparing lunch since we successfully slept through breakfast hours."

"Isn't that what the weekend is for?" Eli smiled against your skin, the stubble of his beard tickling gingerly.

For a brief moment, you tried to pull yourself out of his hug but quickly noted that Elijah had no intention of letting you go just yet.

"Nuh-Uh. Absolutely not.", He quipped, holding you down underneath the cozy cotton duvet covers right next to him, "Way too comfortable."

"Fair enough." A soft smile tugged at your lips as you gave in and led your fingertips to trace along his back, following the slight curve of his spine until they reached the nape of his neck.

"Hmhm…", Eli sighed contentedly, "Wanna stay in bed with you all day. No lab, no coding and no report writing today. Ordering in some food, maybe?"

"Please go on, Mr. Kamski, you have my attention.” The smile on your mouth turned into a smirk at his words whilst your fingers played with strands of his silken-straight hair.

“Well…”, It trickled from his lips in a sleepy chuckle, “May I propose a day of mindless leisure to Mrs. Kamski?”

“Hmhm, mindless leisure, you say?”, You clicked your tongue in a moment of play-pretend pondering, “I’m certainly not opposed to the idea.”

"Marvelous!" The halfway snorted-out cackle spilled from your lips faster than you could recognize.

"Marvelous?", You repeated Eli's exclamation, still snickering over it, "Alright, peepaw."

"Excuse me?" Elijah laughed out as well before leaning his head down a little further until his lips touched the curve of your breast to nip at the sensitive skin close to your nipple.

"Hey, don't you distract from that verbal atrocity!" It rolled right over your tongue as something in between a yelp and a choked-back sigh.

"Distraction? Nay, nay! I'm ready and willing to top that!", The words rumbled through Elijah’s chest in a chuckle, "My, my, how absolutely splendid for my lovely lady, my sun and my everything, to leisurely waste this day away with me."

"Oh, Jesus, fuck..", You groaned a little theatrically over the top, covering your face with both of your palms, "Time to switch to decaf because you gotta watch out for your blood pressure, gramps, maybe consider some Viagra, too."

"Ouch!", Eli mocked in return, his soft lips nibbling their path along the areola up to close down around your perked-up nipple.

His teeth, carefully scratching over the sensitive skin, sent urging jolts of rapidly rising arousal to shoot down amidst your thighs, the demanding pulse causing your hips to snap from the mattress in search of stimulation.

“Oh, c'mon, that's not fair.” You let your head loll back into the thick and feathery pillow as the sensation of his tongue swirling soft circles around your nipple fogged your mind, gradually chasing every coherent thought right out of it.

“I know, I know.” Elijah cooed in return, the warmth of his breath breezing over the damp patch of skin he left behind after letting the perked-up nub slide from between his lips again.

“Can't help myself but to get off on watching you go dumb with just the softest of touches, love.” The almost sore rasp in his tone went right through you as his words led you to clench your thighs together.

“You're such a sharp-witted and well-spoken menace at the lab but it all goes down the drain the second I touch you, doesn't it, babe?” You didn't need to see the sly grin on his face to know that it was there as his warm lips wandered back up over your collarbone until halting at your neck, kissing, nibbling and suckling at your flushed skin.

Instead of words, the only thing leaving your slightly trembling lips was a needy whine, a desperate mewl as you arched your back from the mattress, thighs still firmly pressed together to evoke just the tiniest bit of friction.

“Issok, babe, I'm gonna take care of that, don't worry.” Elijah hummed against your throat whilst nimble, slender fingers brushed along your hip bone, ready and eager to dip down between your legs.

“C'mon, want you to spread those beautiful legs for me, yeah? Wanna feel just how wet you are for me already, hm.” The tip of his nose nudged right against your pulse point playfully as you sensed a surge of heat wash over your face, somewhere between embarrassment and plain horny neediness that rendered you pliable to all his gentle demands.

A rush of heavy goosebumps erupted all over your skin as you gave in to the slight pull administered by the palm of his hand resting right at the curve of your thigh.

“There you go.”, Eli murmured in a soft tone, eager fingertips stroking the insides of your leg and creeping ever closer to where you needed him to touch you so desperately, “Good girl.”

“Please… it's too much, Eli, please!” You whimpered with a cracking, trembling voice, fighting yourself to not succumb to the need to simply jolt your hips forward harshly enough for Elijah’s fingers to inevitably touch your aching cunt.

“Uh-oh, need me to take care of that so bad, huh?”, He planted yet another kiss on your neck whilst his hand eventually slipped between your legs, fingertips parting your thoroughly soaked folds and gathering your arousal between them before stroking over your throbbing clit in slow circles, “Bet that feels better now, no?”

“Fuck…please, don't stop.” It rolled over your tongue in a breathless plea whilst your eyes fluttered shut at the sudden wave of electrifying pleasure spreading all throughout your body.

The sheere sensation of his index finger gingerly caressing you in carefully-paced strokes sent your mind reeling immediately as your muscles rendered warmer with every touch.

“I didn't plan on doing so anytime soon. Good god, you're fucking soaked, aren't you?” Elijah’s voice turned to a deep groan as he pressed his own body closer to yours, allowing you to feel just how much he needed to have you right now, too.

