#manifesting more mr f content

[sayijo]

pissing and shitting and tearing out my hair

#ninjago #ninjago season 16 #ninjago season 16 spoilers #i stg she needs to stay dead #ok #manifesting more mr f content

[riddle-me-ri]

Ok I have ideas...

🥂💰🎉

But with Farrel!Penguin 👀👀

And maybe with a plus size female reader but if not that's ok!

I hope you get a lot of fun asks with the meme 🙂.

a/n: oohhh this is a solid set-up! I can absolutely do that for you! Btw, this is based on prompts created by the lovely @finniestoncrane here! I'm always taking requests, especially for these so if anyone is interested, don't hesitate to send them my way. There's so many good ones!!

Content Warning: explicit sexual content, piv intercourse, fingering, making out, and swearing.

Word Count: 1.4 k

Reevesverse/Farrell Penguin x Plus-Sized F!Reader - Just a Kiss

You weren’t entirely sure how you managed to find yourself in this situation. 

Everything had happened so fast, like someone pressed the fast forward button during the night. 

Until Oswald put his hands on you. 

Then time stood still. 

His round pudgy, yet calloused hand on top of your knee with his thumb casually drawing circles. 

You hummed warmly at the motion. Not shying away from the attention at all. 

You craved it actually. 

The two of you have been sending each other bedroom eyes from across the way for awhile. It’s why you mostly kept coming back to The Iceberg Lounge…just hoping that maybe one night, you two could finally act on the tension you’ve manifested. 

And it looked like tonight was going to be the night.

“Tell me gorgeous,” Oswald started, “where do you think we’re heading tonight?” 

You giggled before taking a sip of your drink. “Well…I won’t lie. I’m tipsy enough to admit that I have dirty ideas, not enough to act on them, though.” 

Oz snickered, his gold tooth glistened for a moment. “I appreciate the honesty.” as if to reward you, his hand glided over to the inner side of your knee. His hand slowly tracing up to your plump thighs. “But I wouldn’t want you to get too tipsy sweetheart, see…I want you to remember this.”

You slowly spread your legs, despite the seams at the end of your short tight dress straining into your skin in protest. You wanted to make sure his hand had room to get to where you both wanted it to go. 

“Drunk or sober I don’t think I could forget someone like you, Mr. Cobblepot.” 

“Sweetheart, please…I insist you call me Oz.”

“Okay…Ozzie…” You purred before your breath hitched as Oz dug his fingers into your thigh. “I think I can get used to that.” 

“I think I can get used to you, gorgeous.” Oswald leaned his face closer to yours. You could smell the alcohol on his breath and his lips were centimeters from your skin. 

He whispered in your ear. “One more thing, just how much would it cost to spend a night with a pretty thing like you?” 

It felt like every pore of your skin was set aflame. His hand and his lips were so painstakingly close to where you wanted them to be. 

You smiled softly as you turned your head to face him. “For you, Ozzie, just a kiss.” 

Oswald barely let you take a breath before smashing his lips hungrily onto yours. One of your arms went around his neck, trying to pull him closer to you. While your other hand was urging his hand under your dress to get to your soaked core. 

As your tongue began dancing with his, tasting the warm whiskey blended smoothly with the spice of nicotine. 

Your hand finally got his hand to pull your panties to the side so he could finally swipe his fingers up and down between your swollen lips, spreading your juices. 

Oswald slowly pulled back from your lips, a thick string of saliva connected both of your bottom lips. When you licked across your lip to break the string, he bit his lip. 

You breathlessly cried his name when his fingers finally entered you. Your hand clinging onto his wrist like a vice. 

When you arched your back, Oswald took the opportunity to unzip your dress. 

He unceremoniously shucked the front of your dress down. His mouth watered at the sight of your large perky breasts. Oswald’s lips immediately latched on to one of your nipples and he began sucking and nipping at the bud. 

His fingers have sped up now, vigorously thrusting in and out with ease from your wetness. Whenever his thumb rubbed circles against your clit, your eyes would roll back.

“O-Ozzie…shit…” You panted, speechless, no room for a single thought in your brain except for the pleasure he was giving you. 

Your one free hand that was still around his neck you used to pull his head away from your chest, before pulling him in for another searing hot kiss. 

Your legs drew closer together, suffocating his hand and yours, as the knot in your gut tightened more. 

You didn’t want this to end so quickly, not yet, not like this. 

You moaned his name against his lips, which made him pull back and thankfully slow down his fingers. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” He slurred, drunk on you.

“Gonna…gonna…don’t want to…want you, need you.” You hoped he could understand because you weren’t sure you were capable of full sentences just yet. 

Thankfully, he understood even thought it meant he had to pull his hands away from you. He got up off the couch for a moment and began unbuckling his belt. 

“Make yourself comfortable sweetheart, whichever way you want me.” 

Not thinking twice about it, you braced both of your hands against the arm rest, slightly leaning most of your upper body weight into it. You arched your back which made your voluptuous ass stick out invitingly. 

An invitation Oswald was more than happy to accept as he got behind you. His hands crawled back up your legs. He wrapped both of his fingers on each side of the waistband of your panties. 

You gasped when you heard the undeniable sound of fabric being ripped. 

Oswald chuckled, before leaning his body directly over yours. “Don’t worry,” he whispered in your ear, as he rolled up the lower half of your dress.

You could feel the head of his cock gently poke at your slit. “I’ll getcha some new ones.” 

Oswald dug his head into your neck, peppering sweet wet kisses all along your neck and shoulder. 

A sweet gesture to soften the swift penetration of his cock into you. 

You gasped his name, the motion practically knocking the wind out of you. He was so thick you weren’t sure you could get all of him in. However, Oswald was determined, and little by little with each thrust he finally bottomed out in you. 

“Shit…so tight…fuckin’ perfect for me.” Oswald groaned before he began a steady pace. 

Your breasts bounced relentlessly against the top of your stomach from his pounding. Your knuckles turned white at the chokehold you had on the armrest. You could feel the pins and needles of numbness start to take over your legs from holding both your weight and his. 

Oswald held steadfastly to the folds of your skin, driving you into him when he pushed back in. One of his hands moved to knead one of your bouncing tits and the other made another journey down to your pussy. 

“Oz…OZ!” Your moans shrivled into silent cries as you felt his deliciousy thick fingers rub more circles into your clit. 

The smacking of sweaty skin and his dick meeting your soaked pussy; mixed with your panted moans and his primal groans created a cacophany of passion in the office. You couldn’t even make out the thumping of the bass from the club below. 

You could make out the thumping in your heart and the tension tightening in your gut. Your walls tightened around Ozzie, causing him to curse. 

“Damn–” he panted. “You’re gonna make me cum, and I’m gonna give you everything I have.” 

You nodded like a bobble head. “Yes, yes, please, Ozzie…want it…want you…” 

Oswald picked up his pace drastically, his cock never fully pulling out, just enough to leave the head in before thrusting harshly and quickly back inside. His fingers on your clit dug harder and faster into you. 

Every limb in your body tightened just before the knot in your belly began unraveling. Leaving your body in a delectable tingly heap of nerves. 

As you came, Oswald continued to thrust faster and harder, especially as your walls constricted around his cock tighter. It didn’t take long before he too met his peak. Stuffing you up to the brim with his heavy load.

After taking a moment to catch your breath, Oswald reluctantly pulled out of you and slowly lifted himself off of you.

However, before he could get up, you immediately pulled him back down on top of you, resting his head on your chest. 

Oswald smiled as he lifted his head up just slightly to meet your eyes with his. 

He kissed the top of your chest and collarbone, before stopping at your neck. 

“I got one more question for you, gorgeous.” 

You hummed in response, as you began lazily rubbing your hand up and down his back. 

“What’s it gonna cost to get you to stay with me?” 

You guffawed breathlessly, before smiling at him. “You already know what my price is.” 

You pinched his chin in between your index finger and thumb before dragging his face closer to yours. 

“Just a kiss.” 

#ri writes #reevesverse penguin x reader #reevesverse oswald cobblepot x reader #farrell penguin x reader #farrell oswald cobblepot x reader

[amesstm]

todoroki shouto dad headcannons

with: f!reader, fluff

- Shouto always wanted a big, happy family

- he definitely knows what type of parent he doesn’t want to be

- that being said, he tries his absolute best

- when you’re pregnant, he makes sure that you’re healthy and treated like a princess

- no, i mean it

- he massages your back and shoulders, goes out late to get your wild cravings, and removes any unnecessary stress

- “Shouto, can you get me more Tabasco and vanilla ice cream?”

- was he in the middle of apprehending a villain? Yes.

- but you know when he’s done, he goes to the grocery store right after

- “Why do you like this combination again?” He asks, while preparing the bath for you.

- “Because it makes the ice cream ✨spicy✨.” Yeah, he just goes with it.

- Shouto always reads parenting books because he desperately wants to get this right

- he builds the crib and paints the baby room all by himself

- the day arrives when you give birth and then… you had twins!

- quirks were not a big deal to shouto. He was sure they’d be amazing regardless

- that being said, their quirks manifested when shouto’s side of the family paid a visit

- one had an ice quirk and the other had a fire quirk

- Endeavor chuckled, “In just one generation, they split again.”

- Endeavor is surprisingly a good grandpa. You trust him and Mrs. Rei with the kids when you need to return to work

- Auntie Fuyumi brings food all of the time. She showers your kids in love and free elementary education before they enter school

- Uncle Natsuo is great at helping the kids’ “boo-boos” when they have an accident on the playground

- Shouto can’t help but smile at the scene. Finally, he has the family he always wanted

- BUT if the twins follow in daddy’s footsteps, Shouto couldn’t be more proud

- Still, he does warn them about the job. He wants to protect them at all costs.

- the twins are adamant about being heroes and go to UA

- Shouto never had to encourage them to do anything except be the best version of themselves and they were doing well without any force or nudging

- when they graduate and become the dynamic twin superheroes the world later knows them as, Shouto has never been more proud

©amesstm on tumblr // pls do not plagiarize, steal, or repost my content w/o permission!! BUT likes & reblogs are highly appreciated :)

#bnha todoroki #bnha imagines #bnha fluff #mha x reader #mha todoroki #mha imagines #todoroki shouto #todoroki shoto x reader #shoto x you #shoto x reader #shoto todoroki #mha shoto #mha fluff #enji todoroki #natuso todoroki #bnha fuyumi

[tommymykink]

Thank you, Professor. (One shot)

Summary : Professor Shelby saves you (kinda) from a potential assault. Things get heated when he meets you in your room to support you.

Words : 2289

Warnings : mature content, smut

Pairing : Tommy X Reader (M/F)

(Note : this is my first smut ever! I hope you like it. Please let me know your thoughts)

Enjoy!

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

You sat on the edge of the bed with your head hung, feeling heavy with all the emotions you had to go through that day. Sitting beside you, Professor Shelby, gave you occasional pat on your back, rubbing circles, to let you know he is there for you.

“Thank you Professor. If it wasn’t for you I would have lost it today. The day started off so bad already, and now this. I would have been so broken”, you trembled and burst into tears.

Professor Shelby embraced you in a hug. He stroked your hair and whispered, “It’s okay, I’m here”.

********

Your day started off with an argument with your favourite Professor, Mr. Thomas Shelby. You were so disturbed by it already, and then you suddenly heard the news of your friend’s accident. You had to rush to the hospital to see him, leaving Professor alone in the café where you two met to discuss over the recent event your college was organising. He could have been your company at that hard hour, but you decided not to tell him what was going on and simply left without a word. It made him furious so he didn’t try to stop you. But later when he came to know the news about your friend from one of your classmates, he grew worried and felt immensely guilty for behaving that way. At night, around 9:00 AM, he decided to pay you a visit in your dorm and apologize. It was then that the whole disaster took place.

Professor Shelby found a man in your dorm room, wearing ragged clothes, and he was so drunk that he could barely stand. He was holding your picture frame with one hand and jacking off with the other, moaning and cussing at you for not being present. It made Professor Shelby’s blood boil. With an angry howl he stormed towards the man. Grabbing him by his shirt Professor Shelby was almost on the verge of beating him senseless, when the other inhabitants of the building came running to stop him, when they heard the commotion. The man was arrested and the watchman fired but Mr. Shelby did not care about any of those. He paced up and down the corridor, fiddling with his fingers nervously. His only concern was to see you safe.

*******

You were in the car, returning to your dorm, light hearted. You were relieved to see your friend was fine. You weren’t allowed to meet him yet, but the doctor said his condition was stable and that he was resting. You smiled at the thought of getting to see your friend the next day. You closed your eyes, taking in the cold breeze from the open car window, the slow music that the cab driver had put on soothed your ear and made you more relaxed. You took your phone out to check and immediately started panicking seeing so many missed calls from Professor Shelby. You wanted to call him back but your throat felt dry and you were scared out of your wits. So instead you told the driver there’s an emergency and asked him to drive faster.

When you finally reached, you were walking through the corridor towards your room, your mouth dry with fear while your nervousness manifested in the form of cold sweats in the back of your neck. When Professor saw you, his eyes widened and he ran towards you. He pulled you in a tight hug. You were shocked and caught off guard by this gesture but before you could react he pulled you by your wrist, almost dragging you to your room. He pushed you on the bed to make you sit there. Then slamming the door shut he turned towards you.

“Where were you?”, asked he, rather irritated.

“Why do you care?!”, you replied coldly, furrowing your brows.

“Drop that attitude Ms. (Y/N) you don’t talk to your Professor like that”, he said, raising his voice with authority.

Fearing this would turn into another argument, you lowered your voice and requested him to calm down and sit beside you.

“What’s going on? Why did you call me so many times?”, you asked softly.

He looked up at you with tender eyes and then let out a deep sigh. It was then that he told you everything and your heart broke into a million pieces.

*********

“Why Professor?”, you asked with a shaky voice, still holding him tight.

“Why what?”, he asked, confused.

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because… . “, he let out a deep sigh.

“Because you’re special”

A shiver ran down your spine, both because of his words as well as his breath on your neck. You closed your eyes, thinking thoughts. How you have always admired him, how your hands explored your body and you exploded with pleasure every time you stimulated yourself, thinking about him. You bit your lips, feeling guilty, trying to push aside those thoughts. Because of course, he is your Professor after all. You were about to speak when a range of sensations ran through your body when you felt his lips on your neck. Your eyes widened and you looked at him, surprised.

“Ahem…..sorry”, he said nervously, feeling guilty.

Without second thoughts you crashed your lips onto his, pulling him by the back of his neck to bring him closer. Tommy slid his tongue inside your mouth and began a sensual dance with yours. You lost yourself to the intoxicating taste of his lips. Just as you were about to unbutton his shirt he stopped short.

“We cant do this, this is wrong”, said he breathing heavy, his forehead pressed against yours. You kissed him again not wanting to stop what you started. He did return your kiss but after a while pulled back.

“Fuck why can’t I stop?!” He crashed his lips onto yours again, sensually nibbling your lower lip.

“Who’s asking you to stop?”, you whispered in between kisses.

That’s all he needed to hear. With his strong arms he picked you up and threw you onto the bed, rather aggressively. He hovered over you separating your legs, guiding them around his waist. He kissed you with such animalistic zeal that you forgot he was that same soft, gentleman Professor of yours.

“Professor!”, you moaned, as he slowly kissed your neck down to your collar bone. In this compromising situation, you calling him Professor turned him on even more.

“You naughty, naughty girl”, he chuckled against your neck which made you shudder.

Everywhere he touched goose bumps appeared and your core was dripping wet already. You wanted more of him. All of him. You slowly slid down your hand to reach the hard bulge you felt against your thigh. It made him moan in your mouth.

Suddenly, Professor broke the kiss, panting heavy.

“I’m asking this to you one last time. Is this what you really want?”, he whispered.

“Ye……yes Professor. I want all of you”, you managed to whisper between pants.

“Good girl”, he kissed you, smiling against your neck. “I’ll go get the protection, you wait for me alright?”

You whined. You didn’t want to wait for so long. It made him chuckle. “Don’t worry, it won’t take long. I kept it hidden in the bathroom in case I ever needed it.”

So he has always wanted to fuck you? Your desire increased ten fold at the very thought of it.

He planted one last kiss on your lips and left to get the condom. Meanwhile, you decided to put on your best lingerie.

He came back rather quickly. As soon as he entered the room, his jaw dropped seeing you in that red lingerie tight against your skin.

“Holy shi…..”, even before he could finish, you pushed him onto bed. Slamming the door shut and locking it, you turned around and almost jumped on him. You straddled him and sat on his lap, kissing him wildly. You fumbled with his shirt buttons, but with his help you managed to open it and threw it across the room.

“You have no patience do you?”, he chuckled in between kisses.

“Your fault, you left my pussy aching”.

“Is that what you say to your Professor eh?”, you felt him smile against your chest.

“Sorry Professor but it was you who started misbehaving first”, you whispered in his ear which made him groan with pleasure.

“You dirty little girl”. With a quick snap he unhooked your bra and flung it across the room.

“Wow you Goddess!”, he exclaimed. He rubbed your nipples in circular motion which made you whimper uncontrollably.

“Your breasts are very sensitive aren’t they?”, he said with a smirk, fondling them gently.

“Ye….yes Professor”, you managed to say, panting heavy.

“Alright then let me take you to heaven”. With a quick motion he put your hands behind you and held them tightly in place. You shuddered in anticipation when you felt his breath on your left breast. He gave you one quick smirk and licked your nipple in one clean stroke. You let out a loud moan, your body shuddering at the sensation. He licked a second time, a third time and then took your nipple inside his mouth, encircling your areola with his tongue. He softly kissed, sucked and nibbled on it, before moving on to the other nipple.

You tried to free your hands so that you could grab and pull him even closer than he already was, but his grip was way too firm.

Your loud moans echoed inside the room, anybody passing by would understand what sinful pleasures are being committed inside. But you didn’t care. There you were, a captive in your Professor’s arms, letting him savour every inch of your skin. The pleasure that he was giving you took you to some other dimension, making you lose yourself. You enjoyed every bit of it and wanted the moment to last forever.

He slowly put you down in bed and hovered over you. He kissed you deeply and slowly slid his hand down to your aching core. Removing your panties quickly, he lightly touched your clit, drawing circles on it. You let out a loud moan in his mouth, feeling his warm touch.

“Mmmm Tommy”, you gasped biting your lips.

“You call your Professor by his first name now eh?”, he lightly slaps your dripping cunt. You whimpered uncontrollably, loud enough to wake up the entire neighbourhood.

“Oh you liked that, don't you, you dirty girl”, Tommy smirked, slapping your pussy one more time. He slapped your cunt a third time, a fourth time, a fifth time, until you felt light headed and lost count.

Tommy then rubbed circles on your clit and lightly nibbled your ear. He slid two fingers inside your vagina, curling his fingers, thrusting in and out.

“Your little noises are music to my ears babygirl”, he whispered.

You were aching with pleasure so much, you could feel you’re close.

“Professor……I’m……close…..”, you whispered.

Tommy quickly opened his pants and his underwear along with it. You slowly slid your hand down to his stomach and then further down and grabbed his hard member. A groan of pleasure escaped his chest as you gave it quick strokes. But before you could put his cock inside you, he got up on his knees and with a quick motion flipped you over. He pulled your hips up and locked both your arms behind you tightly. Then he teased your wet entrance with his cock a few times and your whole body trembled at the sensation.

“TOMMY STOP FUCKING TEASI…..”, before you could finish he thrust into you with full force. You gasped loudly, feeling him deep inside you. He started thrusting painfully slow at first, but then increased his pace slowly, hitting you in the right places. You let out loud moans and uncontrollable whimpers.

With his thrusts getting more and more violent, your pleasure got higher and higher and you could feel your walls clench around his cock. He groaned with pleasure and you felt his hard member throbbing inside you. Just as you were about to reach your high, Tommy pulled out of you. Before you could protest, he flipped you over. Hovering over you he whispered, “I want to see your face when you come for me babygirl”.

You bit his lower lip and he slid him inside you again and began his animalistic thrusts. You were so close, so so close. You held onto your Professor’s broad shoulders, digging your nails into his soft skin. You bit his shoulder and immediately licked it to soothe the sensitive skin. His hand traced all over you, as if he was memorising by heart every nook and corner of your body. He left open mouth kisses on your neck, shoulder and bosom. His loud moans vibrated through your skin making your body tremble uncontrollably.

You felt his hard cock twitch inside you as he reached his high.

“Come for me babygirl, come for me. Yesss, yesss!”, he groaned. He kept thrusting in and out of you with vigour, until he felt you reach your climax and come all over his cock.

He collapsed onto you, the rhythm of your heavy breathing synching with him in perfect harmony.

“Good girl”, he left a trail of kisses on your neck, before getting up and lying beside you. You nestled against his chest, smiling.

“What next Professor?”, you asked, blushing.

“Maybe dinner tomorrow? I should ask you out on a proper date”, said he planting a kiss on your forehead. You smiled, closing your eyes. Resting your head on his chest, you let out a deep breath. You were so ready to explore this new chapter of your life.

#thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby smut #peaky blinders #peaky blinders smut #smut roleplay #fanfiction #fanfic #tommy x fem!reader

[fuck-goes-on]

Carnage

pairing/s: NONE, because reader literally gets traumatised bc of marcus please-

summary: you work for a big name company as an assistant to the CEO. you work late on night and when you go to say farewell to your boss, you find something horrifying

warning/s: MAJOR GORE WARNING UNDER THE LINE! I REPEAT GORE AND BODY HORROR AHEAD OF YOU, violence, blood control/thirst, minor character death (you don't die dw), mentally unstable character, kidnapping, non-con themes, dark! marcus is a warning in and of himself

note/s: DARK MARCUS FIRST ONE SHOT LETS GOOOO manifesting more creative juices for dark marcus,, no cap this has done me good in terms of letting go negative emotions so HAHA we love that for me 😌✨i honestly dont know why it ended up with marcus kidnapping reader but here we are anyways

masterlist

You yawned into your hand as you type away information into your computer, slowly bopping your head left and right to the music in your earphones. It was nearing one o'clock in the morning and you were so close to finishing the files Mr. Howard forced you to digitise, making you work later than usual. You leaned back on your chair, stretching your legs out and your arms up, you decided to finish the rest of the files tomorrow and call it a night.

Packing your things up in your shoulder bag, you stand up from your desk and walk towards your boss' door. You knew he was still in his office, having seen him thirty minutes ago when he shoved more papers into your hands. Facing the door of Mr. Howard's office, you brought your hand up to knock on the wood. You waited a couple of seconds for his permission, and when there was no sound, you knocked once more.

It wasn't that your boss didn't like it when people came into his office without his permission, but it was that your boss didn't like it when people came into his office without his permission. You shrugged it off and thought Mr. Howard just fell asleep or didn't hear you, plus you weren't dumb enough to keep on knocking. As you were walking away, however, you heard a groan coming from inside the room.

“Mr. Howard? Sir?” You called out from the door. “Sir, are you alright? May I come in?” You knocked again, more urgently this time, thinking your boss wasn't feeling well. When he didn't answer, you cursed out loud, biting down on your lip and tapping your foot on the floor.

You shove the fuck you give to the rule away; If there was no boss, then there will be no employees, if there are no employees, then there is no company, and if there was no company, then there won't be any money for survival. With that logic in mind, you opened the door and stepped into the room.

And you screamed.

(GORE WARNING AGAIN)

There was blood splattered everywhere; The couch, the walls, the tables, the shelves- Fuck even on the ceiling?! Tiny chunks were sticking onto the surfaces and you wouldn't dare think of what it could be. As your eyes stared in the room in horror, you failed to notice the dark presence in the room.

The door slammed shut, your throat closed up, and you were thrown against the bloodied wall by an invisible force. Grasping at your neck, you tried to push away the pressure that forced your airway close, but nothing was physically holding you down.

Just as you thought you would pass out, the invisible grip around your throat loosened and you gasped shakily for air, dropping down on your knees and coughing roughly. You screamed once more when your body was dragged on the floor, your shirt and bag getting soaked in the blood puddles until your back hit a hard surface.

When you turn your head to look at what you bumped into, you fought the urge to throw up. It was Mr. Howard's body- or at least, it looked like Mr. Howard's body. The head was caved in, easily showing you the contents of his skull, and the limbs were just... in the wrong places. You didn’t like your boss, none of your coworkers did, but you wouldn’t ever wish this upon him.

You felt numb, you're mouth open in shock, your tears rolling down your bloodied cheeks, and your body in phantom pain as you continued to stare at the corpse in front of you.

A large, gloved hand grabbed your face to turn your eyes away from the scene. You gasped in fright as you see a broad man clad in all black, with a scarf hiding the lower half of his face, only showing his cold, brown eyes. Whimpering and crying, you struggled against him but the invisible force came back, more painful than earlier, and stopped you from moving.

“Do you know who this man is?” The dark man asked you, his voice, husky and deep, sent shivers down your spine. When you nod your head, he chuckled dryly, “Do you know who he truly is?” You shook your head, almost pleadingly. “He's a killer. He's a murderer. He killed my friend in cold blood and I came to pay him a visit. A well-deserved one, wouldn't you say?”

“P-P-Please, I-I just work f-for him here, I d-did-didn't know,” You begged, your hand coming up to grip this wrist. The man mockingly cooed at you, before slamming you into the front of your boss' desk.

“Listen to me very closely if you want to live,” He said slowly, enunciating every word to you. “You can either run away in fright, go to the nearest police station and turn this bloody scene in, have them arrest you because you're in a crazed state and there's not enough evidence that you saw me doing it.” You sobbed loudly, panic filling your chest as you tried to make sense of his words. “Or, you can come with me, I'll treat you better than this bastard ever did and you won't have to lift a finger ever again. Doesn't that sound appealing, dear?”

“I-I d-don't-”

“Shh, it's okay, dear. We both know what the better option is, right?” The man's eyes crinkled at the sides, most likely giving you a menacing smile underneath his scarf. He stroked your hair in a pitiful attempt to calm you down, but you flinch away from his touch, whimpering in fear. You froze in fright as he picked you up from the floor, and used the private elevator your boss had in his office to go to the ground floor. The dark man pulled down his scarf to reveal his face, and it was the last thing you saw before passing out from shock.

“That’s it, dear, get some rest. You’ll need it once I bring you home.”

--

dark! marcus tag: @pedrocentric​

#please heed the tags #thank you and youre welcome #HHHHH this was wild hot damn #not kidding i feel lighter now since i wrote this #had a lot of bad shit going through my brain and this helped a lot #NJNFSKJNKDJ #dark! marcus moreno #marcus moreno #gn!reader #we can be heroes #tw gore #tw blood #tw body horror #tw violence #tw: death #tw kidnapping #tw noncon #hot damn thats a lot of tw

[what-is-your-plan-today]

What The Stark Spangled F**k?

Drabble- Fuck Off, Clown

Summary: It’s Halloween, and Jamie’s outfit isn’t quite to Steve’s liking. Warnings: Non- some bad language...some almost smut, but nothing major...and a Super Soldier with coulrophobia... A/N: So if you all remember in Phobias, Steve admits to Katie he has a fear of clowns. I do as well, so this came out of a little fun chat with my Evangers (you know who you are girls) as a further expansion on the incident referred to in The Devil Wears Nada. Takes place during the 5 years post Snap. Hope you enjoy!

October 2022

“All set?” Katie asked as she reached the bottom of the stairs as Steve walked back into the hall having loaded their bags into the car. They were heading off to Tony’s lake-house for a few days where he was throwing a bit of a Halloween party, nothing major but it was a chance for the kids to get dressed up in costumes and eat a load of candy whilst the adults could kick back and drink. Katie was looking forward to it for two reasons. Firstly, it was always nice to gather together with friends and family, well those of them that were left post snap-it made her feel normal, and she could push that persistent feeling of sadness that seemed to manifest on a daily basis, back down into the depth of her mind. And secondly, she was a little excited because she had no idea what Emmy or Jamie’s outfits were going to be. Emmy had asked a month or so ago if she could be in charge of getting the pair of them costumes and Katie had agreed, simply handing over her card when she wanted to order whatever it was off the internet. She’d even resisted the urge to check her statement to see what it was as Emmy had demanded she didn’t try and find out. Katie had a sneaking suspicion that Tony had also been involved in these costume choices, as the last time her brother had been over a few weeks ago, the pair of them had been huddled on the large arm chair, sniggering as they looked at something on Tony’s phone. With that in mind she was expecting Jamie to come down in some form of Iron Man or Captain America costume and she had every intention of filming Steve’s response.

“Yup. Locked and loaded.” Steve nodded, dropping a kiss to her cheek. As soon as the kids are ready we can go.”

“No rush.” Katie shrugged, looking at her watch as they walked into the kitchen. “We don’t need to be there for a few hours.” She wrinkled her nose and slapped at Steve’s hand as he went to peek under the foil wrapped plate on the side. He sharply withdrew it and grinned at her.

“Tell me that’s a pie.”

“Apple and pumpkin, but it’s for the party.”

Steve pouted and she laughed and jerked her head behind her “There’s another there as I knew you wouldn’t be able to wait.”

“You-” Steve pecked her lips “-are” another peck “-the best.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere Captain.” She smirked as his lips hovered over hers, before he deepened the kiss slightly, both his hands sliding down to give her ass a playful squeeze before he stepped back and walked over to his coveted prize. Steve peeled back the little cloth that was over the top and gave a little groan that was positively sinful as he inhaled the smell.

“Don’t eat that straight out of the pie dish.” Katie warned him as he made his way to the freezer for the ice cream, “I was gonna cut a few slices for the kids to munch on the way.”

“Then they can get their own.” Steve grumbled a little, but he grabbed a plate none the less.

“Oh yeah, where from?” Katie asked, her hands on her hips.

“Don’t know, don’t care…” Steve muttered as he cut himself a huge slice of the coveted pie. He ladled a generous amount of vanilla ice cream on top then carried it over to the breakfast bar, sitting down as Katie gathered the rest of the food items she had said she would bring which included a huge dish of Mac and Cheese that she’d coloured green with food colouring, spaghetti and meatballs that were supposed to be worms,  cinnamon and apple cookies in the shape of pumpkins and a batch of home-made raspberry and cherry gin which had been done using the raspberries and cherries from the brambles and trees in their small orchard at the bottom of the garden. She began packing it all into a hamper as Steve took the first bit of his pie and gave another groan.

“You know…” he swallowed, waving his fork at her as he gave her a playful grin “I think this pie is actually better than sex.”

Katie looked at him, arching her eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It’s a very close call.” He nodded.

“Well maybe I should make you a pie once a week instead of letting you get me on my back.” Katie looked at him, closing the lid on the basket and pushing it to one side, leaning over the breakfast bar.

“Ok, first off we have sex way more than once a week.” Steve pointed his fork at her “and second-“ his eyes glinted cheekily “-you’re not always on your back.”

“True.” Katie pursed her lips and reached for his fork, snatching it from his hand “But if you think I’m baking a pie more than once a week you’ve got another thing coming.” She used the fork to take a piece of the sweet treat along with a large blog of ice cream and shoved it in her mouth, closing her eyes. She moaned a little, ensuring that the noise that left her throat was as sinful as she could make it, before she opened her eyes and used her thumb to wipe at a little trickle of ice cream in the corner of her mouth. With her eyes locked on Steve she sucked her thumb clean and smirked a little at the familiar glint of dark in his eyes that he always got when he was turned on.

“You’re lucky you’re the other side of the breakfast bar.” He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on the marble surface, his voice a low timbre that sent those familiar sparks up Katie’s spine.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Katie asked innocently, ignoring the sudden flutter she’d felt between her legs at his tone.

“Because if you weren’t you be in my lap right now testing my theory.”

“Shame…” she nodded, looking around. “I mean it’s not like you could reach and drag me over it or anything.”

“Well I could…” Steve agreed “But there’s a piece of pie in the way. And it’s too good to waste.”

“You’re a jerk!” Katie shook her head as Steve laughed, before he leaned back in the stool and patted his right thigh

“C’mere pretty girl.”

Katie grinned, the sound of him calling her pretty girl always did things to her, as did the soft instruction to ‘come here’ in his Brooklyn accent. She rounded the bar and he reached out, easily pulling her onto his lap so she was perched sideways, legs hanging over the side of his right thigh as he curled his left arm around her waist, right gently resting on her thigh. Katie’s right arm slid round his neck and he titled his face to look at her.

“Just for the record you taste far better than any pie you make.” He grinned and Katie’s mouth fell open at his dirty comment.

“Steven Grant Rogers!” she snorted, slapping his shoulder slightly and he laughed, his hand on her thigh tightening its grip slightly, fingers curling round the toned muscles which were evident once again due to Katie having started training again. Steve actually kind of missed the softness that she’d had since having Jamie but he was damned if he was going to tell her that. As long as she was comfortable in her body that was fine by him. He leaned towards her slightly, his nose bumping hers a little as she gently trailed her hand over the nape of his neck, nails scratching just below his hair line above the collar of his black sweater.

“Love you.” He said gently, his lips brushing hers and she smiled, her fingers tanging in the hair at the back of his head.

“More than apple pie?” she teased and he chuckled.

“Infinitely Mrs Rogers.”

“More than Mac and Cheese?” Steve hesitated and Katie scoffed “Rude.” Before he laughed again and pressed his lips to hers.

“For the record I love you more than anything.” He smiled “Well, apart from the kids.”

“I’ll accept that exception.” Katie chuckled, he mouth finding his again. The kiss deepened, Katie letting out a soft sigh as his tongue brushed against hers, tasting the apple pie and Ice Cream he had been eating before. Steve’s hand skated up the outside of her thigh coming to rest on her hip, finger tips brushing the strip of skin where her top had ridden up slightly as her own hand fisted slightly in his hair. Completely lost in one another they almost missed the little footsteps coming down the stairs and the giggles in the hallway. Almost, that is. Steve’s tuned hearing heard it first and he pulled back, looking at Katie who grinned.