Wandering up from your neck, that was now peppered with countless little, purple-ish coloured hickey's, his teeth latched onto your jaw, scratching over your skin in a certain animalistic way that rushed straight down to your lower abdomen again, causing you to moan out into the bedroom which got gradually enlightened with the warm, early-afternoon sun. Not only was the warmth outside the windows rising but the heat spreading between your thighs just as well. It didn't take much for it to feel like eating you straight up, to burn you whole from the inside out and to completely overstimulate your senses. You're almost already sore nerve endings begged for Elijah’s gentle caress to push you past the threshold, to let the tightening coil in your stomach eventually snap but with the ever so tenderly paced flicks of his finger he held you right at the breaking point, kept your body balancing right on the edge until it rendered you stupid.

“Please, I'm so close, pretty please!” The desperate and impatient whine slipped past your lips as the muscles of your thighs started trembling.

“Nuh-Uh… calm yourself.” He shushed, a growing grin playing around his mouth as he withdrew his slick-covered finger from your pulsing clit and instead curled his entire palm to cup your cunt that was clenching and throbbing mercilessly around nothing.

“No, no, please. You said you wouldn't stop, please!” As the feeling of immediate stimulation ebbed away, you sensed frustration rising within your chest and struggled to hold back a downright pathetic sob that wanted to break its way free.

“Oh, babe, I'm not stopping…just pausing a little because I need you to calm down a bit. Don't want you to just cum on my fingers already, no.”, Elijah’s nose stroke along your cheek whilst his lips brushed towards your earlobe, his hot breath against your skin making you shiver, “I'd much rather taste you, love, feel you gushing all over my face.”

Just the mere thought of it and the way those words practically oozed out of his mouth like they weren't pure filth had you nearly choking on your own, already shallow breaths. You were desperate to hold yourself together, at least for a moment, whilst opening your eyes to Elijah shifting downward on the mattress, his mouth leaving a trail of quick kisses until he buried his face in your lap, a deep groan rumbling through his chest as his tongue darted out past his lips to lap at you like a man parched.

You felt the tip of his tongue gliding through your folds at ease, parting them until it softly nudged at your clit. With half-lidded eyes you watched him devour you, your gaze glued to the sight of messy strands of his hair slipping out from his loose ponytail, framing his face in a shade of blonde that appeared to be golden in the warm light beaming in from past the curtains.

“Fuck…” It fell from your tongue as you managed to lean your upper body onto your elbows for a better view because in the very second you moved and shifted, Eli closed his lips around your pulsing clit and started gingerly suckling, nearly forcing you to halt right there and then again.

It took everything in you to not just slump back into the pillows again, instead, you bit down on your bottom lip whilst pulling your thighs closer to your body. Elijah took the hint right away and hoisted your legs onto his shoulders, palms and fingers grasping around your thighs to keep you in place nice and tight whilst his mouth never paused pleasuring you.

He didn't need to apply anything besides the gentle, careful suction paired with tender flicks of the tip of his tongue for you to come close again, for the tension in your lower abdomen to tighten up anew. This time, you just silently begged for him not to pause, not to stop.

There was no doubt that Eli was aware of the way your thighs started trembling again, how you moaned out in steadily raising arousal as you felt the wetness oozing out of you and to your relief, he kept going, his tongue toying with your clit, stroking and nudging it, knowing how to get you off properly.

“ ‘M gonna…” You tried to utter, the words haphazardly passing your lips before one more tender lick of his pushed you past the threshold and sent your nerve endings into overdrive.

It felt like fireworks going off inside of your body with the muscles of your lower abdomen spasming in wave after heavy wave. The orgasmic epitome went straight to your head, eradicating everything for a split second before the pleasantly brutal, nearly numbing rush of hormones took over; serotonin and oxytocin jolting through your body like an electric current which eventually led you to fall back into the pillows underneath.

“There, there…”, Elijah smirked whilst shoving himself up back to you for his glistening lips to hover closely above yours, “How about we order some pizza now and I sit you down on my lap while correcting you on that gnarly comment about Viagra, huh?”

#elijah kamski smut #dbh elijah kamski x reader #dbh elijah kamski #elijah kamski x reader #elijah kamski #neil newbon #dbh #detroit: become human #detroit become human #detroid become human #elijah kamski x fem!reader #elijah kamski x afab!reader

[itsclydebitches]

There’s been a lot of talk in the fandom lately about this desire to downplay Ed’s atrocities in the first season. As others have discussed, this seems to largely be in an attempt to a) reach a kind of distilled wholesomeness for BlackBonnet that, for all the actual cuteness attached to the ship, doesn’t truly exist when you’re talking about the romance between two deadly pirates, and b) position Izzy as the sole bad guy so that Option A can flourish and/or simply because some fans don’t like him and yay demonizing the characters we’re not fond of. Great stuff, love all that I’ve read. To add onto the conversation just a bit, I think it’s worth emphasizing Izzy’s line in the finale:

“Blackbeard is himself again.”

With the giant caveat that I don’t believe Izzy wanted the Kraken—AKA this level of violence and deadly unpredictability. I mean, Izzy is the guy who was begging Ed for a plan, some measure of stability to stay safe, so he really doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d want to live on a ship where his captain will randomly enter his cabin to cut off toes, his masochistic tendencies aside—but this line is a crystal-clear acknowledgement that the original Blackbeard was at least somewhat like the Kraken is now. What characteristics do we see then?

A sudden and unprompted murder (Lucius)

Potentially circumventing the moral dilemma of that murder via a technicality (I didn’t kill Lucius, the sea did)

A maiming (something Ed has admitted to enjoying and he’s done this specific act of violence in the past)

Rejecting emotional expression (“Stop crying.”)