“Play your cards right we can finish this later.”

“At Tony’s?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged “Won’t be the first time we fucked in his spare room.”

Steve snorted at her and patted her ass as she hopped off his lap.

“Mom, Dad!” Emmy called “We’re ready for you to see us!”

“We heard!” Katie called back as Steve stood up, grabbing his plate of pie. He took another bite before he wandered into the hallway where he collided with Katie who had stopped dead just outside the door. Frowning he looked up and stopped dead.

A clown.

His 2 year old son was dressed as a fucking clown. And not just any clown, which would have been bad enough, but that bastard clown from IT. The film he refused time and time again to watch because of said bastard clown…which was now stood on the bottom step of the stairs holding a red balloon.

And suddenly, all he could see was that damned clown at Coney Island chasing him through the stalls, Bucky’s laughter echoing in his ears…and then that fucking mirror maze where he’d had the panic attack as he was surrounded by them.

The plate holding his precious pie slipped from his hand and dropped to the tiled floor, where it broke into 3 pieces, its contents splattering all over the grey slate.

“Woah, Dad…didn’t think it would be that scary!” Emmy grinned from behind Jamie as she stood in her outfit, which was a superb replica of the Wicked Witch of the West complete with full green face-paint and a broomstick.

Katie looked over her shoulder at Steve and she could see from his face that he was really struggling to keep it together. Trying not to laugh at the expression of sheer horror on his handsome features, she clamped her lips together and turned to Emmy.

“Your dad’s…” she took a deep breath, trying not to laugh “He’s scared of clowns.”

“Oh…” Emmy frowned “Uncle Tony said he would love it.”

“I bet he did.” Steve bit out a little harshly and Emmy looked at him.

“Are you mad?” she asked and seeing the look on her face Steve inwardly cursed his phobia and his damned brother in law.

“No, honey…” he shook his head “Not at all…you both look…” he trailed off.

“Daddy, look!” Jamie grinned, and he jumped off the bottom step “Balloon!”

He toddled over towards Steve who automatically took a few steps back and Jamie stopped in front of him, right by Katie’s side, a confused expression crossing his painted face. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, pal…I gotta…” Steve exhaled “I gotta put some stuff in the car so we can to go to Uncle Nee’s ok?”

“Kay…” Jamie said a little quietly.

Katie watched, her shoulders shaking in silent laughter as Steve went to move round Jamie, turning sideways so he could keep his eyes on him, before he pushed past Emmy and bolted up the stairs taking them 3 at a time.

The hallway was silent bar the sounds Lucky was making as he cleaned up the remnants of the pie on the floor, not wanting to miss a single crumb of his human food treasure.

“Em, why don’t you two take Lucky and go get in the car, we’ll be out in a little moment.”

“Ok. Come on Jay!” Em said. She grabbed his hand but Jamie, clearly now finding the reaction his dad had as amusing, turned to his mom and made a little growling noise at her. Katie gave a fake scream and jolted back, causing Jamie to cackle a little, tilting his head back in mirth before he toddled after his sister.

As soon as they were out of sight and earshot Katie started to laugh. She laughed so hard that she had to retreat to the kitchen to sit at a chair. She doubled over, clutching at her stomach, trying to gather her breath as the tears poured down her face. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the image of Steve fighting the urge to punt his own son into another room out of her head.

Eventually she managed to sort herself out enough to grab her phone and swiped over to the number she wanted.

“Hey Kiddo.” Tony greeted

“Tony, you…” she started to laugh again “You better be able to run fast because Steve…he’s…”

Tony chuckled “he liked the costume then…”

“Tony he freaked.” She laughed “Like, seriously…poor Steve. I expected like a full Captain America outfit, not that!”

“Well, on this occasion the Spangles just weren’t enough”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“It’s been said.” He conceded “Did you get it on video?”

“No.” Katie sighed “I was going to but when I saw Pennywise on my damned stairs I knew what was gonna happen so…”

“Shame.” Tony sighed, “We could have played that back later. For science.”

At that point Katie looked up as Steve walked into the kitchen, glancing round.

“He’s not in here…” She chuckled and Steve glared at her, before he gestured to the phone.

“That Tony?”

She nodded.

He reached out and snatched the phone off her, “You’re a dead man.” He growled down the handset, and Katie could hear her brother’s roar of laughter before Steve hung up and tossed the phone down onto the table.

“Calm down!” Katie laughed, standing up “Steve, it’s just a costume.” “Katie, they freak me the hell out!” he shook his head “You don’t…” his hands dropped to his hips and his head dropped “Did you see his face when I backed away?”

“Oh, he’s fine!” Katie said, rubbing Steve’s arms “He couldn’t care less.” Steve took a deep breath and she looked at him “Do you want me to get him to change?”

Steve shook his head “No, he was so pleased with himself…plus, I don’t fancy that particular tantrum now do you?”

“Not really no.”

Steve shrugged “Then I guess I’m stuck with it. Come on, let’s get gone. Sooner we get there the sooner I can carry out my threat to kill your asshole brother.”

Steve grabbed the food hamper and headed out to the car with it, settling it onto the trunk of the car as Katie got into the passenger side. Once Steve finished his usual checks to ensure the door was locked, he climbed into the driver’s seat ant they set off.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah buddy?” Steve asked, glancing in the mirror automatically and once more was confronted by that fucking clown. He swallowed and turned his eyes to the front.

“No scared, daddy. I not real clown.”

Katie chuckled as Steve pulled out of the drive onto the road. “I know pal, but it’s Halloween. Everyone gets scared at some point.”

Jamie nodded, accepting his answer and turned to look out of the window. As they approached a junction, Steve checked the mirror again and then sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re gonna hafta drive.” He looked at Katie.

“What?”

“I can’t do it.” He shrugged “Every time I check the mirror, all I can see is…” “Are you being serious?” Katie looked at him.

“Absolutely.” Steve unclipped the seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

And right then Katie vowed that if Steve didn’t kill Tony, she was gonna.

#what the stark spangled fuck #steve rogers #dad steve rogers #steve rogers x original female character #steve rogers x oc #katie stark

[theodora3022]

Since you wrote about Yandere Villians with Y/N having a cute fairy quirk, how about a Yandere Hero having a Y/N with a monstrous quirk? SO...you pick the hero! Pick any male hero who you believe can handle Y/N. You do such amazing writing.

Y/N have to wear a face mask to hide the muzzle she wears going outside. Y/N have a quirk where she goes on a frenzy. Her eyes turn red, her veins pop out of her skin, she starts growling and trying to bite anyone near by. A monster who craves to rip flesh and bones. Y/N can turn on her quirk if she feels so much anger or fear. Y/N doesn't want to hurt anyone. She wants to live a quiet and alone life.

Wolf

Pairing: Best Jeanist x f!reader

Warnings: light yandere content, power abuse, threats

Thank you so much for the compliment, dear anon! I went soft with the monster idea that I just made the reader into a werewolf...hope it is still good! I was torn between Kiri and Best Jeanist! I really like Best Jeanist, I wish he got some more screen time ... Maybe I’ll do another one for the shark boy later.

Some groundwork:

When your quirk manifested at four years old, you were not surprised: you come from a family of Mutant quirks, after all.

Your quirk, wolf, means you can transform into a wolf anytime. The longevity is unknown to you since you barely use it. Even in your normal human form, you still have wolf ears and tail. You also have a sensitive nose, just like canines. You (hair color) fluffy fur is the same color as your hair. In acient times, before quirks become a thing, you would be seen as a werewolf.

While transformed, it is hard to supress the wolf’s wild instincts, the desire to hunt, to kill and consume raw meat (extremely difficult if you are hungry). You hate it, being like a beast instead of human. You had outbursts in the past that nearly killed one of your friends. There fore you stay in human at all times.

So most of the time, you just kept a muzzle near you, just in case you would lose yourself to the beast again.

You always feel this...strange sense of difference between you and normal people, so all of your friends have mutant quirks. You kept your social circle small, only letting those who are deemed trustworthy close to you (you told them to run if they see any signs of you getting wild)

You always had a soft spot for animals, therefore you decided to work in a pet shop. Dogs especially loves you, maybe because your canine quirk. Cats not so much, as they had left quite a few marks on you when you just started.

Now you are the assistant manager, the salary is decent, so you do not look for anything more. You never thought of having a romantic relationship because you do not trust yourself: you do not want to hurt the person you love. So even if you had crushes you just kept those feelings hidden until they went away.

Best Jeanist/Tsunagu Hakamada

Did you know his favorite animal is wolf? Therefore he is a furry

Being the No.4 pro hero means taking on lots of stress, so Tsunagu decides to have an animal friend at home who he can talk to freely, without worrying leaking information (I mean how can animals pass on information).

He went into the nearest pet shop, hoping to find a furry companion, preferably dogs.

What he did not expect is to find you there, with those literal puppy eyes and fluffy ears sticking out of your hair, tending to the puppies.

Tsunagu met people with similar quirks before, and he finds them aesthetically pleasing. But seeing you with a litter of adorable puppies, laughing and petting them? He felt like his heart just melted.

“Hello sir. How may I help you today?” You put on your usual smile. Tsunagu is wearing his civilian clothes, so he is just another customer to you. A fashionable one, though. You took notice at his stylish blonde hair.

Tsunagu would ask you about all the options for adopting a puppy. However he is only half-listening: he is drawn to how your ears twitch towards any abnormal sounds...

“Oh, my ears? Sorry if they are distracting. It’s part of my quirk.”

Would get you to talk to him as much as possible, with lots of polite questions.

When you bid him good day as he walks out the door, holding a poodle puppy with its supplies, Tsunagu is determined to see you more.

You are warm, like a ray of sunlight in this stormy world. Having worked as a pro hero for so long, dealing with many negative things so often, make him attracted to positive people. Those furry wolf ears and tail only added to his admiration.

Whenever Best Jeanist is not needed at his agency, Tsunagu Hakamada would find excuses to drop by your shop. Whether it be buying new accessories for his puppy or simply need some advice on her, he would find a way to talk to you, to hear your voice.

Until he become acquainted with you enough, Tsunagu finally asked for you name.

“I’m (y/n), and you, sir?” “Tsunagu. Tusnagu Hakamada.”

Never have once you associated your friendly customer with the No.4 Pro hero of Japan. Tsunagu is charismatic and talkative (at least to you), never putting on airs like Endeavor. Since he wears a mask, the public does not have a good idea what he looks like.

Then you noticed those small gestures, how Tsunagu’s hands would “unintentionally” brush against yours when you hand over his paid items, how his body would lean in slightly towards you whenever you are talking. Or how his lips would curl upwards whenever your tails wags with excitement. You also seen him way more frequently compare to average customers.

“He got a crush on you.” One of you co workers, teases after Tsunagu left the store.

“No he doesn’t.” You blush, although considering her hypothesis.

You seen some of his clothes in fashion magazines, one of them costs more then your monthly salary. Tsunagu is clearly a rich man, a fashion designer perhaps.

“Ms.(y/n), sorry if this sounds intrusive, but do you have a lover?”

That was...unexpected. “No, I do not. Why did you ask, Mr. Hakamata?”

That saves him trouble. Best Jeanist has got this flawless reputation for years, he prefers not to taint it. But if he must, Tsunagu would not hesitate. You belong with him, and him only. “Well, it’s possible such a beautiful lady like you already has a significant other.”

“Mr. Hakamata...I-” You were not sure to blush or to smile. Now it is clear to you: This blonde is interested in you. However you do not know what to respond.

“Call me Tsunagu, please.”

The next day you would find a lily bouquet wrapped in denim on the store counter?! Who use that as a bouquet wrapper? Flatter as you are, you still find this unsettling. He did not show up for the rest of the day, which gives you time to think.

Tsunagu is handsome and kind. He seems like a perfect choice, but you wonder what he would say if he saw you as a bloodthirsty wolf, feral and hungry for killing.

You decide to turn him down, not wanting to give him false hope.

Some minor villain is causing trouble in the streets when you were walking home. You were just going to sprint away at first, but in the corner of your eye you saw a mother with her toddler daughter being corner by the villain. The way the mother tries to protect her child triggered something in you. You have to do something!

“Grr!!!” Suddenly a piece of flesh is ripped off the villain’s leg. The villain screams in pain, but you dodged every last one of his attacks while leaving deep bite marks on him. Soon the sidewalk is stained crimson with blood. You know the two had already gotten away, you should stop now. But the wolf instincts got the better of you. You crave blood, lots of it. The growing pool under you is not enough.

You heard police sirens, someone yelling for you to stop, but the wolf is not willing to. It seems it would not be satiated unless this villain dies a brutal death.

Streams of fibers wrapped around you, restraining you until you cannot move anymore.

When you regained consciousness, you were in a clean jail cell, still in your wolf form. You assumed that you are being confined in a hero agency since you just lost control.

The door cracked. It is Tsunagu! What is he doing here? And why is he wearing a jean mask?

Then you saw the rest of his outfit. Demin jeans suit from head to toe, the...the No.4?

He is Best Jeanist? What is happening now?

Tsunagu wanted to take things slow, he wanted to date you normally, letting you know everything about him, but this seems like too good of an oppertunity to pass up.

“(y/n), can you understand me?” He crouches down with a concerned look on his face.

You nod. You are not able to speak human languages while in wolf form, another draw back.

“Do your clothes come back when you transform? Or do you need some clothes?”

You left your clothes behind a dumpster before, so you just shook your head. If you were to transform now, it could be quite embarrassing.

Handing you a denim dress, Best Jeanist leaves to give you some privacy to change.

After you are dressed and back in human form, he took you to his office.

“I know you must have lots of question right now, but please allow me to explain somethings first.”

“The villain is in bad shape. You did quite a bit damage on him. His blood loss is immense; he is still in the ICU as we speak.”

Why don’t you just let him die, he’s a threat to society anyway. You ask yourself, silently.

“However, while he is a villain, you still hurt him too much. And it’s not even self-defence. You are not a hero, it’s illegal.”

You tense up. Would you face charges for this? For trying to protect other people.

“Would I go to Tartarus? For how long?”

“Oh, come now. As long as I have any say , I won’t allow that to happen.” Your eyes lit up, wanting to thank him.

“You can be my wife instead. Stay with me, and no charges would be pressed.”

What?

You know he likes you, but just asking to become his wife like that? Without dating first.

“Tsunagu, I... you...this...” He finds your stutters cute, as he traces his fingers along the edge of your wolf ears. Best Jeanist had been wanting to do that for so long, he worked so hard to restrain himself.

“Your choice. Either face court charges, or you can be with me, all is well.”

Tsunagu Hakamada is confident about his chances. An innocent, adorable civilian like you will not last long even in the most outer cells of Tartarus.

Tears slides down your chin as you give a reclutant reply. “I’ll...be with you.”

Who could have thought Tsunagu would do such a thing? He is always so nice and friendly. But now here he is, threatening you with this crime?

“Perfect.” Snapping a denim collar around your neck, he lifts your chin, forcing you to look up to him. “I can’t wait to get you home; you would be such a lovely little wolf. My little wolf.”

“Should you ever try to leave me, I’m sure Tartarus is always avaliable.”

#yandere bnha #bnha #bhna best jeanist #yandere best jeanist #bnha reader insert #best jeanist

[scribbling-stiks]

Heart Strings - III - No! This Can’t Be Happening

America wakes up in an unfamiliar room. He sits up a little and rubs his head. He looks around and sees that he's laying on a large bed in an unfamiliar room. He looks around a little more and sees Russia sleeping next to the bed, tucked against the wall and the bed frame, with his hat tucked over his face.

America smiles and winces at the growing headache.

'Yup. I definitely overdid it.'

America looks at Russia before scanning the room. Most of the colors are pretty plain. There is a desk in the corner covered in papers and pictures. America moves to stand up, and he hears Russia groan. America spins around nervously and relaxes when Russia settles back down. America turns back to the desk and flips through the pictures.

It's a bunch of drawings, most of which are lifelike sketches with a scrawl of Russia's name at the bottom in Cyrillic. Some of them are pinned to the wall, and others are on the backs of informational pamphlets from the UN meetings scattered across the desk. America admires them and is very careful not to crumple or crease any of the papers.

America places them down and turns around to see Russia standing behind him. America yelps. Russia looks a little annoyed, and his face is bright red. America begins pulling at his fingers and he looks away, his face and ears grow uncomfortably warm.

"Sorry," America mumbles.

Russia sighs.

"It's okay," Russia says, "it's not that good anyway."

"Are you kidding?" America asks, "these are awesome! I mean, I can't draw for s***, but these are amazing!"

Russia looks away and mutters something under his breath, and America feels embarrassment in the back of his mind. America writes it off as his own and offers an embarrassed smile.

Russia smiles before turning to America and asking, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," America says with a smile, ignoring the empty pit in his chest from the missing magic, "I'm just tired."

Russia smiles and puts a hand on America's shoulder.

America's eyes go wide and he tenses a little out of surprise before a huge grin takes over his expression. Russia chuckles.

"Well, you're in a good mood," Russia teases.

America beams, and begins bouncing, trying to keep from waving his hands about. He looks back up to see Russia staring off into the distance, a curious look on his face, but his eyes shine with glee.

America giggles. He feels his heart swell with happiness that just floods into him.

Russia pulls his hand away and gives America a curious look. Russia opens his mouth as if to say something when someone comes bursting into the room.

"Daddy!" Alaska shouts, crashing into America, nearly knocking them both to the ground.

"Heya kiddo!" America replies, ruffling Alaska's hair, "what's up?"

"I was worried about you! I called Massy, and he said you were a dumba**, but that you would be fine."

America rolls his eyes with a scoff. Then, he scoops Alaska off the ground and spins her around. Alaska laughs and leans back, arms in the air. America chuckles before carefully letting her get back to her feet.

"Have you been having a good time here?" America asks.

"Yeah! Everyone here is very nice and the tea is very sweet and it's cold outside. You missed the big snowball fight!" Alaska exclaims, throwing her hands into the air, "Ms. Belarus is very good with snowballs, but Mr. Ukraine makes the best snow forts! And Mr. Soviet was throwing me high up like you do into snow piles and it's so much fun!"

America laughs.

"Sounds like you've been having fun," America comments.

Then, America looks up to gauge Russia's reaction.

Russia seems to stare past them, and America's mind is suddenly filled with fond memories of snowy mornings and laughter. Huge snowball fights. Memories that America knows aren't his own.

He faintly registers Alaska telling more stories about her first night here, but ultimately, America finds himself completely lost in memories that aren't his own. Eventually, the images fade, and America zones back into the real world as Russia looks around with a fond smile.

'What was that?'

'Snowball fights are fun.'

'No! Stop thinking about that! Why was I remembering something that didn't happen?'

'At least, it didn't happen to me...'

'I swear to God, if this has something to do with the soulmates thing, I'm going to kick something.'

"America?" Russia calls.

America snaps back to reality and sees Alaska had left and Russia looks at him, a concerned look on his face. America gets an idea. He pulls and searches for the foreign emotions, and finds that same kind of concern is radiating from the connection. He focuses on it.

"I'm fine. I just spaced out a little," America says with a dismissive wave and a smile.

As soon as he responds, he sees Russia's face fall to a small smile, and the concern turns to relief and contented happiness.

America freezes.

'S***.'

America desperately looks to the door, and his thoughts spin too fast for him to recognize them.

"America?" Russia asks.

"I uhh..." America starts, as panic sets in, "I need to use the restroom."

"It's the second door on the right, near the end of the hallway. Are you okay?" Russia asks, looking a little panicked himself.

"Yeah. I'll be fine?" America says, trying to say it like a statement, but he is much more focused on leaving the room.

America rushes out and into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it. He falls back, sitting on the edge of the bath.

"S***. S***. F***. S***," America mutters, running his hands through his hair and bouncing his leg, trying desperately to calm his nerves.

His mind is swimming with thoughts and they swirl around in what feels like a whirlwind of chaos. He tries to read through them, trying to organize any of it and calm himself down. Tears trace his cheeks and he clenches his eyes shut.

'There is no f***ing way!'

'He's my soulmate?!'

'I mean, he's cute.'

'But he's also a f***ing country!'

'No. No. Nononononono.'

The tales of the 'treatments' for those kinds of bonds rings in his mind. UK used to tell stories about them as if they were just normal parts of life to him and Canada when they were younger. The stories often gave America nightmares.

Images of being strapped to a chair and electrocuted and beat flit past his mind's eye, and he blinks away the tears.

'I should've known!'

'The fact that it never went away.'

'What else could it have been?'

'But it's been outlawed since the Roman Empire began to fall apart!'

America tries desperately to swallow back his impending meltdown.

'No!'

"I'll be okay," America mutters, biting his lip, "I'll just-I'll-I..."

America's breathing begins to pick up speed and he holds back the urge to scream. He grips his hair. He ends up on the bathroom floor and he kicks the floor. He presses his back against the wall and tries to think with his foggy, crowded mind.

'I can't tell him.'

'I can't tell anyone.'

He whines and covers his mouth, biting his knuckle.

'This is a death sentence.'

He tucks his face into his knees and tries to calm his breathing.

'Does Russia know?!'

'Do I just ignore him now?'

'But I don't want to upset him.'

Then he hears knocking on the door. His head snaps up and he scrubs the tears from his face.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

America takes a shuttering breath.

"Yes, sweetie. I'm fine," He replies, trying to make his tone believable.

'Okay. Just have to calm down.'

"Okay," Alaska says, "you've just been gone for a while."

America hums and tried to pull himself together enough to walk out the door. He buries his worries as far as he can, swallowing the feelings away. He also reaches for the link again, though he is terrified of it, it's the only thing he can focus on. Worry and concern flow through it.

'S***. He probably felt all of that. Or at least knew about it.'

America shakily stands up and brushes himself off. He fights back the rest of his tears before they escape and stares into the mirror. His eyes are red, and his cheeks shiny. He sniffles and splashes cold water over his face.

He takes another deep breath before he opens the door to see Alaska standing outside of it.

"Dad?" Alaska asks, worried.

"Yeah?"

"Were you... are you feeling okay?"

America bites his tongue before his thoughts come spilling out.

"I'm fine," America replies quietly, forcing a smile.

Alaska sighs.

"Dad, I know when you're lying," Alaska says softly, "What's wrong?"

America smiles sadly.

"I'm not... it's nothing you gotta worry about, okay?"

"But I am worried," Alaska insists, "all of us worry."

"I am not dumping my problems onto my kids," America says firmly, crossing his arms.

"But you always tell us to talk about the things that bother us!"

"That's different."

"How?!"

America flinches and Alaska sniffles.

"Daddy, I don't want to see you upset," she whines, looking away.

America's heart clenches.

"I know, kiddo. I know. I'll be okay," America says, kneeling down and offers a smile.

Alaska looks up and then lunges forward, clinging to America. America chuckles and stands up, holding her close.

"I can only protect you from so much, and I am not going to have you worrying about me. That's my job," America mumbles.

"I love you," Alaska says.

"I love you too, kiddo," America replies, putting Alaska down.

Alaska smiles and wipes her face before grabbing his hand and dragging him into the main room.

'I'm okay,' he thinks, trying to convince himself.

'For now.'

America ignores the last thought.

America walks in and sees Russia sitting nervously on the couch, looking down.

"Hi," America says meekly.

Russia's head whips up, and a small smile grows on his face. After a moment of quiet, Russia looks away and a flustered feeling manifests at the edge of America's mind.

"We have the World Meeting tomorrow, so if you would like to stay with m-us until then..." Russia trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

America sees Alaska look up with puppy-eyes. Conflicted emotions and messy thoughts don't allow him for very good decision-making.

"Okay," America blurts out and immediately regrets it.

'What am I getting myself into?'

~

Next

Previous

Table of Contents

#rusame #countryhumans #statehumans #ch russia #ch america

[ask-de-writer]

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

MET BY MOONLIGHT

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5740 words

© 2017 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

These had been made with fine, supple leathers taken from the destroyed village of the Marquosts. They had originally held pictographs of things that the Shamans and Totem Society leaders had thought worth recording. Their pictograms, like Egyptian hieroglyph or Chinese ideograms were a genuine written language. That was one of the ways that the Marquost society had been more than a little different from that of the Indians about them.

The men had a Society of Shamans lead by the Great Shaman. They had the charge to do the mighty magics that needed the Blackwall and its power. I was descended from that tradition.

The women had charge of the assorted Totem Societies. Most Indians drew inspiration from their totem animals. The Marquost women did more than draw inspiration from their totems. They became them. They were not lycanthropes, cursed to change with the moon. Marquost women were skin-turners. They donned the skin of the totem animal and became that creature in truth but with a guiding human intelligence and cunning. They were lead by a woman known as the Mother of Change, who could become any animal from any of the Totem Societies — and if rumor be true — any other beast as well.

The High Shaman and the Mother of Change were the ones who wrote and decided what to write.

After three hundred years, their wisdom and spells were coming to light again on my computer monitor. As the English writing was subtracted from the Darkmoon palimpsests, I began to notice something else.

My hackles rose the way that they will when you find that something is very wrong. When I examined the original photographs of the book pages more closely, I found the cause. The originals were genuinely ancient. That was almost beyond doubt. When you are a Shaman, as I am, you get a feel for such things. The problem was in the handwriting. I had a three hundred year span of books open to me. Everywhere that I sampled the Darkmoon Dairies I found the same thing.

The Darkmoon Diaries were a forgery. A unique forgery. I was willing to give long odds that there was no other such forgery in the world.

Efforts to make the handwriting different from writer to purported writer had grossly succeeded. It was the little things that betrayed the forgery. The downstroke of the f’s and s’s. The loop form of the e’s. They were common throughout. It appeared that one person had written all three hundred years worth of dairies.

The most recent volume revealed the likely author.

Just as I was pondering the diaries, Allison delivered a note from Laelia inquiring about my progress and inviting me to assist with cataloging the Hilstrom house. I put aside my problem with the dairies for the more immediate one of helping with Hilstrom house and seeing what might be of use. A Shaman may benefit from much that the ordinary person might not even find interesting. There might be things in there that could lead me to other surviving descendants of the ‘Founding Fathers’ of Flocking Bay.

Because of the age of the Hilstrom House and the contents it was known to have, it was necessary to catalog everything. We would assess what to include in the sale or even if the place should be sold at all. Some of the contents, at least, would have to be auctioned off and some kept for the library and the Historical Society museum.

The Hilstrom House was worth putting aside my petty mysteries. It would be an easy restoration to bring the house back to its original state. Most of the original hand hewn planks and timbers were still there and in place. The electricity and gas had been put in with no attempt to hide the wires and pipes inside the walls.

The fireplace still had the original hand made crane to hang cooking pots over the flames. The andirons were a recent addition. The originals we found later, cast out into a bramble thicket behind the house.

The whole place could easily become a colonial museum. When I breached the idea to Laelia she agreed that it could be done at little cost. The only problem that she foresaw was the simple one of maintenance cost. Such museums rarely paid their way and the township was simply too poor to support another one in addition to the Historical Society museum.

“Don’t give up, though,” she said, patting my hand. “You can propose it at the township meeting. If it is approved, they will find a way to do it.”

I felt that odd hackle-raising twisting that tells you where magic is. It led me to a corner of the living room. There, in a window seat made to serve as a storage chest, were many papers and books … and the source of my feeling.

The old matchlock musket appeared to be in near perfect condition. It was mounted to a plaque with an engraved brass plate just as the diary had said. It read, “This gun won us the town now called Flocking Bay. Eben Hilstrom shot and killed the Shaman with it. The gun would never fire again after.”

Laelia reached past me and took the old gun. “The Historical Society will want this testament to the shameful deed that founded this town.”

I looked at her strangely. I was beginning to fear that Laelia might be a descendant of one of the Founders. A check of ship passenger manifests from 1645 through the end of 1648 showed none who could be Laelia or her ‘ancestress.’ Something would have been in those records even if she had been a stowaway. What did she have to hide? Several things that she had said before flitted through my mind. The unique forgery of the Darkmoon diaries. The Darkmoon crest. The timing of her ancestress’ arrival in Flocking Bay. The low price of the indenture.

With a winning smile, I said, “Laelia, I think that these papers will be enough to keep us busy for the rest of the day.” “Let’s take them back to your place where we can catalog them over some of your wonderful tea.”

We strolled back to Changer’s Court in a pleasant afternoon, with the wind playing with leaves and trying to steal our booty of history.

Back at Laelia’s cottage, I breached a different topic as she puttered about her modern kitchen with its gas range, making tea for us. “Laelia, I have some of the palimpsests done. I think that you will be interested. I found your indenture contract. You can even see where Eben Hilstrom altered it.”

The puttering in the kitchen stopped for a moment. You could hear the strained smile in her voice as she see replied, “You mean the indenture of my ancestress. I���m not THAT old.” She resumed puttering purposefully about and emerged with the tea tray.

As she set it down on the coffee table, I said, “I’m afraid that you’re not telling me the whole truth, Laelia. I can prove that you wrote all of the Darkmoon dairies and I can also prove their age.

“I need to ask you some questions about your origins. I can only think of a few reasons that a person might live so long.”

She let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair. Resignedly she said, “Have some tea and ask what you will. It was a long run from Poland for my sister and I. She was killed in France. The Crest says it all, to those perceptive enough to read it, as you seem to be.”

I raised my tea to my lips and smelled the aroma. My hackles rose again. I could smell and feel the power. It was a familiar power, like my mother’s but stronger. I had my answer.

“No,” I said, putting down the cup untasted. “You have lied long enough. You are not a werewolf and you are not Polish either. Though being one would account for your age. I know who you are.”

I spoke in Marquost, the old Indian tongue of the area when I said, “Ask me what you want to know, Mother of Change. This Shaman will tell you truthfully what you wish to know without the power of that.” I pointed at the tea.

For a second, she appeared startled. Then she let out the same laugh that I had heard and liked earlier. She replied in the same language, “Your accent is abominable! Still, I haven’t heard anyone use this language at all for years!” Her speech was the utterly relaxed, easy flow of a native speaker.

“Near enough to three hundred years, I expect,” I said softly. “You must have been lonely, living among your enemies for so long.”

“Not so lonely as you might imagine,” said Laelia with that calm that comes only from utter assurance. “I have been stalking my prey. I have got to know them and listen to their Councils and give them advice. When the time is right I take one of my skins and turn it. Then an enemy suffers. That is when proper vengeance comes. They have suffered and must suffer for a long time yet to come. That is why your killing them is not to be accepted. Do not do that. It may put them on their guard.”

Startled, and just a bit guilty, I said, “Mr. Hilstrom was the last of his line. He was old and a bachelor. The Hilstroms are gone.”

Her cheerful laugh interrupted me. “Where did you get that silly idea? That was only the end of the male line. What is the true line of descent?”

I was dumbfounded. I had forgotten, been taken in by the white man’s patrilineal lines of descent. So proud of my own matrilineal descent from the last Shaman, I had used the white man’s genealogical rules to track my enemies! I would have to start my genealogical work all over.

I hung my head in shame. Determined, I raised my head looking Laelia in the eye. “A Shaman must acknowledge his error and try to remedy it. I must begin to search for the neglected lines of descent. Our enemies must die!” I said firmly.

She rebuked me gently but with absolute certainty. “They must NOT die! Death is the END of vengeance. I swore ETERNAL revenge to the Blackwall, pouring on it the blood of my foes. When the last of them dies, so do I!”

Smiling, Laelia said, “I help them in their need and see to it that they stay within my reach.” Her eyes going lupine, she added, “I stalk them down the trail of time. In each generation, they all suffer. A few die. They go on. And so do I.”

I looked at Laelia with new eyes and a heightened respect. I said softly, “Mother of Change, I am sure that your eternal vengeance is more suitable than my slaying. This Shaman opens to you the whole power of the Blackwall.”

—THE END—

<==Previous

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

This completes Met by Moonlight. If you enjoyed what you just read, please go to the Master Story Index for links to all of the stories that I have posted on Tumblr

#MET BY MOONLIGHT #Part 3 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 47

AO3 | Masterpost

Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

Summary: After Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. What takes place at first is a simple love story: full of trials and journeys that they must endure together, as a team. But over time, things complicate. The gang is in trouble, and as Arthur and Mary Beth aim to set out on their own one day, they must find a way to help those they love while eventually, finding escape. Their ultimate goal is to go north with the Marstons, to find the bucolic stretches of Wisconsin where, rumor has it, there are lily farms. Will they make it? How will they survive when all hope seems lost? This is their story.

Chapter 47: The Widow of Willard’s Rest, Pt. 2

Two weeks went by. They stayed, helping. It was a strange development. Charlotte found herself artificially in love with Arthur, as his presence sated the male absence inside the house, but it was more complicated than it seemed. He was a pillar, an anchor. He was exceedingly sturdy and he seemed to understand everything about the world and how it worked. He was so capable. He never stumbled or hit a bump in the road that he could not handle. He spoke so little but for to Mary Beth with whom he seemed to share an almost telepathic appreciation. They were so in love, but it wasn’t just frills or public displays, noticed Charlotte. The way they knew how to co-operate with one another, how one always understood what the other needed at any given time. They would argue about a book they read, which Mary Beth had liked but Arthur deemed as pedestrian. Arthur would draw a picture in his downtime under a tree, and Mary Beth would compliment his picture, and he would smile at her while chewing on a reed and then she would pat him on the head and kiss his eyes and then go away back to folding laundry as if nothing at all had happened. Their relationship was sobered and wise and it felt organic to their surroundings as if it had always been so—like the trees and the wind.