Downplaying the suffering of others (“It’s just the pinky.”)

Engaging in threats to keep others in line (“Threaten me again, ever… I’ll feed you the rest, understand?”)

Expecting the crew to serve their captain regardless of what they’re struggling with (Who cares if you lost a toe, Izzy, come find me ASAP)

Making good use of others before tossing them aside (the crew will get rid of Stede’s “old dross” and then he’ll maroon them)

The implication that if things don’t occur in what he considers a timely manner, more punishment will follow (“Quickly now! … Quicker! Quicker!”)

Kidnapping (Jim + threatening Frenchie)

Working under the belief that if he can’t be happy, no one else can either (let’s separate the other couples by killing Lucius and keeping Jim on board).

Basically, I’ve seen a lot of posts that engage with the potential nuances of Ed’s past, questioning how bad it really was, and usually ending up on the side of absolving him via headcanons. Maybe he didn’t really set a ship of people on fire, Calico Jack did that and Ed was just passively involved. Do we know that his subordinate actually skinned that guy with a snail fork, or was it just an order given in a fit of fury that Ed later pulled back from? Did he really maim people, or is that just a random example to reflect the violent life he wants to leave behind? And beyond the fact that I think it’s bad analysis to read so much of Ed’s actions as intrinsically up for debate when the narrative itself never draws them into question… yes, Ed maims someone right on screen. We watch him do that and Izzy’s response is, ‘Ah, Ed’s finally back to normal!’

It may well be a slightly more extreme version of normal, but the Kraken didn’t come out of nowhere.

The argument that Ed was healing until Izzy manipulated him into becoming a monster not only ignores Ed’s personal agency—getting yelled at by a co-working in a way they know will hurt you, while horrible, isn’t justification for assault and murder—but also that follow-up of, “Blackbeard is himself again.” Izzy can’t force Ed to become something he’s not if Izzy’s entire purpose here is to bring back who Ed previously was. He’s trying to restore a past behavior, not conjure up a new one that’s the antithesis to Ed’s robe-wearing personality. Even when he was at his happiest with Stede, Ed still gave the snail fork order, threatened the Frenchman for “oomph,” explained casually how to take a ship in a raid (that is, kill everyone on board), was prepared to shoot up a dining room after a bunch of assholes laughed at him, was romanced by Stede letting them burn alive, and his idea of pirate fun is getting whipped in the balls/having animals fight to the death. Ed is a violent person! Because of course he is. He’s a pirate. Izzy isn’t some mastermind who molded Ed until he was a shadow of his former, passivist self, Izzy threw one (1) temper tantrum, found a particularly cruel button to push—“pining for his boyfriend”—and that’s all it took for Ed to choke him out against the wall. “There he is.” Blackbeard was always there, right beneath the surface, a tiny nudge away, and if you go on that kind of murder spree from one cruel remark then, sorry, but those tendencies were never truly being dealt with in the first place. Blackbeard (and to an extent the Kraken) have always been here. They never left. They’re Ed. Izzy didn’t create them and as much as I love fluffy, wholesome, tooth-rottingly sweet BlackBonnet content in a fandom space, pretending that they’re canonically #PureBabies is a serious misreading of the text. To say nothing of a dismissal of one of OFMD’s biggest themes. Stede arrives wanting to change pirating’s “culture of abuse,” even while he romanticizes it.

Who do we think represents that culture and its romanticism best, if not the feared pirate legend Stede falls in love with?

#OFMD #Our Flag Means Death #Izzy Hands #mymetas

[blzzrdstryr]

Untitled Capitano x gn!reader [NSFW]

CW: Noncon/dubcom, coercion, reader is a monterfucker and Capitano is a monster, scratching and biting, humiliation

A/N: I don't think it's very yandere or can be considered yandere, but I'll tag it just to be safe. PWP

Surviving Fatui Harbinger requires some compromise. Usually with your own pride and dignity.

It’s not that you are a blushing virgin, who's never taken a cock before - you have, eagerly and enthusiastically, all sloppy kisses and drunken giggles. But there’s a difference between taking a stranger to bed, tipsy and hot after a couple of shots and flirting, and being forced to do so repeatedly, threatened by the very Capitano with what will happen to you and your compatriots once the word of your very anti-Tsaritsa conspiracy goes out.

Capitano, the bastard that he is, of course knows how much you hate this arrangement, and so he does his best to prolong it - he doesn’t take you right there and then, pinned against the wall in the dark alley he managed to catch you this time, no, Capitano, this bastard and monster, takes you to the hotel, expensive yet discreet enough, so no one there pays attention to you or your bruised, disheveled state.

Capitano leads you to the room, spacious and nicely decorated, with an obscenely big bed at the very center, when your knees give out under the stress and sheer exhaustion. It doesn’t stop the Harbinger from throwing you on the bed, though, and attacking your neck right as you land on the soft surface and you close your eyes.

He doesn’t remove the helmet, yet you still feel it - his tongue, too long and too scratchy to belong to a human - despite many contacts of more intimate nature you had with a fatui you never saw his face, or what is supposed to be it. Your mind eagerly supplies vivid images of monstrous atrocity and you cringe at yourself, feeling how much hotter you start to feel at the mere thoughts of it.

“My, my, you’re so excited already”, he drawls, his impossible long tongue retreating somewhere back to his head, as his fingers - big, with sharp talons on the end start to wander on your skin.

“Don’t slice it, you fucker”, you hiss, sensing how his hands scratch at your skin and clothes, at which he simply hums  - Capitano likes to leave his marks, you think it’s his way of showing his conquest. And then you feel and hear it - the sound of the ripping fabric and his claws drawing you blood.

“I didn’t slice it” Capitano answers your scream of indignation, before he starts to bite your shoulder, his tongue lapping at the bleeding mark of his teeth - also too big and sharp to belong to a human. You shiver at the thought of what might be above you, and are tempted to open your eyes, to gaze at this thing that has tormented you for so long, yet you find yourself powerless to move even a single muscle, rendered to such helpless state by both lust and fear, thick and primal.

You don’t know how much the foreplay lasts - the feel of his hands and tongue are usually enough to pin you in the moment, keep still you for however long he wants, as he leaves more and more of his presence onto your body, as you melt and fall at the same time, caught between mind-numbing pleasure and absolute dread.

He pushes his cock into you as he always does - painlessly, yet unexpectedly. The first time it happened, when he took you on your four scared shitless and hyperventilating, you thought that a man of his size will surely rip you in two. You expected a stinging agony and blood, lots of blood, yet none of it came. His dick - similarly unhuman in feeling -  filled you out, rearranged your guts, made you forget how to think and breathe, yet it didn’t rip you, didn’t hurt you. Maybe it was a part of his unhuman nature, maybe his skills in bed, you don’t know. nor do you care.

What you care about is his rhythm, slow and almost gentle, even his hands - so big, so strong - handle you too carefully for your liking. “Don’t you dare do this now”, you hiss at him, forgetting your fear and rocking your hips against him, as he hums, surely drinking in the sight of your impatience. 

“My little whore is needy, hm?”, he asks and your cheeks burn at that, at how dare he call you that, yet you have no time to voice out the complaint. He picks up the pace, rough and fast, and you are stripped of ability to think, incoherent moans and whimpers escaping past your lips. He half moans, half groans too, muttering something about being a good little whore for him, how slutty you look and feel, how heavenly it is to be inside you. You don’t really listen, your eyes opening at a particularly hard thrust - the caution, the fear - it all melted away under his movements.

And you scream.

The thing you see is enough to drive you overboard and you orgasm, harder than ever in your life, face contorted with pleasure and dread.

And then you black out.

The next day greets you with a dim sunlight breaking through the window and someone insistently knocking on the door.

“Come”, you say, without really thinking, your body is sore and aching in that delicious way after an intense night, as you take in the surroundings once more. No Capitano in sight. In the daylight, a previously expensive room seems gaudy and overstuffed, you almost close your eyes again and go back to sleep, when a not so small detail catches your eyes.

The note, attached to the purse so full that it looks indecent, written by the hand you know: “This is for your clothes, and the pleasant night. - C”.

Fuck, what will you do about your clothes?

#Yandere genshin impact x reader #Yanderecore #Yandere #Yancore #Yandere imagine #Yandere Capitano #Capitano x reader #Capitano #Male yandere #Gn!reader

[psychotrenny]

I cannot emphasise how much I fucking despise the US military and everyone who supports it. I hate all Imperialist militaries, but as an Arch-Imperialist nation that dominates and exploits even other Imperialists I hold an especially deep hatred for the USA. I've felt this way for as long as I've been politically conscious; even as a teenager Liberal who hadn't yet come to terms with my own nation's atrocities I still hated the US. I am so sick of people treating some Yankee soldier as a kind of hero just because he did the bare fucking minimum and killed himself to disavow what is only the latest and most publicised atrocity of the most evil institution on the planet.

Like it was a useless death too; I can''t think of a single political cause that was advanced by self-immolation. If you already have people willing to commit atrocities so horrible that killing yourself painfully is a worthwhile response, and everyone with the power to act is sitting aside and allowing it to happen, what is adding one more body to the pile going to do? Like worst case scenario it'll be slightly embarrassing if your nationality, social status or skin colour means that your life is seen having greater worth more than those of the people being victimised, but as far as the ruling class is concerned there's no one who isn't ultimately expendable.

Like Israel has already killed so many actual US citizens, and not just in this current conflict. This includes both peace activists who put themselves in harms way and Palestinian-Americans who were just in the wrong place wrong time while visiting family. Even if we're dealing with the kind of people who don't care about the millions of murdered and tortured Palestinians and only take notice when someone from the First World gets killed, Israel has already gotten away with murder. What is killing yourself and naming them in the suicide note gonna do? The fact of the matter is that no liberation has been achieved by appealing to the better natures of the oppressors; at best the more moderate factions are compromised with after the radicals get too strong. If you consider yourself an opponent of Imperialism, then all killing yourself does is save them the cost of a bullet.

#stella speaks #like if we wanted to kill himself he could have at least done something somewhat useful #frag his commanding officer or fly into a lockheed martin facility

[stoat-party]

My Joshua Graham take (alternate title: stop beingng mean to him!!!!!!)

Now I’m not a Joshua-did-nothing-wrong girlie (I mean, if you can’t recognize his flaws then you get his bad ending, so there’s that), but I gotta defend my boy for a minute. I’m gonna try to tie things back to the facts of the game, but there will obviously be Themes and Context that I can’t even begin to get into, and your mileage may vary.