Anyway, oddly enough, in the nights when she was alone, Charlotte knew the difference between Cal and Arthur. She felt only the cold sheets where he had used to lie, and it was so real she wept, her loneliness absolute. But during the day, while Mary Beth would be helping Charlotte in the garden where they were pulling up the last of the root vegetables, or they would be reading or tidying the house, cooking dinner, making apple juice, doing whatever work it was they could, Charlotte’s grief lost its linearity and the past became the present, vice versa. Arthur reminded her of Cal even as they were nothing alike. He filled the property with his sounds, his sights, and his smell, and she did not know whether or who or what she had become, but she just wanted to be close to him. She was not jealous of Mary Beth. She was fond of Mary Beth, and she looked at Mary Beth’s relationship with Arthur in admiration. Charlotte’s grief was twisting up her perceptions. She did not want Arthur to be her husband. She did not really love him even as she felt she did. She just missed her own husband, and Arthur, in all of his masculine replacement qualities, was there. He protected the home, chopped the firewood, taught Charlotte to use a gun.

But then the days would end. Arthur and Mary Beth would retire to their room on one side of the house, and Charlotte would return to her own on the other. Cal’s things hanging neatly in the wardrobe. Her delusions would die, and this was always a most terrible realization. Some nights, she did not know what she would do. It manifested in all manner of confusion. She did not know how she could possibly survive.

One night, Charlotte had fallen asleep in the living room on the sofa, in front of the fire, with her tea almost tipping out of her hand and onto the floor. Arthur came inside from where he had been chopping wood extra—it looked like maybe a winter storm was coming, and he didn’t want to run out. He saw Charlotte, dozed off with her tea dripping on the rug, and he went right over, got down on one knee and with his delicate touch, lifted the mug from her hand. He was just going to take it to the sink to rinse. But when he got close to her, she sat straight up. It was alarming. The mug fell onto the floor, and she looked right at him as if she was looking into the jaws of the devil himself, and then as if she’d seen god. She said, “Cal?”  

Arthur felt terror for his misstep. It was a mistake, he knew now. He saw in her that night himself from many months before when he had done the same exact thing to Mary Beth. He had scared the Jesus out of her at the Wintersons,' and the weight of what Charlotte was dealing now with came down hard and crushed him something holy. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder to steady her. He said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Balfour. It’s just Arthur.”

It took her a moment, in which her eyes flickered back to life from a heavy dreaming state and filled with recognition. When she came to the realization that she had been dreaming or something worse, she collapsed silently. He held her. He didn’t know what to do. She seemed frozen in terror. Mary Beth came out of their room at one point and said, “Oh my god. Arthur, is she okay?”

“I ain’t sure,” said Arthur.

Charlotte had begun to cry though. She looked up at Mary Beth, seeming embarrassed. She wiped her tears on the back of her hand and said, “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

She was pulling herself together now. She sat back from Arthur’s embrace and smiled at him, gratefully. She tucked her hands into her lap. She blinked repeatedly and said, “It was just a dream.”

Mary Beth sighed. “Come on,” she said. She took Charlotte by the arm and led her back to her bedroom. “Let’s get you to bed,” she said. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

Arthur watched them going down the hall to Charlotte’s bedroom. “Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Charlotte, proper as usual. “It was just a dream. I’ll be fine, Mary Beth.”

“Nuh-uh,” said Mary Beth. “I am staying with you. We are having a sleepover, and you can’t stop me.”

Charlotte was quiet for a moment. Then he could hear that she had come out of it, and she was smiling. “All right,” she said to Mary Beth. “I suppose that would be fine. But really, you don’t have to stay the entire night.”

“I know,” said Mary Beth. “I know. Thank you.”

Then, they were gone.

Arthur took a deep breath, looking around at the neatness of the living room. The expensive blue sofa, the pretty lace curtains. He turned around to clean up the tea from the rug. It wasn’t too bad. He put the mug in the sink, and then he went to sit down at the kitchen table with a small glass of whiskey.

Feeling a little pent up, he lit an oil lamp for extra light and took out his journal which he considered writing in for a time, but then he did not. He closed it, rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t thinking about Charlotte, even as he felt deeply for her and her predicament. He wasn’t thinking about her. In his heart of hearts, he knew she would be okay. He sipped the whiskey and lit a cigarette and slouched in the chair. He let his head hang off the back, rolling it around on his shoulders.

Time was getting longwinded now, thought Arthur in exhaustion, for him and Mary Beth. Every week that passed, the pressure of waiting mounted—it had begun to wear him thin, particularly at the end of each day, and each day got worse than the last. There had still been no word from Dutch in nearly four months time, and tomorrow was Sunday once more. If there was no word still at the post office in Annesburg, he wondered if he would find himself revising their plan, against Hosea’s recommendation. He really did not like this business with John and the penitentiary, and he thought it ought to have been solved by now.

He poured one more glass of whiskey then and brought it with him back to the bedroom. He changed out of his jeans and his shirt and his vest and suspenders and heavy coat, got into bed wearing only his union suit. Propped up against the headboard, he turned the lamp up a little and smoked while working on an old sketch he had been revisiting. It was of Shady Belle. He had wanted to get it perfect. He thought it was one of his best ones yet, and all the right angles juxtaposed with the soft of the vines consuming the house back to nature made his mind quiet. He drank and continued to draw. The country up here was dead quiet, just as it was at Deer Cottage. You could hear nothing but the wind in the chimney and the occasional pack of wolves howling up at the moon.

A little while later, as his eyelids were getting heavy, Mary Beth came back and was surprised that he had not gone to sleep yet. “You’re up,” she said, fluffing her hair. She hopped into the bed, under the covers. “I thought you’d be half to dream land by now.”

“Couldn’t really sleep,” said Arthur. “But I feel better now.”

She put her chin on his shoulder to look at the drawing. “Wow,” she said. “That one is really good, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed, scratched at the stubbled on his chin and kissed her on the top of the head. Then he closed the journal and said, “Thank you, my lady. I thought so, too.”

“Charlotte kicked me out,” she said out of nowhere.

“What?”

“She insisted I return to you.”

“Well, that’s good, ain’t it?” said Arthur. He picked up her hand to brush his thumb across her knuckles. They were somewhat dry from the cold weather.

“I think so,” said Mary Beth. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s gonna take time. Charlotte seems good at keeping up appearances but under the surface, it’s like tangled barbed wire.”

“Maybe we should take her with us tomorrow,” said Mary Beth. The bed was warm and big around them. “To the town. Maybe getting away from this place for a day, maybe it would do her some good.”

Arthur mulled it over. “That ain’t a bad plan.”

“I just feel like—like this place is all full of reminders. It’s like a dream in and of itself. Maybe seeing the world going on, as usual, maybe that would help.”

“We may be riding through snow,” said Arthur. “At least till we get down from these hills. It’s been overcast all day, and I’m a little concerned about a storm.”

“That’s okay.”

“I was just gonna go by myself,” said Arthur, “but if you ladies want to come, that’s fine with me.”

The wind was blowing then, creaking through the pines and against the window panes. They both turned their heads to look. Mary Beth got closer to him. She said, “I think I’d prefer we all stick together. Just in case.”

Arthur smiled. “When did you become the worrier?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Since this damn baby.”

He took a big, deep breath then. It went all the way down into his bones, and he placed his hand right on her tummy, where it sloped gently beneath her nightgown. He was now filled with warmth and perseverance. He kissed her on the forehead and said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes. The wind kept blowing.

“It’s been too many months without word,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, it has.”

“What happens tomorrow.”

Arthur did not want to worry her, not any more than she already was. He didn't want to worry about tomorrow. “Let’s figure that out then.”

“Maybe the letter will be there this time,” she said. “Maybe this is the week.”

Arthur smoothed the curls behind her ear. He glanced back to the window. “Maybe,” he said. The stove was holding strong, heating the room.

That very night, not so far out, huddled in an abandoned mining shack north of Annesburg, John and Sadie sat, trying to figure their way through a predicament. Along with help from the Texas Rangers, Sadie had busted John free the night before. She had wanted to bring Charles, but Charles was needed to defend the gang. Without Arthur, and now John, too, they were desperate. They needed guns. Plus, the Rangers were good at dealing with law types. They had a curious code, thought Sadie, as they provided a genius distraction at the jail. It involved them detaining the Warden in his office for voluntary questioning, on the accusation that he had knowingly been holding a criminal whose comeuppance rightly belonged to the great state of Texas, not Lemoyne, and that they were there to pick him up. The Warden was dazzled by their badges and easily confused. He listened to them carefully even as he had no idea what they were talking about. It was during this time that Sadie put the lights out on several of the guards outside and wrangled John, who had been digging a midnight trench in ball and chain. Call and LaBoeuf dismissed the Warden well before word broke and paddled them all off the island on a row boat. The job was quiet and smart and the Warden had been none the wiser. Arthur would have bene proud. But in the end, they could hear the alarm sounding from behind as they floated away on their daring escape, and when they docked in Van Horn, they knew it would be trouble. Law had swarmed all up and down the banks of the Lanahechee by that afternoon.

“This is goddam fucked,” said John now. He was angry, and drinking from a bottle of booze they’d plucked off a passed-out vagabond on the beach, north of Van Horn. Sadie was kindling the fire, no nonsense. “We ain’t never gonna get back to Shady Belle at this rate.”

“We ain’t going back to Shady Belle,” said Sadie. “I goddam told you that. Weren't you listening?”

"No, I wasn't,” said John, kind of a smart mouth. “We ain’t exactly had a moment to process since getting off that boat, Sadie. Where the hell are we going?”

“The gang’s in Bluewater Marsh,” said Sadie, ignoring his attitude. “Just for now. Too many Pinkertons moving into the bayou for Dutch’s comfort. It’s temporary.”

"Law on the river banks, law down in the bayou. Where the hell are we supposed to go next?"

"Just keep your head about you."

“Are Arthur and Mary Beth okay?” said John.

“They’re fine,” said Sadie, sighing. “The Rangers sent them on their way a couple days after the river boat. They’re in hiding.”

“Where?”

“How the hell should I know,” said Sadie. “They’re waiting on word from us. It weren’t no picnic arranging for your rescue, by the way. Took more than a month in preparation and even still we had to wait for LaBoeuf to get his legs back after getting shot on the boat you decided to storm.”

John spat into the fire, looked at his boots. “Well, I said thank you,” he said. “And I’ll say it again. Every goddam day of my life. Thank. You.” He closed his eyes. “I ain’t never been so goddam grateful. You got my word on that.”

She looked at him, felt bad all of a sudden. He was sort of like a dumbass puppy, she thought. His beard had grown out while in jail, and he looked older, albeit skinny. She reached into her pocket, withdrew a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers. “Here. Roll some of them up, will you?”

John opened one eye. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m gonna go hunt us something to eat in a minute here. You gotta be hungry.”

“It’s way too cold. You'll freeze.”

“Would you prefer starvation, Mr. Marston?” She took out her pistol, polished it up with a handkerchief.

"No,” said John. “But just—be careful. These hills is full of some weird shit. Bad folks.”

“I know what I’m dealing with.”

“Oh, yeah?” He rolled one cigarette, sealed it, and handed it over. “You ever killed a member of the Murfree Brood?”

Sadie took the cigarette and gave him a look. She leaned forward to light it with the hearth. “Dozens of them,” she said, exhaling a lungful. “Me and Charles hunted O’Driscolls up here a bunch of months ago. Killed our fair share of hill people, too. Mostly with dynamite. They’re real stupid. Tend to live in caves like animals.”

John sighed. He seemed genuinely stressed out, in the way a man should be whose got a family. He kept rolling the cigarettes. He sealed one and then another. He lit one finally for himself and smoked. As he did, he settled back, leaning against the wall. He was still in his prison rags, had dark circles under his eyes. That shack was a piece of shit and looked like it had been previously occupied by shine dealers, but the stove worked, and the chimney was swept. There were a lot of empty bottles and a couple of beds made out of burlap and hay. She listened to him breathing, sighing heavily, like he was meditating or something.

Sadie had fashioned some of the burlap from the shack around her person with her belt, as a makeshift coat. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. On her way out the door she became regretful for no good reason. She looked back at John. She swallowed her pride and said, “Abigail is fine, John. I told you, right? Her and Jack is just fine.”

“Yeah, you told me,” said John, smoking with his eyes closed. “That part, I heard. Thanks.”

“I’m gonna get you back to her,” said Sadie.

“It’s gonna be lawmen everywhere,” said John, shaking his head. "Everywhere."

“Don’t matter,” said Sadie, holstering her volcanic. “We’ll lay low a couple of days, and then we’ll start making our way south. We'll make it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I ain’t leaving another widow to rot away in this god forsaken country,” she said. “That's why.”

John opened his eyes. Her anger was like an inferno, he thought, burning quietly in the back of her brain. But it was focused. It hadn’t always been focused. The fire was casting shadows on her face and on the walls all around. The wind was whistling though the meager chimney. “Okay,” he said, choosing to believe her. He sort of had to.

So she nodded, full of resolve for the coming task. “I’ll be back,” she said. “Try to get some goddam sleep.”

“I’ll try,” said John.

“Good.” She tipped her hat and was on her way.

Meanwhile, Charlotte sat in her tall, brass bed, by the window. The bed was so white, and pure. The sheets had been a wedding gift from her mother and made of a fine, blue-dyed Egyptian cotton. Mary Beth had washed them and every other scrap of linen in the whole house that week. They smelled clean. They smelled like lavender. Charlotte blinked several times, as her eyes felt dry. She had been reading, but that had got boring. She set the book on the bedside table and was now looking out at the winter weather. As the snow started to fall in little crystals that whipped across the yard and through the woods and down into the open plains, she allowed herself to feel small, and insignificant. Like one stupid widow in a vast husbandless world. She had wanted to be alone, and now she tried to hear his voice in her head, wished for it, just this once, and for one single moment, she thought she could hear it indeed. She closed her eyes. “Oh, Cal,” she said aloud.

But the sound of her own voice startled her. It chased his voice away. Beyond the walls, she thought she could hear more voices now, in the distance, coming up the walk, full of phantoms and strangers who wanted her throat. But it was just the wind.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 #mary beth gaskill #arthur x mary beth #the lily farm #<3

[pamviles]

Codism Manifesto

By Pamviles

Ⅰ  Background

When I was eighteen, I suffered from a mental disorder for half a year, and it was during this time that I discovered art. My philosophy also began to take form during this period of time. I had read extensively into the fields of philosophy and science (especially quantum physics), Plato's cave enlightens the imagination to unknown spaces, Descartes’ demon destroys previous structures of philosophy to rebuild a new system and Wittgenstein's mirror of the game captures the essence of philosophy through language. The centuries-long debate surrounding the nature of matter as either a particle or a wave, and its reflection on the real world has perpetuated through the theories of Einstein, Bohr, Heisenberg, Schrodinger and others. As well as the fragility of knowledge itself, all the above helped me re-understand the world. In university, I spent three years creating my own philosophy, I used ‘imagination’ as the basis of my philosophy, through the form of Dialogues (The Dialogues of Mr. Walter and Mr. Galson, a total of seven articles, included in my book ‘Drifting: an artist's madness, sex, art and philosophy’), involving questions concerning existence in reality, the possibility of god, the truth in history, the vanity of inspiration, time, and fate. All of the aforementioned are presented in my artworks. I believe an artist above all things should be a thinker, and to a certain extent, examine the dissionance of their thoughts through their own art.

My early artworks refer to surrealism. The mystery and fantasy of surrealism is what led me into the realm of art. Surrealism is a means of elaborating dreams. It can break reality and bring reality back to a fantasy realm, distorted and merged with forms of the inner desires, struggles and pursuits of an artist. To me, the charm of surrealism lies in that it can fully show the inner world of an artist. But as time passed, I was no longer content with surrealist expressions, because if I wanted my art to leave a mark on history, I had to create something that had never been done before.

Since 2018, I have been rethinking my artworks. Using my educational background of mathematics in my practice, my current artworks incorporate the form of code as a major element of my art style. In fact, my early artworks also had an element of coding, but only in recent years have I gradually formed a theory of my own.

I was self-taught in painting while I majored in mathematics in university. The element of mathematics may seem to have no relation to art, but for me, mathematics is the basic explanation of how things work in the universe. Art, on the other hand, is a manifestation of unique human emotions and souls, the former being the cornerstone of reason, and the latter the ultimate sublimation of emotion. Both are important forms of human understanding and expression of the world. What kind of collision can be brought about by combining the two together? Integration or contradiction? I merge mathematics and art based on my own understanding of both fields and the reflection of the past torture and encouragement from these two. I hope to bring viewers to new thoughts about math and art.

To me, painting is like a colorful shell, and theory is its soul. After two years of summarizing my own ideas of art, the time comes to solidify the first draft of my Codism Manifesto.

 Ⅱ Definition

Codism in art refers to the recompilation of common language systems into new images or symbol systems by means of mathematics, linguistics, etc. and incorporating them into works of art. The compiled cryptosystem can be symbols, lines, geometric figures, color changes, cubes arrangement, etc. It is a rigorous system with regular rules instead of random, it hides the original information to be expressed in the form of codes. This cryptosystem needs to fuse with the created artwork. They are complementary and not independent of each other. It is precisely because of a variety of patterns that different cryptosystems can show, that it can be embedded into artworks and become an inseparable part of it.