Mitigating factors

We’ve gotta keep in mind that this guy is in severe and continuous chronic pain. Now, that doesn’t make you a bad person — one of the most loving and giving people I know is disabled with chronic pain, and of course everyone starts dealing with some form of it as they get older. But it can definitely affect how people relate to the world, and the preoccupation of being in constant pain means it takes more effort to act the same as they used to, (assuming they were a good person even then). I’m just saying that I would be a little more prone to anger if I had to tear off and replace my skin every morning.

Also, he and Daniel are both in grief — the Wiki places the sacking of New Canaan in 2281, and while it could have been earlier than that based on the minimal evidence we have, that’s still an extremely fresh wound. Joshua implies he either has or had family in New Canaan. With their numbers reduced to about thirty, he’s undoubtedly lost multiple people, in a violent and traumatizing way, while also dealing with the guilt of having (indirectly) caused it. He’s not acting totally rationally here.

Claim: He spent thirty years acting as a warlord and committing total cultural annihilation in service of a maniac

Hey, granted. That did happen. He doesn’t offer much of an explanation for it, except that he first did it to survive and then kept making compromises until he’d completely lost his sense of morality. And explanations aren’t excuses, we know this, but they do make redemption arcs more palatable. Personally, I don’t understand being against redemption arcs in fiction. They’re my favorite thing.

It’s important to note that the narrative does punish him for his actions — the guy he committed all the atrocities for betrayed him, he has the aforementioned chronic pain and disability now, and then the war machine he created to destroy cultures destroyed his own. So if you’re the type to think redemption needs to include suffering/death, there you go.

Claim: He is racist

The most literal form of this claim can’t be accurate, because everyone in Honest Hearts is GECK-coded as Caucasian (except the caravan company). The tribals actually have races created specifically for them (to account for their tattoo styles), but they're still white. They weren’t all supposed to be white, but that’s how it turned out in the game due to extremely limited production time. The Sorrows are descended from American schoolchildren, the Dead Horses are descended from Germans and Native Americans, and the White Legs are descended from Shoshone, Latin-Americans, and Americans (they’re also the palest of the three, not that it really matters).

Claim: Stereotype of the “white man’s burden”

This is a bit more Doylist than Watsonian, but it wasn’t intentional. Daniel was supposed to be Asian, but again because of short production time he ended up white. I interpret him as biracial.

Claim: He’s culturally elitist

He does believe his religion is the best one, though IMO everyone should feel that way. But he doesn’t think of himself as above the tribals — he considers himself a tribal, and shows distaste for “civilized” places. Daniel is actually worse about this one.

Claim: He’s Mormon

Well, yeah. I take issue with this being considered a punishable offense on its own — unless it’s combined with anti-blackness or child marriage or something, it’s just a religion, and there’s no evidence of the Future Mormons practicing anything like that.

Claim: He’s a missionary

As above, judging based on this without any specific evidence of wrongdoing is a little bit ignorant. Most modern missionaries are basically aid workers with a religious motive, and they make an effort to culturally assimilate with the host community, if it wasn’t their country to begin with. (Are there horror stories, sure. Like I said, Themes and Context.) Based on Joshua’s (and Daniel’s) responses when you openly mock their faith, there’s no coercion going on.

Claim: He’s committing cultural imperialism against the Dead Horses

He did do this as Legate. He visited Dead Horse Point to prime them to join the Legion, teaching them warfare and allowing them to basically worship him. Follows-Chalk says he saved their tribe from extinction, but obviously he did that intending to wipe them out. However, Burned Guy Josh came back to prevent them from joining the Legion, and his track record since then shows a pretty high regard for their culture.

In Follows-Chalk’s quest, Joshua is concerned about influencing them more than he should. Follows-Chalk says he’s the tribe’s leader, but Joshua actually explicitly denies it, the implication being that he’s a little uncomfy with being more than a military advisor. He even says that there are better role models than him.

Claim: He wants to commit genocide

There’s one big misconception I want to correct: The White Legs don’t live in Zion, they live by the Great Salt Lake. The group we meet are a war party. At worst, they had a support staff of non-combatants.

They were trying to commit genocide against the other three factions. You can be on Daniel’s side in the big debate, but the Sorrows absolutely had a right to defend their homeland from people tasked with killing then all, whether or not it was a good idea in practice. (The Dead Horses are also visitors; they originate from Dead Horse Point.)

He does hate them, hence the racism accusations, but according to Ulysses, they really are violent raiders (he and Joshua both call them mongrels, actually). Again, they kinda burnt Joshua’s family to death. His prejudice comes from their collective actions and their affiliation with the Legion, not their race or lack of technology or anything like that. He calls Salty an animal, but he also says that he relates to him from his days in the Legion. His brutal tactics were wrong and that’s the point, but he didn’t want to commit genocide.

Claim: He’s a hypocrite/He uses religion to justify doing bad stuff

Yeh! That’s the idea, and getting him to admit he’s wrong about it is one of my favorite scenes in the game. It’s especially poignant if you’re religious, because you’ve undoubtedly seen others commit this sin and maybe struggle with it yourself. Admitting the motives you’re hiding from yourself, accepting responsibility for your actions, and forgoing revenge on someone who’s seriously hurt you are all really potent character moments, in the game and in real life.

Claim: He extorts the Courier by trapping them in the valley until they do a bunch of dangerous quests for him, then makes them pay for medical care and weapon repairs due to said dangerous quests, and oh whoopsy doo there’s no way of making money in the valley except collecting stuff and selling it to the general store, but MAMMA MIA GUESS WHO RUNS THE GENERAL STORE??