 Ⅲ Meaning and purpose

1.      Symbolic meaning

In the art of painting, you can often see the traces of symbolization, and use certain images or symbols to harness a concept or meaning. For example, people think of religion or death when they see the cross. There is also a certain symbolic meaning in my art. In addition to the specific objects in the painting, my code has become a part of the symbol. So far, I have created over ten code systems and integrated them into the artworks. Sometimes a painting is just one code system, and sometimes multiple codes are superimposed. The shape of each set of codes is different (some are lines, some are geometric, some are round deformations, some are symbols similar to hieroglyphics, etc.), because in different paintings, I will choose according to the theme of the painting, and it is because of the different forms of these codes, they have different symbolic meanings to the picture. Since these codes are formed through mathematical processing, and mathematics is the basis of all scientific and technological progress today, the presentation of these codes on canvas represents technology and science. The code itself is a hidden method, sometimes symbolizing secrets or unacceptable ideas or even a reflection of the virtual world.

I could have presented numbers or mathematical formulas directly on the canvas, and even extracted a part of my Apm theorem to add to my paintings, but I think said approach is too blunt. Trying to combine mathematics and art by selecting some random symbolic elements of mathematics and forcing it into the picture would be reckless and rather dull-witted. The works created in this way seem to me to have no meaning of mathematics but a shallow representation, let alone apply any mathematical knowledge. Throughout my works I have to capture the essence of mathematics through my own coded system, because only in this way can I be more organically connected with the subject I need to express and integrate with the picture.

The symbolic meaning of artworks is based on the artist and the audience having a common cultural knowledge background. But in pure mathematics, in a series of theorems and proofs, no symbolic elements can be found. The world of mathematics is so pure that it only has logic and reasoning. And when this cryptographic code with mathematics is introduced into art, it is to a certain extent a betrayal of symbolism, and this is also one of the processes that will gradually appear in my works.

 2.      Words and communication

Before becoming an artist, most of my work was in writing. When I started to paint, I always thought about the difference and connection between painting and writing.

Reading a paragraph of words requires clear and organized thinking and time in order to understand the meaning in the text. In contrast, processing a painting can be scattered or even instantaneous. Reading text is like a narrow stream flowing, and it is single and coherent in time. It can only be understood by reading one word after another, as this is the brain's way of clearly organizing and making a single-channel sequence. But viewing a painting is like standing on the edge of a radiant lake, and the result is immediate sensory pleasure or other instant experience. The former is the perception of understanding, while the latter is a sensory experience. Words are constrained by time, yet it is the most ideal tool for expressing thoughts, because words (or language) itself is the basic way of thinking. The painting is an instant impact, and its viewing is not constrained by time. (Of course, to understand some certain paintings still requires time, but that would be a different subject.)

My code embeds the narrative and comprehension elements of text into the painting, which makes my work, not only have the immediate sensibility as the painting itself, but also implies step-by-step understanding. The existence of the code does not necessarily suggest that the audience needs to understand the story or meaning behind it, but work as a representative of the comprehension and revelation that can be obtained by reading.

My code system brings a time-like depth of procedural understanding to the painting in addition to the visual characteristics of the painting itself.

 When a piece of art is presented, it is a non-verbal communication between artist and audience. It does not have a concise expression of information like verbal communication, and the information of the work may be transmitted unconsciously by the artist to the viewer. Since this nonverbal communication between the artist and viewer is unclear, not all audiences can receive the message.

The most direct way to convey information is to through language. At this functional level, art is unable to match. And there is no need to compare, because an artist, to a certain extent, is hiding information rather than to exposing it, especially in contemporary art, the information that the artist wants to express through various forms of presentation lets the viewer explores its meaning like a maze, layer by layer. Perhaps one of the charms of contemporary art stems from this. Organizing and hiding a message is to give it a sense of mystery to arouse the viewer’s interest, and allow the viewer to experience the pleasure it brings little by little when solving the mystery of the message. Therefore, in addition to visual enjoyment and stimulation, for the viewer, art also has a bit of pleasure in the decryption process, although this information itself may be rather bland. As Oscar Wilde once said, "the commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it." At some point, art is a fantasy lie with psychedelic color, and it is through this lie can the viewer more fully experience the preciousness of the truth lying behind.

My artworks that conceal the information in the form of codes symbolize the process of constructing this lie of art.

 3.      The Mirror of Math

Mathematics is a law that exists in all things in the universe. It exists at the beginning of everything, and will exist until the end of time. It is a pure world that can be independent of the physical world. It is not swayed by any biological or physical events, but at the same time it is the basis of the law of everything physical. Mathematics can exist beyond time, and is the only thing that never changes. In the modern society, it is also the basis of today's technological progress and represents the glory of our times.

In my work, as the elements of mathematics have been embedded, the eternal side of mathematics is introduced. In the form of cryptography, the data and information in science and technology is given a contemporary aspect, representing the development of the modern world and the possibilities of the future. This is also expressed in some of my paintings. They depict not only a current state of time, but also a trend or possibility into the future. Nowadays, humans have created all the glory in technology, but perhaps in the near future, with the development of AI, technology would have promoted the evolution of humanity itself or even more radical changes, as the intelligent life form that existed at that time, what would they think about the origin and pursuit of the human beings that existed and their own?

 For me, the creation of the codes is an attachment to the conservation laws of all things in the universe. When I see various lines or different shapes in a picture, it is like seeing a series of random numbers. I always want to find the pattern in this chaos that explains it and gives it a sense of meaning in a regular form of order. And in our lives, aren’t they similar? Both spiritual and material pursuits give us a meaning in life, and maintain its continuation through inherent laws such as a stable social system, morals, etc.

In addition to the code with the sense of order in my artworks, it is also accompanied by elements of randomness, and this reflects the events or emotions in our lives that are unpredictable or controlled.

So in a way, my work is not only like a cryptographic map with hidden information, but also a microcosm of life and a world in the form of symbols.

Therefore, when I use the math to create different code systems for my art creation, I am attempting to construct a completely new world in its purest form, a mathematical form mirrored by the physical world that we live in. In this new world, there is no trace of tangible living things. Instead, exist abstract expressions of feeling and reason, and the merging and struggles between them. Within these artworks, the use of code symbolizes the constant laws of our physical world and the various inherent methods of comprehending our reality.

 Ⅳ Overview

Codism is the product of the collision between math and art. It has a very characteristic symbolic meaning in the performance of art, and organically integrates related elements such as written word and communication, math and logic, data and information and various other concepts into art. The emergence of codism will hopefully add a different movement in art history.

First draft: 2019.12.31

#art #contemporaryart #artarticle #artmovement #art theory #codism #pamviles #math

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Blue Phoenix {Oneshot}

Masterlist

This is my entry for @supersoldiersruined-me Challenge! I hope I did this justice!

Words: +2,300

Warnings: SMUT! F/F! Other than that cursing?

Prompt: Nora Roberts, Chasing Passion: She would let him yell, if that was what he needed, but she was tired, she was aching, and her heart went out to him. (In Italic)

A/N: The reader is a pink skinned Kree (definition further down) that possesses the seventh sense as well is a she is a phoenix, a blue phoenix. She was thrown out of an airlock by Ronan the accuser 2 years before Thor Ragnarök takes place & when she was found on Sakaar was thrown in with the Hulk but Brunhilde managed to bargain for the woman after the Grandmaster made sure she lost the fight.

(Pink-skinned- In an attempt to further their development, some Kree bred with other species, producing the "pink-skinned" Kree, who are similar in appearance to Caucasian humans. These pinks (also called "whites") eventually outnumbered the blue-skin Kree.)

{Powers} Superhuman Strength, Superhuman Durability, Superhuman Endurance, Superhuman Stamina, "Seventh Sense" (Kree women possess the potential for psychic abilities of various kinds, collectively referred to as a "seventh sense". This psychic potential has manifested as clairvoyance, precognition, or even lethal attributes. Some Kree women can reach into the mind of male-sex species to manipulate their desires or drain another's life force completely. Kree technology has since been created to discover and remove the powers surgically, and technorganic Bloodhounds were used to track down female reaching the adult age with those abilities. (Source HERE)

The first meet with the Valkyrie, Brunhilde, was when the tanned skin woman stormed into the room, nearly scaring Y/N shitless, having recently came to Sakaar & not have seen scraper 142 this agitated before. The woman, the Kree frozen on the couch where the woman had left her that morning, the obedience disc sure to keep her from leaving the room.

Recently only having come to a few moments ago & attempting to gather bearings in this god forsaken hell hole. Y/N seeing her opportunity as the door was still slid open rushing to the open entrance only to fall back to the floor as poison coursed through curvaceous form, not having a clue what was going on as she was drug back into the room.

“You need to stop doing this,” the tanned woman spat at Y/N, the lithe creature effortlessly lifting the others larger frame back to & on the couch as the poison subsided only to jump to bare feet again & press against the glass wall.

“No! I'm going to fight this till my last breath,” the thick framed woman snapped out at tanned woman who advanced on her fearlessly.

The thicker creature daring to look down at what she had on, pondering what the hell was with the color scheme of the leather pants & shirt that hugged tight. The Kree swearing they were painted on & a thing she would have never dressed herself in as attention finally snapped back to the woman with cognac eyes having stopped a few feet away.

“Do you even know where you are pinkie,” calling name to the fact the large framed woman was what was known as a pink or white Kree.

The woman, scraper, whatever it was she had heard someone calling the lithe woman when Y/N had been drug to this room, after the Kree had supposedly lost a match with the champion thanks to the disc after having been given no warning & literally thrown into the ring with the green guy.

“Among barbarians,” the thick framed woman blurted out.

A slight itch making a calloused hand reach up to the dried emerald green blood that came from the disc, hands flexing to call out to the psychic energy that manifested as a blue flame thanks to her mother who was a phoenix long burned out & dead thanks to her own kind. A harsh reminder that here it wasn’t to be used as it had barely showed itself before the disc took over to throw her to the floor on aching knees before she could call it back.

“You should be dead or at least mutilated. Am I correct? Kree females aren’t allowed to possess the seventh sense any longer, haven’t in centuries,” the tanned woman spoke, stepping closer as the crumpled heap glared into cognac orbs, becoming pissed by the minute & fact the woman knew a lot of the Kree, but Y/N didn’t know a damn thing of where she was or what this was on her neck.

“You tell me since you know more about me then I do you. I haven’t had a chance since I was thrown in the ring with that beast,” the woman gritted through clenched teeth glaring up at the Valkyrie who reached a bronzed hand down to help the Kree up only for her to knock it away for the scraper to shrug bare shoulders & walk away to the kitchen.

“You should be grateful Pinkie, I kept the Grandmaster from melting or lobotomizing you,” Brunhilde scoffed over her shoulder as the Kree still remained on her knees, disoriented & trying to figure out where it went wrong on the ship that had her coming to in a ring with a green giant.

“Stop calling me pinkie, I am well aware of my genetic disposition, bitch,” the Kree spat out as if it was venom on her tongue the scraper turning to look the bewildered creature as she brought food out of the refrigerator tossing it on the counter to look at Y/N with a smirk.

“That’s Mrs. Bitch to you… Pinkie,” the bronze woman smiled wide at the Kree that stumbled to uncooperative feet.

The large framed woman tripping over bottles & what have you in an attempt to stalk towards the scrapper but gave up with a huff to flop to the floor on plump ass between the kitchen & sitting area. Tired & troubled orbs looking up at the woman who smirked down at the Kree as she began to pull out the contents of the bowl to plate them up.

“You should have let him melt me or whatever,” Y/N huffed, legs out straight, elbows leaning on thick thighs to lay muddled head in jittery hands, the first headache she had since her seventh sense took over to make her entire brain pound.

“Come on, you will feel better when you eat,” Brunhilde spoke quietly, getting the thick framed creature to aching feet by looping tan arms under Y/N’ to usher to a small table & place a plate of food in front of her.

The Kree wasn’t sure what to do, she was hungry but wasn’t & hadn’t a clue what it was that sat before her. A testing poke at it in hopes it didn’t move because Y/N wasn’t sure she could keep it together at that point.

“Then tell me what you remember,” the bronze woman spoke up sitting across from Y/N who looked over at her trying to recount it herself.

Gingerly the Kree reached up to feel for the implant that aided her to breathe in space to find it had been left but it was where the bleeding came from as if it had been ripped in some way. This time she jolted as Brunhilde got to her feet to step over with a towel to look over the implant, the flat kidney shaped device looked more sophisticated than others she had seen, dabbing at it gently while reaching for the bottle of alcohol to doss the rag to clean the dried green trail that had made its way to the hollow of supple throat.

“I remember being tossed out of an airlock by someone I thought I could trust for calling him on a plan to take down Xandar. Asshole mentioned something about speaking with a titan,” Y/N spoke, letting out a hiss as the alcohol found the gash, the scraper holding the rag to it.

“I was stupid enough to think I could reason with him but guess not,” Y/N sighed out as it finally stopped bleeding for Brunhilde to take her seat back, looking over the thick framed woman poking at the food on, not looking up & looking paler than before.

“Eat,” the woman commanded the Kree that pushed at the noodle looking things with the utensil provided, finally spearing some sort of vegetable to put it into her mouth.

Well at least it didn’t taste bad she thought letting out a huff as she continued to pick over the food still expecting it to move or…

“I took the eyes off of it before I put it on your plate,” Brunhilde spoke seriously.

“OK, you know what I'm done,” Y/N blurted out, putting the fork down hard to make it echo through the room, hurrying to numb feet to stumble back to the couch, plopping down to look out the window at the ships coming & going, the colors ringing a bell but not too much as to where she was.

“You're touchy for a Pinkie,” the woman spoke sitting behind Y/N who stayed focused on the commotion outside the window as a bottle of water was pushed into sore hand in the process.

“You're brave to be conversing with a phoenix,” the Kree spoke, taking a sip of the water still looking out the window.

“I have no reason to be afraid of a phoenix,” the woman spoke fingers toying with the ends of the Kree’  hair that cascaded down curvaceous back though it was usually pulled into a tight braid.

It made the woman freeze for a moment, the only ones not put off by a phoenix or a half breed would be Aesir. Slowly turning to look at the woman who was toying with her hair to look into cognac orbs that flickered with a light, a recognition as if she was looking into Y/N’ soul.

“Why did you spare me,” Y/N began, moving back as tanned hand reached out to touch her face but stopped.

“You remind me of someone,” Brunhilde spoke calmly giving Y/N an almost wounded smile before getting up, letting known it was a tender subject.

It would have been a yelling match if Y/N was to open her mouth at this point, fresh from the battle that was Ragnarök, only to have to flee the ship, the Statesman, to Midgard due to being boarded by the very titan the Kree had been tossed out of an airlock for. Curvaceous body sore from releasing the phoenix, for the second time in 2 years or so since coming to live with the Valkyrie, the blue phoenix, blue flame burns hotter, takes more to harness it, takes more energy & wears you down quicker.

She would let the Valkyrie yell, if that was what the warrior needed, but Y/N was tired, the phoenix was aching & her heart went out to Brunhilde.

The bronze woman’s face tinting red at how harshly she yelled at Y/N for almost destroying herself, for letting the phoenix go like she had to finally calm. Looking over the flush Y/N who looked calm, having grown used to the warriors temper, the lithe woman lunging forward to fall into Y/N’ thick frame. Strong, bronzed hands pulling for thick frame to mold to the lithe warrior that held tightly, Brunhilde’ calloused hands going to cup the Kree’ flush face to pull it down to her.

“Don’t you dare leave my side or I swear to the Norns I will put the disc back on you,” the Valkyrie scolded as she jerked the Kree back to cockpit of the ship, having been called to head to Midgard, especially since most of the survivors had turned to dust.

It was obvious the Valkyrie couldn’t handle losing another paramour to death, it was a thing Brunhilde had been making clear since the first time the two of them had ever laid together & seemed to have gotten worse with passing time as well as current events.

“I'm not going to hold this grudge, it's to short,” the warrior breathed, pushing  thick frame back into the pilots seat.

A knee anchoring between thick thighs, tan hands falling to wrap in the Kree’s shirt to make the leather creak as Y/N’ hands feel to lithe hips. The Valkyrie forcefully pushing the woman’s head into the head rest of the seat as the kiss became deeper tongues fighting for dominance before breaking apart to take gasping breathes.

“Stop fighting me Pinkie,” the warrior breathed down Y/N’ throat, the ship coming out of its jump before it entered Earth’s atmosphere.

“I'm not fighting you Asgardian,” Y/N snipped back with a smile, turning to look to the controls & out the window but the warrior quick to jerk attention back to tanned lips that where inches away.

“It will take 10 minutes or so for the ship to land, they know we are coming,” the warrior spoke breathlessly on pink lips the seat tilting back to allow the Kree to lay almost flat with the flick of a switch.

“That’s enough time isn’t it,” Y/N panted hand finding the hem of the pants the warrior wore to slip steady hand into the stiff leather, gliding fingers through wet folds to circle around delicate clit before the warrior finally managed the phoenix’s pants.

“I hope so,” the warrior breathed straddling thick thigh to place both knees on the seat as Y/N settled back further, hips bucking in excitement as parted lips let loose a moan the instant tanned fingers slipped deep into juicy, aching cunt.

Y/N not hesitating to do the same to the warrior as she took the Kree’ lips again obvious she was tired due to releasing the phoenix as ample hips didn’t buck as enthusiastically as they normally did. The hand fisting Y/N’ shirt releasing to go to the hand that was forced down the front of the Valkyries to pull it free & place it on the opposite hip.

“You’ve done enough sweetheart, let me take care of you for once,” the warrior spoke, forcing fingers deeper into Y/N’ velvet cunt to elicit a whimper at the force of the thrust.

The phoenix’s booted feet trying to find purchase on the grate of the ship feeling it jar as it entered the Earth’s atmosphere, thighs already shaking as the warrior continued to push Y/N closer to the edge with a whimpering cry that had the Kree’ fingers digging bruises into the warriors hips as body arched off of the seat.

“Cum for me baby,” she heard echoed darkly in shivering ear as velvet cunt fluttered around thrusting digits as calloused palm ground into aching clit in the only way the Valkyrie knew drove Y/N wild.

“Oh… Norns…,” Y/N gasped out, falling into the abyss, body overtaken by convulsions as lights burst behind shut eyes, breath caught in her throat as thick body finally tired out to fall limp into the seat panting as the warrior removed her fingers, wiping them on the inside of the Kree’s pants, supporting herself on the arm rest over Y/N who was trying to get her bearings .

“Mmmm, you give me your best,” the Valkyrie spoke darkly on Y/N’ throat placing a sweaty kiss on soft throat before looking out of the window to realize they had approached their destination faster than planned.

“Welcome to earth,” Brunhilde echoed in Y/N’ ear before placing a quick peck to pink lips, jerking jittering body to unsteady feet, hair splayed wildly over her head to look out the window at the structure to watch a familiar form, Thor, step out on the lawn to meet with them with several others in tow.

“Thought I would never set foot on this rock ever again,” Y/N spoke, having spent a year here to spy for an infinity stone for the empire before the wars, mouth dropping open as she recognized Carol Danvers.

“Come-on babe let’s go make introductions & find some where to rest,” the warrior told Y/N, taking a sweaty hand & pull her to the opening hanger, both dying to get off the cramped craft.

Tags open! And re-blogs are ALWAYS welcomed!

Tags: @dark-night-sky-99  @prettybubblesintheair  @gramaeryebard  @reallyheckinggay  @jovanna-shewolf  @andiyholly  @katstablook   @nickyl316h  @beets1bears1battlestargalactica @aslandia726 @moonfaery @furstinnajoelle   @itsbqueenthings @lookwhatyoumademequeue

@whovianwookie86-captainxev@jazzieomega @tomhardy41 @get-loki @supersoldiersruined-me

#valkyrie #valkyrie x reader #valkyrie x you #valkyrie x plus size reader #valkyrie smut #valkyrie x female reader

[kadtherine]

i can’t drown my demons (they know how to swim)

A/N : The Greatest Showman fandom doesn’t have enough fanfictions and I’m trying to fix that particular problem (it does have amazing writers like for example @abroholoselephanta, @teasockschocolate, @smilinstar, @overlycompensatedapprentice, @the-circus-princess and @the-brightest-colours to mention a few and you should go and support them) 

summary : P.T Barnum might be the showman and the ringleader, shining under the spotlight, but Charity was the force that's bonded all of them when all of the lights were out, backstage.

word count : 4,515.

You can also read this on ao3.

Phillip watched, his jaw clenched as the amber liquid sloshed around in his glass, the drink spilling over and onto his fingers. He narrowed his eyes at it and brought it to his lips, the smell of whiskey assaulting him as soon as he took a whiff of it. His head spun. His head throbbed. His head felt heavy. His hand felt empty. Phillip tightened his hold around the glass, as if trying to make up for the loss. It felt cold and slippery in his grasp. It felt wrong. Most importantly, it didn’t feel like Anne’s warm and calloused palm as Phillip wrapped his hand around it. Phillip felt a pair of eye observing him and loosened his hold around the glass. Phillip had felt his parents’ judging eyes on him - on her - let go. He had met Anne’s accusing eyes and had walked away.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, Phillip shook his head and downed his drink in one go without a wince. He set the empty glass on the counter and knocked on it twice, running his fingers through his hair. He barely had the time to blink before an arm appeared in front of him, silently pouring whiskey. Phillip frowned when noticing that the bartender had only filled it half of the glass. Before he could withdrew it, Phillip wrapped a hand around his forearm and pried the bottle out of his hand. He ignored his disapproving look as he filled his glass to the brim before setting it next to him.

Phillip felt nauseous and the alcohol didn’t make it any better. And yet, here he sat in the same bar P.T Barnum had convinced him to run away and join the circus, in the same inebriated state. He didn’t have the circus to run to this time, though. He wouldn’t dare go the circus and face the others in the state he was currently in. The thought of going to his parents’ estate briefly crossed his mind before it quickly disappeared. He wasn’t sure what he would say to his parents if he were to see them at that particular moment. To be honest, Phillip didn’t particularly care about what either of them had to say. He was sure he had caused enough grief for the night. Keeping to himself seemed to be the only rational choice.

“Mind if I join you?”

Phillip looked up at the familiar voice, blinking a couple of times at her before he frowned down at his drink. Had he drunk enough for him to be having hallucinations already ? Had he drank that much without noticing ? He didn’t bothered to do a mental count of the many drinks he had ordered since he had stepped in the establishment, his focus on the apparition by his side. Apparition that had taken the familiar form of Charity Barnum. Phillip’s frown deepened, his fingers tracing the brim of his glass. Why would he be having hallucinations of her ? To his recollection, Phillip barely had the time to carry an entire conversation with the woman throughout the entire evening - he remembered briefly greeting her and winking to the younger girls before going to join Barnum backstage. Surely, he didn’t do anything to cause any harm toward her. Perhaps, Phillip thought, perhaps she was a physical manifestation of his guilt, forcing him to face what he had done.

Phillip blinked and the apparition remained, standing by his side with a smile on her face and kind eyes. He tilted his head to the side, propping it on his closed fist. The insides of his stomach churned as he watched the bartender passed by and acknowledged her with a nod, cleaning a glass. Phillip took a quick look around the bar, straightening up on his stool as he remarked on the lack of other tenants. Placing both of his hands on the counter, Phillip slowly turned around to face her. Quickly sobering up, he immediately jumped off his stool, swallowing the bile that had risen up his throat. He mentally thanked whatever higher power allowed him to remain on his two feet instead of sprawling on the dirty floor. Phillip briefly remembered the manners he had been taught as he ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt. He inwardly winced, eventually giving up on the task. She had already caught him. Running or hiding weren’t options. He folded his hands behind his back and faced Charity.

“Mrs Barnum! What are you doing here?”

She shook her head at him, her smile still in place - if not wider - as she slid on the stool next to him, tucking her skirts beneath. Phillip sat back down, grimacing - maybe he should have spread his coat over her seat before she sat down. Charity didn’t show any sign of discomfort, though. Her posture was proper - shoulders pushed back and legs crossed, like every aristocrat girl had been taught in finishing school - and her outfit was proof enough that a lady of her ranking shouldn’t be out in a New York bar that late. Still, she managed to look like she belonged, completely at ease and showing no sign of discomfort. There was something about Charity Barnum, her mere presence relaxing. Phillip watched as she pulled out the needles and pins holding up her bun, letting her hair fall down her shoulders. She shook curls out of it and ran her fingers through it with a sigh of relief.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that ? We’ve missed you at the circus tonight,” she rested her elbows on the counter and intertwined her fingers together, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

The bartender gave her a small nod, drumming against the counter before he reached for a glass from under it. He slid it toward her and Phillip couldn’t help but cock an impressed eyebrow when she caught it single handedly. The bartender threw him a look, his eyes flickering from him to the bottle of whiskey he had insisted on keeping by his side. Phillip suddenly felt warm, avoiding either of their eyes as he pushed the bottle with a finger. He grabbed it without a word and moved to Charity, pouring it halfway before he made sure to put the bottle out of Phillip’s reach. He didn’t protest, nor did he lift his head from his crossed arms. His glass remained untouched in front of him, the content suddenly unappealing. Phillip cleared his throat and leaned against the counter.

“Wouldn’t have thought that anyone had noticed my absence,” Phillip sighed, risking a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Why not?” Charity frowned at him, sipping on her drink, “You’ve become a crucial part to the show. Phin was pretty concerned when you didn’t show up, so were the others. After all, you are,” a smile appeared on her face, obscured by the glass in front of her lips, “the Prince of Humbug.”

Phillip let out a snort at that. He had heard the nickname going around - he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Bennet used it for one of his future critics. Lettie had been the one dubbing him so, the other performers quickly picking on the nickname. Seeing as Barnum held the title of King of Humbug, it was only right for his apprentice to gain a title of his own. It didn’t bother Phillip. If anything, it made him feel more included, like he was in on a joke that very few knew and understand. It was all in fun and jest and Phillip wore it proudly, responding to the nickname with an eager smile on his face. All he needed was the crown that went with the title.

“Technically, I’m still an apprentice,” Phillip remarked on, earning a soft laugh from Charity. Absently picking up his drink, he mimicked the woman’s small sips instead of downing it one swift motion, “And I’m sorry if I caused anyone unnecessary concern, it wasn’t my attention.”

Phillip tried not to dwell on the guilt and didn’t ask if a certain aeralist had been more worried than others. She had no reasons to be, after all. His hold tightened around his glass and Phillip had to remind himself to take slow, small sips instead of throwing it back like a simple shot.

“No need for that,” Charity reassured him with a dismissive wave of her hand. She drained the rest of her glass without a wince and signaled the bartender for a refill, “We all need some room to breathe every now and then.”

Phillip didn’t hear her, unable to tear his eyes for the bottle of whiskey as amber liquid filled her glass, “You know, this is strong stuff. Maybe you should take it easy.”

The bartender threw a deadpan look his way because, seriously ? Who was he kidding ? Hadn’t he be the one who had clutched the bottle to his chest as if it was a security blanket mere minutes ago. Phillip clenched his jaw, his gaze falling to his own glass. Throwing all caution and pretense out the window, he threw his head back and downed the rest of his drink. His head spun at the sudden movement and he winced, eyes shut tight as he let his head fall back on his chest. Once he had regained his senses, Phillip opened his eyes and turned his glass upside down, pressing a hand against the bottom of it. As if he was making a point. He didn’t miss the bartender’s nod and crooked smile before the latter went back to drying glasses.

“Oh please,” Charity let out a snort that would’ve left his mother gasping in outrage, “When you run along the likes of P.T Barnum, you learn to hold your liquor.”

“Right,” he muttered, tapping his fingers against the glass.

He could almost feel his flask burn a hole in the inside pocket of his jacket. Phillip rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed himself off the counter, almost leaning back before he caught himself, remembering that he wa sitting on a stool at the very last second. He threw a look at Charity from the corner of his eye, the latter letting her glass nonchalantly dangle from her fingers as she occasionally glanced at him. Phillip tried to not squirm or recoil back under the weight of her look. He wasn’t sure why she was making her that uncomfortable : it wasn’t as she was looking at him with disappointment and shame like his parents had. She wasn’t looking at him in distrust like some members of the troupe, nor did she looked hurt like Anne had earlier. His hands clenched into fists at the mere thought of her. Charity clearing her throat to his side snapped Phillip out of his trance. He watched as she downed the rest of her drink and pushed the glass, shaking her head when the bartender held the bottle.

“I didn’t came here to interrogate you or scold you, Phillip,” she reassured him, tucking at the end of her hair, “I haven’t had the chance to talk to you at the gala and you were gone before I could approach you.”

Phillip let a sigh of his own, running his fingers through his hair. Meeting Charity’s eyes, he found himself relaxing a bit, the fog cloaking his mind getting clearer. It wasn’t disappointment, or shame he had seen in her eyes. It hadn’t been distrust or hurt either. Charity looked at him like she had looked at Caroline when the latter had arrived from ballet practice, sobbing and avoiding anyone who’d tried to get to her. Unsurprisingly, Charity had been the one who had been able to get through Caroline, rubbing her back and waiting patiently for her daughter to gather herself. She was looking at him with motherly concern and Phillip wasn’t sure what he done for him to earn it.

“I saw my parents tonight,” Phillip let out, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as the words left his mouth, “More like they saw me,” he muttered to himself, drumming his fingers against the counter.

“Oh. I see, “Charity said, straightening up on her stool, her eyes a bit wider.

“I mean, I don’t even talk to them and yet, here I am,” Phillip shrugged, taking a look around his surroundings, “It only took a look from them and I was just a little bashful kid again. It shouldn’t be getting to me.”

Phillip knew why it was getting to him and if the look Charity was giving him was anything to go by, she knew too. She had the decency to keep quiet, though - the look she gave him was enough. He closed his eyes for a second, the hurt-filled brown eyes coming immediately to his mind. Hearing a thud, Phillip reopened his eyes and frowned at the sight of the filled shot glass set in front of him. He looked up to the bartender, the latter ignoring him as he went to serve another tenant. Philip felt the corner of his mouth lift up in a half smile as he pulled the shot glass closer to him, tapping his finger against it.

“I get it,” Charity retorted and her words were so soft that Phillip thought that he had imagined it at first. He noticed the shot glass in front of her, “I hadn’t seen my parents in ten years and yet, when I saw them at the gala, I pushed back my shoulders and made sure that my hair was neatly tucked behind my ears like a proper upper class lady.”

Phillip briefly remembered the brief interaction - altercation - that had occured between Barnum and a couple of people he hadn’t recognize. He had already been on his fourth champagne flute when Jenny Lind had intervened, quickly and effectively providing a distraction. Charity shot him a small smile, as if she could see the gears turn in his mind.

“Phin and my father never really saw eye-to-eye and he always felt like he had something to prove to him, that he was worthy of me,” Charity let out a mirthless chuckle at that, lifting a shoulder, “I guess that I did too. I wanted to show the both of them that we had been able to make a life for ourselves without their support. But then they saw the girls and-”

Phillip watched as Charity stared at the wall of bottles in front of her, as if in some sort of daze. She cleared her throat, wrapping two fingers around her shot glass.

“And I thought that it’d be nice for them to be in their lives, for Caroline and Helen to get know them as their grandparents and not meaningless strangers. I might not agree with the choices they made but with insight I know those choices are made out of love, that they did what they thought was best at the time.”

And though Phillip nodded at the words, he couldn’t relate to them. He briefly remembered his younger self spending time with his mother in their gardens after lessons. He remembered his mother’s genuine grin as he ran circles around her while making stories on the spot to entertain her - Phillip also remembered how her grins had gotten her bland and mirthless, ignoring him in favour of tea parties. Phillip thought of his father praising his plays during dinner parties. The thought was quickly replaced by the image of the empty theatre box he knew were reserved for his parents. Philip found himself thinking about the way Caroline and Helen would rush to P.T, exhilarated grins on their faces as he’d swing them around and unconsciously compared it to the dread he’d feel whenever his father came home from work. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat, looking back at Charity with a small smile on his face.

“I guess you’re right,” he said, tapping a finger against the brim of his glass. He licked his lips, restraining the urge to bring the drink to his mouth.

Charity returned the smile before letting a sigh. She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at it, and pushed the untouched shot glass with her finger. Phillip watched as she adjusted her scarf around her neck, turning on her stool so she could face him.

“Would you mind walking me home? It’s a nice, warm night out and the trek will surely help you clear your head more efficiently,” Charity slid off her stool, shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat, “And Phin will sleep easy knowing you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Phillip narrowed his eyes at her and Charity held his gaze without flinching, patiently awaiting for his response. Not that she actually had to hear his actual answer; the choice had already been made the second she had slid off the stool, leaving her glass untouched. Despite his half-drunken state, he could see what she was doing. Critics always spoke of P.T’s silver tongue and charm, they talked about the way that he’d managed to fool audience and performers alike with his words and a dazzling grin. Phillip thought that neither of his critics would last a second if they were to face Charity. She could’ve asked the bartender to call a car for her. She could’ve asked him to do it. Hell, she could even have done it herself. But Charity didn’t. Instead, she had requested for Phillip to accompany her back to her home, assuring that he wouldn’t stay and drown his sorrow in another round of shots after her departure. There was something about the Barnum, Phillip thought. Something about them that made it impossible for him to refuse any of their requests.