Okay, I’ve never actually heard anyone say this, but it’s true. It’s all true.

#fallout #new vegas #fallout: new vegas #fallout new vegas #honest hearts #joshua graham #daniel fallout #daniel new vegas #fnv #f:nv #fonv

[sisterspooky1013]

The Wonder That’s Keeping the Stars Apart, Chapter 2/3

Rated Teen | Read it here on AO3

He doesn’t move in the twenty-plus minutes that Scully is in the bathroom. He stays rooted to the very spot she left him, one hand resting on the countertop for balance as he listens to her muffled sobs through the door.

His mind runs over and over through an endless loop, wondering if he should have told her in another way, should have told her sooner, shouldn’t have told her at all. He considers knocking, considers leaving, considers calling her mother, but he does none of these things. He just stands there, waiting for some indication as to what she needs from him.

Without warning, the door snaps open and she walks out, head bowed. He watches as she returns to the kitchen and picks up her abandoned glass, sucking down the remains in three gulps before she pours another. She isn’t looking at him, but he can see that her eyes are red and swollen, the skin on her cheeks mottled and damp. In solidarity, he picks up his own glass and swallows it down, and she wordlessly refills it.

“I want to know everything,” she says suddenly, her voice hoarse. “Every detail. All of it.”

“Of course,” he says reluctantly, aware of the fact that he won’t be able to answer many, much less all, of her questions. “Can we—do you want to sit down?”

They move to the couch, and over the course of an hour he tells her about the fertility clinic, the multiple Kurt Crawfords, the refrigerator full of vials of ova. He tells her about having them tested, and breaks her heart again when he shares the news that they weren’t viable. He watches her move through grief, anger, despondency and back again. And when he’s told her everything, when she has asked all her questions and he has answered as many of them as he can, she lays her head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling for a very long time.

He watches the side of her face, the proud bridge of her nose and the occasional quiver of her bottom lip as she tries not to start crying again. He thinks of her small and sunken in the hospital, and her final-hour attempts to ensure that he would be okay without her. He wonders how she can still believe in a God who would put her through this, who would save her from one atrocity only to hurl another at her.

To ease his own mind, he imagines her on a sandy beach, her toes peeking out from beneath the shade of a giant umbrella to feel the warmth of the sun. He imagines a life for her where her biggest worries are getting her children into the best schools and finding the right treatments for her patients. He wishes her away even as he shudders at the thought of never knowing her, and so he moves on to imagining a version of himself who would be worthy of being her mate.

“They took them all, didn’t they?” she says, snapping him out of his daydream.

“All of what?” he clarifies, shifting his body to face hers more fully.

“My ova. They didn’t leave any,” she says somberly.

Mulder shakes his head and sighs.

“I don’t know. I wish I did, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a logical assumption,” she continues, “given that the other abductees were being seen for fertility treatment. They would have needed them all to come to the same clinic, otherwise it would have been discovered that the women had no ova—”

Her voice catches and she closes her mouth, pulling in a deep breath through her nose.

“That does seem logical,” he says. After a brief pause he adds, “But I don’t think you should come to any conclusions just yet. You won’t know for sure until you see your doctor.”

Now Scully shakes her head, rolling it from side to side against the back of the couch.

“I’ve known something was wrong, Mulder. I’ve known since my abduction. Things have never been the same…”

Instinctively, her hand settles over her lower belly. Platitudes spring forward in his mind, one after another, and he stuffs them down. The urge to placate her is strong, but his desire to be what she needs is stronger, and she doesn’t need him to deny her her own reality.

Silence stretches on, the sounds of her kitchen clock and unattended car alarm marking the passing of time. Mulder leans forward and retrieves his glass, grimacing as he swallows the last of the amber liquid that has become room temperature. He can admit that he’s grateful to have the edge taken off this entire conversation.

Scully rolls her head to the side and considers him. Her eyes are just slightly glassy, though dry, and he has the thought that she’s actually taking this quite well.

“I’m sorry you had to hold onto that for so long,” she says tenderly, and he’s struck by her show of compassion for him during what is inarguably very much about her. “That must have been difficult.”

Mulder purses his lips and shakes his head.

“I should have told you sooner. I’m just glad I got the chance to tell you. I’m glad you’re still here to hear it,” he says genuinely, and is delighted when a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He scoots closer to her and lifts his arm, and she burrows into his side with an exhausted sigh. Her head lands on the front of his shoulder, and he presses his nose into her hair and breathes her in deep, flowery shampoo and the musk of oil on her scalp. He rubs her upper arm with his free hand and feels her relax against him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says, though there is just a hint of a question in his tone.

“Yeah,” she agrees unconfidently.

After a moment she tilts her face up, bringing her nose inches from his cheek. She reaches up and strokes the side of his face, scraping the pads of her fingers over the stubble of his incoming beard with an audible scritch.

“Thank you,” she says, the warmth of her whisky soaked breath tickling his nose, “for being such a good friend to me.”

She’s wrong, so wrong. He’s not a good friend. If not for him, she wouldn’t need a friend to usher her through all these horrible events. If not for him, she’d still have other friends to lean on.

Gently, she tilts his face toward hers, and his heart leaps as he realizes what she’s doing. She pauses briefly to meet his eyes and, apparently seeing no reason not to continue, she arches her neck up and kisses him again.

It’s so much different than the first time. Her lips are salted with tears and her tongue is smoky with liquor when it slides over his. There’s something desperate in her kiss, something needy, as she straightens up and faces him more fully for a better angle. She is sitting, and then kneeling on the cushion beside him, and then she climbs into his lap. He touches her hips, not daring to go any higher or lower, and gets lost in the wet heat of her mouth. He kisses her to soothe her, and to love her, and to apologize for all the ways he’s hurt her. He kisses her because he wants to, because he’s been wanting to for years. It’s only when her hands run down his torso, when her fingers dip under the waist of his jeans, that he realizes that maybe she is kissing him for reasons that she will later regret.

“Hey,” he says urgently, covering her hands with his. “Maybe we should slow down for a minute.”

“I don’t want to slow down,” she mumbles into his mouth, flexing her hips and pressing her hot center against his erection through both their pants.

He suppresses a groan and grabs her hands, pulling them away. Scully sits back and looks at him, perplexed.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then changes course. “You’re upset, Scully.”

She stares at him for a beat.

“I’m not doing this because I’m upset,” she says, a little angrily.

“You’ve been drinking, and you just got some really heavy news…” he tries again, and she gapes at him before she abruptly stands and moves to sit on the couch beside him, leaving his lap cold and his dick hard. “I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret,” he elaborates, shifting to face her. Scully stares at the fireplace, her chest heaving. He sees fresh tears gathering along her lower lashline and he scrambles for the right thing to say. “I care about you, I don’t want you to feel like I took advantage—”

“Stop!” she snaps, lifting both hands and resting her fingertips on her temples, which partially obscures her face. “Just….stop telling me what I need.” He waits in stunned silence as she breathes heavily and stares straight ahead, her eyes hidden behind her hand. He’s startled when she stands and wheels around to look at him, a wounded and furious expression on her face. “If you don’t want this, just say that. I’m a big girl, Mulder, I can handle rejection,” she spits at him, and he opens his mouth to correct her but she cuts him off. “But don’t sit here and tell me it’s for my own good. Don’t convince yourself that you’re doing me some chivalrous favor by deciding what I should and shouldn’t do with my own damn body. I don’t need you to protect me from myself.”

He stares at her, stupidly, and after a beat she turns on her heel and walks into the bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind her.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles

[the-belle-siblings]

*The letter to the 3 of them says, "Take good care of Milktoast for us, ok? Love Wave 🌊 and Emote anon." Inside the box is a cat bed and a frighten white kitten.*

🗿A cat?! Why would someone give us a cat?

💦Awww!! Kitty!! Hello little meow meow whisker baby

I just shook a baby, I will never make up for my sins. Hell waits for me in the ever daunting future. I have committed atrocities known to no man. I'm a bad pers-

🗿Caden, it'll be fine. And you really ought to be more fine with "sins" considering you want to take over the world with me.

💦*Reaches in to grab the cat*

Caden smacks her hand away

Don't touch Milktoast! He's been separated from his parents and family and he's in a rough spot right now. You leave him be to sleep and cry.

💦*cough* projecting on a cat *cough* ahem sorry just had to clear my throat there.

🗿*picks up the cat*

Ivan! Don't-

🗿silence you fool, we don't even know if the cat is a guy or not yet. It's kinda important to figure that out.

Isn't that an invasion of their privacy..?

🗿It's a cat, Caden. And it seems Milktoast here is a girl.

💦I'm still gonna get her a little bow tie!

Let the cat be naked and free

💦Now I'm just hoping your not projecting-

🗿*ls currently holding it like a baby with a flat expression.* it looks old enough to eat soft food. Misra, you will be going to get the cat food.

HA!

💦What!? Why me?!?

🗿Caden simply can't leave the house without some form of disguise, unless he says he's in cosplay but even then that answer doesn't seem likely. And I don't trust you not to smother Milktoast.

💦ugh whatever, Milktoast will like me better anyways after I feed her. She knows where the food comes from.

🗿okay? She can be your cat, I don't want her. I just don't think I should let you suffocate her in one of your death hugs.

Uh I like the cat, I want the fella.

💦nobody cares

🗿I care

You do?!

🗿Rot in hell, Burn in your grave

I think you said that wrong-

🗿I think your wrong.

💦oh my gosh you two are litterally a married couple with a child- I'm gonna run to the store before you two kill me

Smart Idea-

Aggressive coughing noises

🗿Caden?

💦*Halfway down the street*

🗿Are you oka-

Caden coughs a few deep red flowers into the palm of his hand and tosses them somewhere outside. There's a barely visible red liquid on his pitch black skin.

Let's just go in now, I'm alright.