She smiled at him and Phillip couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his mouth. Shaking his head, he reached for the inside of his pocket - unflinching when feeling the cold surface of his half-filled flask - and got a stack of bills that would cover for his and Charity’s drinks. Setting it down next to his still-full shot glass, Phillip gave a small to the bartender before he his top hat and coat, slowly getting up his feet - swallowing a cry of relief when he didn’t drop flat on his face. Dropping the hat on his head, he chose to drap his coat on his arm while holding his other one for Charity to grab, an eyebrow cocked. If anything, Charity’s smile widened as she wrapped her arm around Phillip’s, leading the two out of the bar and into the streets of New York.

The skies are clear and so were the streets, much to Phillip’s surprise. But then again, he had been in the bar for a long time, Phillip thought with a frown. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pant pockets, looking up at the heavens. They rarely saw the stars in New York, usually they’d have to walk to the beaches to even catch a glimpse of cloudless skies. It was nice, refreshing. Phillip mentally reminded himself to bring the girls in spring or early summer, hopefully they’d be lucky and even see fireflies. He briefly wondered if he’d be able to convince Anne to cut her practice short for on- Phillip shook his head before the idea could fully developed in his mind and hoped that Charity wasn’t paying attention. Who was he kidding, she was always paying attention. Phillip felt warm and he didn’t know if it was the alcohol running through his blood or the traitorous thoughts running through his mind. If asked, Phillip would say that it was the alcohol.

Charity provided the perfect distraction halfway through their trek to the Barnum household and Phillip found himself relaxing as he listened to her recount Helen’s latest fancies and adventures. Apparently, the youngest of the Barnum bunch seemed to think that them acquiring a mermaid would do wonders for business. It would had magic to it, had she said - as well would unicorns and fairies. P.T had already ran the two ideas by him, whining about how Helen was too smart to recognize a real-unicorn from a regular white horse with a makeshift horn. Phillip had suggested that they hire new aeralists in guise of fairies and the idea had been enough to put an end P.T’s frentic pacing. Charity was talking about Caroline’s suggestion of adding cotton candy and caramelized apples - Phillip’s stomach gave a small groan at that, reminding him that he had only consumed liquid that evening - when they stepped foot on the Barnum propriety.

He hadn’t even recognized the grounds, engrossed in the current conversation, before they walked past the opened gates. Phillip looked up at the mansion and couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips at the sight. It didn’t loom over him, like his parents’ manor did. From where he stood, he could see a light coming from where he knew was the kitchen. He threw a look to the upper windows, noticing that the curtains of Helen’s and Caroline’s windows had been drawn closed.

“Good evening, Mrs Barnum. Mr Carlyle,” a valet greeted them at the door, snapping Phillip’s out of his contemplation, “I trust you had a good walk.”

“Invigorating, Bertrand,” Charity answered with a smile, letting him take her coat and scarf.

Bertrand turned toward Phillip and cocked an eyebrow at him, expectant. Phillip hastily took off his top hat and handed both hat and coat to him with a small smile. Bertrand drapped the coat over his arm and turned back to face Charity.

“Will you need for me to call for a room to be prepared, Ma'am ?”

“That will not be necessary, thank you,” Charity said, toeing off her shoes, “I’ll have a car drive you back home,” she added with a smile and much to Phillip’s confusion, she wasn’t talking to him.

Bertrand gave her a nod before taking his leave. Charity crooked a finger at him, beckoning Phillip to follow her. He did, as if entranced by the sight of her walking barefoot - well, not really, she was still wearing her stockings - through the house, stopping every now and then to pick up a doll Helen had forgotten to put away or fold a comforter, draping it over the back of the couch. Phillip couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother pick up anything that wasn’t a cup of tea or a flute of champagne. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother prance barefoot through the halls of the manor - he held in a snicker as he imagined her horror at the mere suggestion. The floor was littered with toys and shoes and candles enlightened the length of the hall. It felt warm, welcoming and lived in instead of the cold interior, immaculate interior of the Carlyle household.

Charity stopped at the threshold of the kitchens, rapping her knuckles against it. Peering over her shoulder, Phillip smiled at the sight of P.T Barnum hunched over various drawings and notes - he was pretty sure he caught a sketch of butterfly-fairy like wings. He looked up at the sound, a grin appearing on his face as he caught sight of the two. Leaning back in his chair, he dropped his pen and crossed his arms against his chest, his head tilted to the side.

“Hey, look who I found,” Charity announced as she walked into the kitchens, Phillip on her heels

“Hey there,” P.T said, leaning his head back when Charity went to stand behind him, both of her hands on his shoulders as she leaned in for a quick peck.

Phillip leaned against a counter, hands in his pockets and ankles crossed as he tried to give the two as much as privacy as he could with him in the room. He ignored the longing he felt at the sight and clenched his jaw, trying to contain a yawn. Again, it didn’t escape Charity’s notice. An arm wrapped around her husband’s neck, she tilted her head to the side and frowned at him.

“Have you had anything to eat for dinner?”

His lips pursed, Phillip shook his head and pushed himself off the counter. His stomach grumbled, as if on cue and he felt his face flushed, the tips of his ears warm. Smirking, P.T pushed a chair in front of him with a foot and tilted his head toward it. Rolling his eyes, Phillip fell into the chair and pulled the notes closer to him, his head tilted to the side. He didn’t have the time to protest when the papers were replaced by a plate filled with food.

“I didn’t bring the boy over so the both of you could stay up late at night working,” Charity threw P.T a look, squeezing Phillip’s shoulder, “I’ll prepare the room next to Caroline. Lend him a pair of pants and shirt, would you?”

“I didn’t mean to be a bother-” Phillip started, interrupted by P.T’s snort.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, leaning against the table, “And you aren’t. I prefer knowing that you’re here and safe instead of you being wandering through the streets of New York, drunk out of your damn mind.”

Charity nodded at that, shooting him a smile. Phillip smiled back at her, stabbing the fork into a piece of chicken while P.T returned to his sketching. Charity wrapped her hair with a ribbon, putting it up in a high ponytail and she grabbed a lantern off the table before she moved to P.T’s side, whispering something in his ear. He nodded and squeezed her hand before she walked past him and made her way to the staircase. Catching Phillip’s eye, she winked at him and disappeared into the stairs. Snorting, Phillip shook his head and turned back to his food, only to find P.T looking at him with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Phillip shrugged, his tone slightly defensive.

P.T shook his head and laughed. He wrapped his hand around his glass of water and lifted it, as if toasting to something.

“Congratulations, Mr Carlyle. You’re officially part of the family and there’s no way out of it.”

Phillip froze in mid motion, his fork in front of his mouth as he processed the words. P.T used his distraction to steal the piece of chicken off the cutlery, popping into his mouth. Dropping the fork, Phillip found himself grinning at the thought. P.T Barnum might be the showman and ringleader shining beneath the spotlight, but Charity was the force that bonded all of them together when all of the lights were out, backstage. Phillip grabbed a glass off the drying rack and poured water into it, lifting it in his own private toast before taking a sip of it. 

Here’s to newfound family.

#the greatest showman #phillip carlyle #charity barnum #p.t barnum #phillip x charity #p.t x phillip #phillip is an honorary barnum #charity is too good for this world #angsty angst #alcohol cw #tgs #tgs fic #tgs text #mine

[psalm40speakstome]

The quiet hero of 'It's a Wonderful Life' (Hint: It's NOT Jimmy Stewart)

“As we approach the 71st anniversary of Frank Capra’s perennial Christmas classic “It’s A Wonderful Life,” I think it’s time to reexamine the film’s heroes. The result might surprise you.

As a child, I assumed the hero was Jimmy Stewart’s wholesome hometown character, George Bailey. The American Film Institute agreed, listing George as the ninth greatest screen hero of all time. After all, the whole point of the movie is to show us what life in Bedford Falls would be like without George.

We quickly discover it would be pretty grim – a dark and foreboding shantytown owned by an evil millionaire named Henry F. Potter, a miserly character played perfectly by Lionel Barrymore. The film revolves around George, the congenial and affable everyman who bravely stands up to Mr. Potter’s greed. The hero had to be George, or so I thought.

In my teens and twenties, when my faith became my own and I began studying more closely the mysterious and spiritual side of life, I thought the hero had to be Henry Travers’ character, Clarence Odbody, Angel Second Class.

It’s Clarence who saves George – so that George can continue to help save everybody else. Though theologically questionable, the thought of a guardian angel is comforting. Plus, it’s Christmas and angels play a significant part in the Yuletide story. For years, Clarence had my vote.

But now that I’m in my forties, and as a husband and father, I’ve come to realize that the biggest hero of the movie isn’t George or Clarence.

The biggest hero is actually a heroine, Mary Hatch Bailey, played by Donna Reed. She’s George’s poised and unflappable wife and the mother of their four children, Janie, Pete, Tommy and Zuzu.

Here’s why:

Mary is patient: George and Mary are about to head off on their honeymoon just as there’s a run on the Bailey Building and Loan. George abruptly cancels the romantic trip to New York City and Bermuda, instead spending their savings to keep the business solvent. His bride doesn’t complain. She pledged to be his wife for “richer or poorer” – and Mary quickly keeps her sacred vow.

Mary is long-suffering: The newlywed couple moves into a dilapidated and drafty old house. Does Mary want more? She never lets on but instead gets to work making the rickety house a home. Later, when George foregoes a big payout by declining an offer to sell the business to Mr. Potter, Mary doesn’t criticize her husband’s idealism. Instead, Mary throws herself into the care and nurturing of the children. She’s content.

Mary is responsible: With World War II raging and her husband deferred from military service due to his poor hearing, Mary eagerly volunteers to do her part for the country. Despite being a busy mother of four, we see Mary running a local branch of the USO.

Mary is a woman of prayer: When George, stressed over the missing $8,000 now owed to Mr. Potter, rages red-hot and hurls insults in every direction on Christmas Eve, it’s Mary who keeps her cool. After George storms out of the house, Mary urges the children to pray for their father. She prays, too, and she also gets to work.

Mary is a woman of quiet action: It would be easy to sulk and sour in the midst of the family’s traumatic day, but after urging the children to pray, Mary immediately picks up the phone and rallies the help of their family and friends. When George returns with a new and improved outlook, Mary doesn’t lace into him or even question where he’s been. “You have no idea what happened to me!” George cries. To which a smiling Mary, about to welcome in an adoring and jubilant crowd of friends, responds, “You have no idea what’s happened.”

At a time in history when popular culture is being reminded again about the importance of respecting women, the many positive attributes of Donna Reed’s seven-decades-old character affirm anew what William Ross Wallace first wrote in 1865: “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.”

Heroism manifests itself in many forms in the overlooked or understated people of this world, most especially spouses who sit outside the spotlight and mothers who sacrifice on a daily basis for their children.

Christmas is a wonderful time to remember that greatness often comes quietly, as it did in the form of a helpless baby to another quiet woman named Mary.”

#its a wonderful life #christmas #Merry Christmas #christmas films #christmas movies #george bailey #mary bailey #mary hatch bailey #clarence odbody

[districofcolumbiaprelawland-blog]

Police Brutality, Racism, And Ignorance: The Importance of Political Rap

By Graham Payne-Reichert, American University Class of 2022

June 1, 2020

In 2018 rap music surpassed rock and roll as the most listened to genre of music in the world [1]. However, rap is far more than a music genre. From its inception, rap has been an indispensable political tool for historically disenfranchised, ignored communities to communicate their experiences to a mainstream audience. This is mainly done through a subgenre of rap, political rap, which “follows the model of uniting African Americans through music by discussing issues relevant to the Black community and providing information about injustices community members face” [2]. Before diving into the various issues that rap historically deals with, it may be useful to examine the first political rap song, as the messages in this song remain prevalent in political rap to this date.

Rap music was primarily created in the Bronx during the 1970s, which is where the first political rap song comes from. In 1982, Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five released an incredibly poignant start to the political rap subgenre: “The Message” [3]. This song became the first widely disseminated example of rappers using their platform to speak out against injustice in their communities. The rapperstalk about widespread drug addiction, decrepit infrastructure, abysmal public education, and people forced to resort to crime to feed their families due to a lack of job opportunities [ibid]. Overall, this song serves as a harsh rebuke to the supposed universality of the “American Dream.” To them, the dream is just that: a dream.

The conditions of the Bronx during the 70s were horrific. Pictures taken during this time look more like post-war Europe than an American city. The racially motivated practice of redlining ran rampant during this decade, and the Bronx lost one fifth of its population [4]. Furthermore, there were fires destroying homes of thousands, some of which were believed to have been started by the landlords themselves, who were desperate for cash [ibid]. “The Message” offered the first glimpse into these conditions from those living there, ideally instilling a sense of empathy and support from those unaware of the true nature of living in the Bronx.

Taking a lesson from Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five, rappers began using their voices to illustrate how they truly feel, and what it is truly like living in their communities. Again, the topics in political rap are very much the same today as they were in 1982. For starters, rappers have a history of detailing the horrors of police brutality that their communities are faced with on a daily basis. Perhaps the most famous example of this is N.W.A’s song “F*ck Tha Police” [5]. Released in 1988, the song offers a no-holds-barred portrayal regarding the practices of the Los Angeles Police Department, which has more than enough scandals of police brutality. To reiterate, political rap provides a unique opportunity for community members to speak directly to the public about the realities of their experiences. Police brutality is still rapped about today, unfortunately illustrating the fact that it still exists on such a grand scale. Following the release of his 2015 album To Pimp A Butterfly, Kendrick Lamar’s song “Alright” has become a rallying cry for the Black Lives Matter movement [6]. Despite an optimistic tone that the Black community will prevail, the song notes that the police “wanna kill [Black people] dead in the street, for sure”. [ibid]. This song responds, in chief, to the murder of Travyon Martin, which Lamar deals with later in the album in greater depth.

Furthermore, rappers are still grappling with the ever-present issue of racism. Nearly every politically charged rap song reacts to racism in some way. For a recent example, one could look at J. Cole’s song “Neighbors,” in which he tells the story of his white neighbors calling the police on his house because they thought he was selling drugs [7]. Following a heavily armed police raid on his home, they found nothing but the harsh reality of a racist society. J. Cole tries to explain that his neighbors likely thought he was selling drugs because the “only time they see [Black people is] on the news in chains” [ibid]. This is undoubtedly reflecting the media’s stereotypical depiction of Black people, contributing to racist views of his community. Another example that deals with the systemic nature of racism in America comes from Freddie Gibbs’ album Bandana, on a track called “Flat Tummy Tea” [8]. Stating that “crackers came to Africa/ ravaged, raffled and rummaged me/ America was the name of they f*ckin company,” Gibbs clearly comments on the slave trade being the start of a shameful history of systemic racism. To him, this racism has manifested itself in the form of mass incarceration, stating that “incarceration my destination” [ibid]. Lastly, one of the most poignant songs on the nature of racism in today’s America comes from Mos Def and Q-Tip on their song titled “Mr. N*gga.” This song’s name itself speaks to the message of the song. Mos Def feels that, despite being incredibly famous and successful, perhaps the embodiment of the American Dream, he is still judged for his skin color. The song details various times he was stereotyped by law enforcement, shoppers, stewardesses, and everything in between. This song is clearly challenging people to check their biases and change their behavior, as well as a reflection on the systemic nature of racism.

Rap music is an indispensable tool for neglected communities. Rather than relying on mainstream media to represent their interests, rappers have decided to take matters into their own hands and bring their struggles to light. Rap often gets criticized for its explicit lyrical content, but by doing this critics ignore a rich, pointed commentary on social injustices they know nothing about. If you are not familiar with rap, or are interested in learning more about what rappers have to say on various social, legal, and political issues, I implore you to take time and listen to rappers from different cities, decades, and age groups. A quick Google search of “political rappers” will give you more rap than you likely have time for, but understanding the messages in these songs are crucial to understanding ones’ privilege, biases, and ignorance on a range of topics.

________________________________________________________________

[1] Lynch, John. "For the First Time in History, Hip-hop Has Surpassed Rock to Become the Most Popular Music Genre, According to Nielsen." Business Insider, 4 Jan. 2018, www.businessinsider.com/hip-hop-passes-rock-most-popular-music-genre-nielsen-2018-1.

[2] Lakeyta Monique). Pulse of the People Political Rap Music and Black Politics / Lakeyta M. Bonnette. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015.

[3] Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five. “The Message.” The Message, Sugar Hill, 1982

[4] Ricciulli, Valeria. "In the 1970s, the Bronx Was Burning, but Some Residents Were Rebuilding." Curbed NY, 3 May 2019, ny.curbed.com/2019/5/3/18525908/south-bronx-fires-decade-of-fire-vivian-vazquez-documentary.

[5] N.W.A. “F*ck Tha Police.” Straight Outta Compton, Priority Records, 1988, Track Two.)

[6] Lamar, Kendrick “Alright.” To Pimp a Butterfly, Top Dawg Entertainment, 2015, Track 7

[7] Cole, Jermaine, “Neighbors.” 4 Your Eyez Only, Interscope Records, 2017, Track 6

[8] Gibbs, Freddie, “Flat Tummy Tea.” Bandana, RCA Records, 2019, Track 8

[9] Bey, Yasiin, “Mr. N*gga.” Black on Both Sides, Priority Records, 1999, Track 15