🗿*He gives Caden an apparent look of concern but doesn't say anything, the pair walks indoors. Ivan holding the cat and Caden with the box tucked against his side under the arm he did not use to cough into the palm of.*

#miserable💦 #invincible🗿 #caden umbra nati #asks #the belle siblings #CAt #Milktoast #Milky boy whom luvs her milk #except cats don't really drink milk as it does give them tummy issues

[the-mighty-glow-cloud]

ELEMENT and FEEL for Cain, and uuuh PRIDE + HUMBLE for your lycan hunter guy ? (so sorry i forgor his name 💀)

ok finally coming back to this now that i've administered my 1000th boop and gotten my silly little badges 😌

for Cain:

ELEMENT - what is he made of, what is his character like?

he is made of teeth and nails and blood, but also glass and thread. he is so so scared all the time, and the only way he knows to hide that is to lash out with unfettered aggression whenever the shreds of comfort he has left are violated. his brain is a chimera of innocence and ruthlessness, programmed to oppress and kill, and burdened to regret every second of it. he isn't necessarily aware of it, but he is at his core an extremely selfish person; he's spent several years of his life committing atrocities against his own people to protect himself. he is always looking for a way out of the nightmare that is his existence, but has ignored several such opportunities because the charade of violence keeps him from being found out, and it's become comfortable after so long. he wants nothing more than to escape the horrors he's forced to perpetrate, but the horrors are what he's best at and he's terrified to have to do anything else

FEEL - how does he react to a person's touch?

he is EXTREMELY averse to being touched, he's been robbed of bodily autonomy for so much of his life that physical touch is pretty much an act of aggression in his mind. he doesn't even let anyone touch his armor because it's more or less an extension of his body to him, and he immediately becomes aggressive if someone else touches his skin

--

for Volkar (my sweet dumbass bloodhunter and my best son):

PRIDE - what is his biggest flaw?

100% his hubris and the naivete it comes from, he has the most unshakeable confidence that he can find his way out of any situation, usually by being really really nice. like he believes in the power of friendship on the level of a shonen anime protagonist. however if being friends at the problem doesn't work, he's 1000% sure that he can solve things with the power of incredible violence. unfortunately for him some problems are immune to both friendship and excessive physical attacks, but he will die (or, in his canon, get his arm blown clean off) before acknowledging that

HUMBLE - how does he handle praise?

oh he LOVES to be told he's doing a good job at literally anything, when i describe him as a golden retriever boy i really mean that. he thrives on praise from anyone he considers a friend (i.e. literally anyone who doesn't express overt desire to harm him. this boy thinks strahd von zarovich is his best friend) and will go to absurd lengths to show off in front of them. when i was playing him, if we got into a fight and he was in wolf form i'd always mention that his tail was wagging furiously the whole time because he was so excited to impress his friends. he might be a little bit insane. i'm love him

#my boys!!! my sons!!!! #thank you for letting me ramble about them lol #ask game

[cloudbatcave]

Artemis Hallow | Recently, Upon Receiving Their Third License Level | Evergreen

Arty looked at the Smith-Shimano Corporation with sheer resentment for how they used what they made.

Modifying people who had never asked for it. Forcing those choices on them before they were even born.

It was unholy. It was an insult to humans.

As if health was an indicator of humanity. To treat people as stock for their projects, as if they were nothing but things to be sampled for their uses. How the spirits of the firmament would weep if they could see such atrocities.

Some day they longed to, at the very least, destroy the corporation’s NHPs. Or free them. The former was unfortunately far more likely to be possible before the latter ever was.

They sighed in slightly guilty contentment as they settled into the new, improved sync they had been granted for Teotl Tlapoztec-tli, sitting in their pilot’s chair as all the gleaming wires shone in the cockpit’s ports.

The finest personalized inputs and outputs, catered to their flesh. A perfect fit down to the cell, unlike Tlamahuizol-li’s, well-crafted but not tailor-made.

These smooth cybernetics molded to their skin, their mask, their muscles. It was almost a pity it was too dangerous and inconvenient to spread to their bones or brain. Especially the latter, given the extent of their existing implants.

Removal would be so difficult and time-consuming every time, and of course, it might draw some attention.

They had to avoid that at all costs. They stood out enough; an unavoidable consequence.

At least things were fine for the moment. They weren’t questioned.

They synced up fully, feeling the great weight of the Witch, its systems, its weapons. They exhaled and closed their eyes.

Finally. Wholeness. As things should have been.

They let out an involuntary noise of distress. Robbed. Robbed for so long. Even now it was only temporary, and it came at the cost of being made by abominable people.

But it was warm, and strengthening, and it was home in the closest way they would ever have again.

Diana hovered nearby; they could feel her even without sight, the NHP’s consciousness shifting about within their systems.

“How does it feel?” She asked, glad yet concerned for them.

“Almost perfect.” They replied evenly. “That’s reasonable. It isn’t exactly the same.”

“Artemis…” She began hesitantly. “Is this a good idea?”

“Is it a bad one?” They replied, still even.

“It’s risky.”

Their mouth tilted slightly in a frown.

“I am stable. Even more so now.”

They felt her pause.

“This was never intended.”

“I don’t care.”

She sighed. “You wouldn’t, would you.”

“No.” They stated, placid. “I don’t care what the Aunics intended. Or what Union would want. As long as I pilot well, they can’t complain.”

“You care what Union wants.” She reminded them gently. “At least, what the people here want.”

They considered that, and resisted nodding, as their head - the mech’s head would move too. “Yes.”

She was relieved. “Good. You are still stable.”

“I’d much rather be.” They stated. “Whatever the balance is, I have to maintain it.”

“We could run tests.” She said hesitantly. Diana had made the offer before.

“No.” They said again. An exchange the pair of them had repeated before. They knew she wanted to help, so they didn’t begrudge her.

They didn’t want to know. If there was a way to quantify the exact percentages - which they doubted - they would still reject it.

How did one measure humanity?

They thought again of the reason they had this wonder delivered to them, the profane architect of their personal miracle.

It depended on who you asked.

It depended - greatly - on how they profited from the answer.

#cloud writes #Artemis hallow #everyday conversations with ur personal assistant #lancer